“Foolish,” she said as her husband slid her cloak over her shoulders and took his bowler from the footman. “But understandable. They are clearly a labor of love.”
“He’s not even here tonight,” the man said. “I heard he’s off in his club, drinking his way into oblivion, although I haven’t seen him at White’s in weeks.”
The rest of their conversation was lost as they stepped into the street. Ellie spun towards the hallway where the couple had emerged, making her way through the pocket door into a wide gallery space where at least half of Mayfair had assembled. Barely visible above their bobbing heads were frames of various sizes and heights. Ellie cursed her short stature as she pushed forward, elbowing past lords and ladies of thetonwithout a care for propriety or tact.
When she reached the front of the crowd, her stomach fell. The first painting was a nude; the woman faced away from the viewer, seated on the edge of a bed with creamy linens obscuring her from the waist down.One of his lovers, Ellie thought, bile rising in her throat.
She moved to the next frame. It was the same woman, this time turned just enough that the curve of her breast was visible under her raised arm, a few auburn curls trailing down her neck. She had curves and glamor, confidence and sensuality.Everything I am not.
Ellie closed her eyes and made to leave, unable to bear the torment any longer, when she noticed a detail, a flash of metal from the bunched linen at the woman’s side.
Silver spectacles.
Heart pounding, Ellie stepped closer, her mind swirling as she attempted to make sense of what she saw. She held her breath as she retreated, bumping into the surrounding bodies in her haste, words striking her ears like an assault.
“Who is she?”
“She must be a lover.”
“She’s beautiful.”
Ellie stopped, pressing a hand to her sternum as though it would relieve the ache building inside.Beautiful. She lifted her eyes to the frame across from her. This was a sketch, only pencil on paper, but it took her breath away. The figure stood silhouetted against billowing window hangings, looking over a balcony into the space beyond. She recognized the tangle of curls piled in a knot, the intricate wrought iron balustrade.Hold still a moment,he had said as she smiled over her shoulder. He caught the smile too, the slight curve of her lips the last detailed part of the image before it faded into the frame.
The next, a profile as she stepped from a clawfoot tub, a silk robe draped around her.It doesn't bother me,she had said, even though her heart pounded in her chest and heat rushed through her body.
And the next, an oil in a gilt frame, her legs intertwined with his, her skin like cream against his darker flesh.I love the feel of your skin against mine.
The next, the space between her bustline and her chin.Perfect, he had whispered as he kissed her there.
Her stomach, soft and divoted, with a masculine hand draped possessively across it.
The largest thus far, a bare torso reflected in a mirror, his arms around her, embracing her, protecting her not only from full exposure, but from all the doubt haunting her.You need to see the goddess you truly are.
Nothing in the paintings could have revealed her identity, nor were any of them so provocative that they would not be considered high art. Ellie’s mind scrambled for the right word to describe them. They were—
“Love letters,” a woman said by her side, stepping close and examining the brushwork that captured the flaming curls falling around the column of her neck. “It’s so clear.” She turned her bright hazel eyes to the man standing beside her. “He loves her.”
The man smiled and bit his lip. “I had no idea he could paint like this.” The admiration in his voice made Ellie want to weep. “I knew he was talented, but this…”
Ellie held her breath, wanting the pair to keep talking forever, desperately wishing she could capture each word they said to repeat to Henry, so he could hear just what his work meant to her, to them, to the world—
“Do you think she’s here?” the woman asked, looking up at the man.
He rubbed his hand against his neck, knocking the auburn waves out of place. “I hope so, but Henry won’t come out to find her.”
“He’s here?” The words tore from Ellie’s throat before she could stop them, and the couple swung to face her. The man’s blue eyes were wide, but the woman’s lips spread in a slow smile of recognition.
“Are you Eleanor?” the woman asked.
“I—yes,” she breathed, and the couple looked at each other with nothing less than delight in their expressions. “You know Henry?”
“We do.” The man gave her a slight bow. “I’m Alexander Carroway, and this is my wife—”
“Fern,” Ellie finished, tears blurring her vision. She felt like she was meeting a kindred spirit, another soul who loved Henry as much as she did. “His friends,” she breathed. “You’re here.”
“As are you.” Fern grinned. “He’ll be thrilled.”
“I don’t understand,” Ellie managed through the lump in her throat. “Is Henry—”
