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Hawkins waved his hand. ‘You may have it. Burn it. It means nothing to me.’
Warrington released him. Hawkins fled the room. Within moments, a door slammed in a distant part of the house.
‘Warrington.’ She stepped forward, putting her palms flat to his chest, holding firm enough she felt heartbeats pounding through his silk waistcoat. ‘Let us leave. I cannot bear another moment of the scent of fresh paint.’
He moved, taking the artwork under one arm, and put his other hand at her back, walking her through the doorway.
Melina stepped into the hall and a woman stood just beyond the open door, staring. Her hair was pulled into a silver chignon. She wore at least four rings on each hand and each jewel outweighed the finger holding it.
She gave Melina a wavering smile. ‘Hope you had a pleasant visit, dear. My husband rarely sees visitors this time of day.’
Melina caught herself before she said I know. Warrington touched the small of her back, nudging her forward. She took a step, snagging the hem of her dress under her shoe, making a small stumble. Warrington caught her elbow. ‘Careful, sweet.’
‘Do you need a cup of tea before you go?’ The older woman stood directly in Melina’s path, but her eyes showed only kindness.
Warrington gave a bow to the woman. ‘My pardon...’ his voice caressed the words ‘...as we must be on our way. We have...duties to return to.’
‘I understand.’ She smiled at Warrington and moved back. ‘I hope your trip home is pleasant.’ Then she looked at War, puzzlement in her face. ‘I believe I was acquainted with your mother before she passed on. The Countess of Warrington?’
‘Yes,’ Warrington agreed and shepherded Melina out through the doorway.
Melina walked without another mishap to the stairway, but even though her steps were sure, her mind stumbled.
She’d just met the woman her father had married long before her mother and now Warrington had a painting—the only one she knew of that had her mother and her sisters in it.
* * *
She tried to get comfortable in the carriage seat, wishing the air didn’t seem so thick and hard to breathe. Her father’s rage hadn’t really surprised her. If he’d acted any other way, that would have been unexpected.
Warrington handed her the painting, but she didn’t look at it.
‘Of course it’s yours.’ The calmness of his voice told her he’d been prepared for the fury. But then, he also knew of the older man.
‘I suppose I must take it. I don’t know, though.’ She tilted the art to him. ‘The house you see plain. But we are in the shadows. Fitting.’
‘If you don’t want it, I’ll safeguard it for you.’
She held it in front of her face. ‘I know the woman is my mother.’ She let the artwork fall against her chest. ‘I don’t remember another picture he painted of her. He did one of each of my sisters, and one of me, but none of my mother. That should have told us something, I suppose.’
‘At least he cared enough to capture your likeness.’
She grimaced. ‘He said art with people in it sold better—an observer might feel something for them.’
The carriage jostled along and she tried to get the sound of her father’s voice from her mind. ‘I would rather have the stone I left buried on Melos than this painting.’
‘I saw the arm you brought on board.’ He looked at her. ‘I think you’ve convinced yourself of the chunk having worth. It’s the offering you wanted to give to your father to please him after he left you and your sisters. To show him you’d found something of the past. A value. Something from another artist.’
She put her hand to the small ledge of the window. The clashes of her feelings threw her into turmoil.
‘You didn’t see the expression on the face of the statue.’ She pushed her mind to form the correct words, but wasn’t sure she knew them. ‘Simple rock became the same as my own skin. Rock—became flesh. The fingers. They—’ She held up one hand, flexing, twisting her wrist, watching the movement. ‘The sight of her—you could feel life—as if you could blink and look again, and her eyes had changed. The carving started as lifeless stone and then someone touched it, and it became alive.’
He caressed the strand of Melina’s hair that had fallen again from where she’d tucked it. His fingers wove into the locks, making her breath flutter. ‘Melina, you’ve more life in this wisp than anything made by man.’
