Prelude to Heaven (35 page)

Yet, he did care. He cared because she did, and despite everything, he still felt this maddening, inexplicable desire to protect her.

What a galling admission to make, he thought. It heightened his anger, fueled his desire, and strengthened his growing conviction that he was the biggest fool on earth for still wanting her. And he did want her, heaven help him. He wanted her more than ever.

***

He’d keep her secret. She knew it by his silence, and relief flowed through her, relief so great, she felt light-headed. Glancing at Nigel, she saw that he had resumed studying the watercolor, and she looked again at Alexandre.

Thank you
, she mouthed the words.
Thank you
.

His lips tightened, but he acknowledged her gratitude with a terse nod, and Tess turned her attention to the painting.

It was their meadow. She knew it at once, even before she moved closer to examine it more thoroughly. She could see the plane tree where they’d found the goose, and the Roman ruins, and all the wildflowers. She could almost smell the fragrance of lavender, almost feel the warmth of the Provence sun, almost imagine Alexandre's arms around her. These recollections were so keen, so sharp, it was like the sting of a lash.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, catching back the involuntary sob that rose in her throat and fought hard for control. She told herself to stop looking at it, to move on to the next painting, but she could not. She stayed where she was, drowning in the sweet pain of the past, studying every inch of the canvas, slowly coming to the realization that as detailed as this painting was, one thing was missing. There were no fairies in the meadow now.

Nigel turned to Alexandre. “This is an extraordinary work. I have several of your landscapes already, and I would love to add this one to my collection.”

Tess felt another jolt of panic, for the idea of having this tangible reminder of Alexandre's kisses mocking her every day of her life was unthinkable. Before Alexandre could answer, she rushed into speech. “Nigel, it's a lovely painting, but I’m not certain there’s a place to put it. You have so many paintings already.”

“Teresa, I do not recall asking for your opinion.” Nigel's voice was deceptively gentle, and Tess’s panic gave way to raw fear. Her gaze flew to Alexandre, who was watching her, a tiny frown creasing his brow as if something puzzled him.

But if he had questions, he thankfully did not ask them. “I'm afraid this particular painting is not for sale,” he told Nigel without taking his gaze from her face.

“Pity.” Nigel cast a covetous eye at the watercolor. “I'd pay handsomely for it.”

Alexandre hesitated, glancing from her to the painting and back again. Realizing he was actually reconsidering, Tess stared back at him, her eyes pleading with him to refuse.

But after a moment, he shook his head. “I'm afraid I cannot bear to part with this one,” he told Nigel, causing Tess to breathe a silent sigh of relief. “I have several others, however, that might appeal to you.”

He led Nigel to another painting, but Tess did not follow them. She returned to the still life of wild lavender she’d been looking at before, but her gaze remained on the landscape of the meadow. Though she was glad he had refused to sell Nigel this picture, she couldn’t quite understand his reasons. He hated her now; surely, he would not keep reminders of her for the sake of sentiment?

Lord and Lady Ashford strolled into the gallery, and as Nigel went over to converse with them, Alexandre moved to stand beside her, and she could not resist asking him the question uppermost in her mind. “Why wouldn't you sell the painting to Nigel?” she whispered.

“It would be inappropriate, to say the least.”

“I don't—” She broke off and licked her dry lips. “I don’t see the fairies.”

“No. They went away.”

She glanced at him. He was looking at the watercolor, not at her, and she took that moment to burn this glimpse of his hard, lean profile into her memory, and she wished she could soften the bitter lines she knew she her actions had put there.

Abruptly, he turned away, moving to greet Lord and Lady Ashford. She watched his rigid back as he walked away, reminded again of how deeply she had wounded him and knowing there was nothing she could do to change that.

***

“Do not ever contradict me in public.”

Nigel's backhand caught her across the cheek, and Tess reeled from the force of the blow. Dizzy, she reached for the back of the upholstered chair beside her, trying to stay on her feet. He was getting worse, she realized through the haze of pain. He never used to hit her in the face.

“How many times do I have to tell you never to contradict me?”

His fist caught her in the ribs, and she doubled over, trying to catch her breath. She should have known better than to express an opinion about his attempt to purchase that watercolor. His anger had been building for weeks now, and she should have been more careful tonight.

His hand locked over her arm in a bruising grip, and he twisted it behind her, pulling it up until a cry tumbled from her lips.

“I won't stand for it, I tell you!” With his free hand, he struck her in the ribs once more, then shoved her away from him. She staggered backward, tripping over the hem of her skirt and felt herself falling. Her head hit the marble fender of the fireplace, and darkness wiped out all the pain.

It was no use. He couldn't concentrate. Alexandre tossed down the brush and left the attic room he was using as a studio. Downstairs, he ordered Paul to have the carriage brought around. If all he could think about was Tess, perhaps it was time he called upon her.

He wanted to know why she looked so different from the woman he had known. He wanted to know what caused her to seem so weary and unhappy, and he wanted to hear from her own lips why she had abandoned Suzanne. He had questions and he wanted answers, but most of all, he wanted reassurance that she was all right. She’d seemed so strange the other night in his gallery, and the more he thought of how tense and jumpy she’d been, the more worried he became, and the angrier he became at himself, for he shouldn’t care two straws about her.

But he called just the same, and when he handed his card to the butler at Lord Aubry's home in Grosvenor Square, he became even more worried when the servant informed that Lady Aubry was not receiving.

“I was given leave to call on her today,” Alexandre lied.

The butler bowed in deference to this statement, and said again, “I'm sorry, sir, but Lady Aubry is not receiving today.”

“Why not? Is she ill?”

The butler raised an eyebrow at such an abrupt and indelicate question. “It is not my place to say, sir.”

Alexandre took his leave, more concerned than before, and he knew that if he was to have any peace of mind, he had to obtain answers to his questions, and that meant he had to speak with Tess alone.

That resolve proved harder to implement than he’d have thought possible, in the week that followed the
conversazione
at his home, he was kept very busy with work. Given the enormous success of his exhibition, he’d been flooded with commissions for portraits, and his schedule for sittings was filled for the remainder of the Season. Honoring those commitments meant he was painting at a frantic pace, and he had no opportunity to call upon Tess.

He was no longer surprised by his artistic success. What did surprise him was the realization that he seemed to be the toast of London.

Black for daytime wear and going about without a hat were becoming popular among the young gentlemen. Tonics guaranteed to make the hair grow quickly were being sold everywhere. Young men of fashion became daring, calling young ladies they hardly knew
chérie
. Classes in “the Dumond style of painting” began to be offered at the Royal Academy. Alexandre still had a hard time figuring out how anyone could be
taught
to paint left-handed. If he stayed in London long enough, having a daughter might even become fashionable. He found it all rather amusing, but it was also ironic. A year ago, no man in his own village would cross the street to speak to him.

Despite his hectic schedule, he insisted upon spending at least a few hours each day with Suzanne. Thoughts of her mother only made his time with the baby all the more precious to him.

His days were filled with work, but in the evenings, he found himself searching the crowd at every party he attended for a glimpse of Tess, but though he encountered her husband several times, he never saw her. As a second week went by without a single glimpse of her, he became concerned. A few tactful inquiries confirmed that she was not going into society at all and was still not receiving callers.

At the Ashford rout, he realized he'd been spending the entire hour he'd been there looking for her amid the crowd. Frustrated by the entire situation, he bade goodbye to his hostess and started for home, but there was such a crush, he had to spend another hour waiting for his carriage. There, he ran into the Duke of Rathburn, and somehow, the two men ended up at White's for cards and port. While waiting for a table, they encountered Lord Aubry and Lord Grenville, and soon the four men were engaged in conversation.

“Aubry, I heard your wife has been ill again,” the duke commented. “Damned shame. I hope it isn’t serious?”

Alexandre shot Aubry a glance, searching for any worry in the other man's expression, but he saw none. The earl merely shrugged and said, “She will recover, but I've sent her home to Aubry Park. She needs rest and quiet.”

Alexandre frowned, knowing that if Aubry had sent her home, he wouldn't see her again. Just how ill was she? His concern deepened.

“I say, Dumond,” Grenville spoke, intruding on his thoughts, “it's quite a coincidence seeing you tonight, for Aubry and I have just been talking of you. I've been telling him of the splendid portrait you did of my daughter.”

“It wasn't difficult,” he replied. “When a woman is as beautiful as Lady Melanie, the canvas comes to life.” Alexandre gave the other three men a wry smile. “Painting ugly women is much more difficult. And much less enjoyable.”

The other men laughed. The duke told Aubry, “Dumond just completed a portrait of me. Did an excellent job of it, too.”

“That does not surprise me,” Aubry said. “I have always admired Monsieur Dumond’s work.”

“So does everyone else, it seems.” Rathburn’s face took on an expression of long-suffering. “You wouldn't believe the ungodly hour I have to rise from bed so that we can have our daily practice at Angelo's. He's too busy painting portraits to fence at a decent hour.”

The conversation shifted to fencing and other sport, but Alexandre paid little attention, for Lord Aubry's admiration of his work had given him an idea. If he wanted to talk with Tess, if he truly wanted answers to all his questions, he had to see her, and the earl himself had just provided him the perfect opportunity to do so.

When a lull occurred in the conversation, Alexandre turned to Aubry. “I believe you once mentioned that your estate is in Kent?”

“Yes.”

“I've heard there is beautiful scenery in that part of the world. I'm interested in doing some landscapes of the English countryside, and I'm considering taking a journey down that way. Since you're familiar with that part of England and you have such a fine appreciation of art, would you perhaps be willing to give me some guidance?”

Aubry's pleased smiled confirmed his susceptibility to flattery. “Of course,” the earl replied. “What do you wish to know?”

“In your opinion, what parts of Kent would be best for landscape painting?”

“There are several areas that are quite splendid, but, I must say, my own estate has much to recommend it.”

“Kent? Bah!” Grenville made a gesture of distaste. “The countryside around my estate at Dartmoor is much more interesting.”

“That gloomy place?” Aubry grimaced. “I assure you, Dumond, Aubry Park is an excellent example of the English countryside and perfect for your plans. It would lend itself perfectly to a Dumond landscape.”

“Then I must paint it. What inns thereabouts would you recommend?”

“Inns? Nonsense, my dear fellow. Stay at Aubry Park as my guest.”

Alexandre suppressed a smile of triumph. “I would be delighted. But I would not wish to impose upon your kindness.”

“But—”

Alexandre held up his hands to stop the earl's protest. “In exchange, you must allow me to do something for you. A portrait of yourself, perhaps?”

“My good man, that isn't necessary. And besides, I just had my portrait done a year ago.”

Alexandre mentally thanked Camilla Robinson for giving him that bit of information. “I must insist on repaying you in some way.” He paused, then added, “A portrait of Lady Aubry, perhaps?”

Grenville spoke again. “I say, Aubry, that's a splendid idea. You must be the only fellow in London who doesn't have a Dumond of his wife. It’s become the fashion. I know that when I told Lady Grenville I'd asked him to paint her, she was delighted.”