“Thank you, sir!” she cried, looking as though she wanted to hug him.
Chuckling, he shooed her away and then turned to his children, who were gathering around him expectantly, even Felicity, who held her tiny little arms up to him, looking so much like Anne that it broke his heart. Picking up the little blonde toddler, he smiled down at the older two. “Are you ready?”
“Yes!” they both cried, dancing around with silly grins on their faces.
Feeling a bit like the Pied Piper, he led them all out of the nursery and toward the stairs to the attic. They traipsed up, ending in the vast echoing space that he’d turned into his studio. Placing Felicity in the little pen filled with toys and blankets he’d made to contain her in the center, he then helped the other two prepare their own small easels and don painting smocks.
The children loved to paint. Samuel, who was six, had a bit of artistic ability himself, while Hannah, who’d just turned four, simply loved getting her hands and clothes messy. She made grand sweeping swirls of color, which he absolutely adored.
Once they were happily ensconced in their own work, he turned to his own easel, where he had been working on a portrait of Anne for weeks now. Somehow, he felt that if he could just get it right perhaps he could purge some of the guilt, grief, and regret he still felt at the very thought of her.
It had been over a year now since he’d lost her, and he’d heard the whispers about how he needed to move on, how he was wallowing in his grief, making a spectacle of himself. People seemed to think that he should have shed all thoughts of his dead wife along with his mourning period.
In all honesty, he wasn’t even certain he really missed her that much. They’d lived largely separate lives. She’d been all sweetness and light, and she’d never been able to understand the darkness inside of him. Their marriage had been typical of the society in which they lived, but he’d always wanted more. He’d foolishly thought her beauty was enough, that they’d somehow be able to build a life on the initial attraction he’d felt for her.
But there had been no spark between them in the bedroom whatsoever. In fact, she’d made him feel that his need for her was wrong and unnatural. He’d soon grown tired of their perfunctory lovemaking sessions that had no purpose other than to provide children. Still, he’d promised to be faithful, and he’d done so, channeling all his desire and passion into his art.
He glanced over toward the southeast corner of the room, where dozens of canvases were stacked haphazardly, all turned toward the wall. He’d painted as though possessed—vivid, disturbing images filled with death, fire, and blood. He’d escape to the attic after everyone had gone to bed, and Anne had begun to suspect he’d taken a mistress. He should have told her what he was really doing, but he’d been embarrassed. He’d known she’d never be able to grasp what drove him; it would only have worried her. She’d died thinking that he’d been unfaithful, and that haunted him.
But he’d never gotten over the way that Winters had mocked him for his art. The bastard had destroyed some of his best work, called him names, and told him he had no talent. He’d never trusted anyone else enough to share his art with them. Even his brothers had only seen a small fraction of it.
With a sigh, he turned away from the painting of Anne and positioned himself in front of a blank canvas instead. He experimented for several moments on his palette with reds and browns, until he realized he’d matched the color of Fiona Bohannan’s hair. With a frown, he stirred the brilliant auburn pigment around for a moment, then shrugged and turned toward the canvas...
“Daddy!”
Morgan startled and stared down at Hannah, who was looking up at him, her big blue eyes filled with consternation. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“The baby is crying, and me and Samuel are hungry!” she whined. She stared past him at the painting he’d been working on. “Who are you painting? It’s not Mama!”
He glanced back at the canvas, stunned to see how much of Fiona’s face he’d completed. How long had he been lost in his work? He glanced down at his pocket watch and saw that it had been at least two hours. No wonder they were hungry. They’d all missed dinner, and the baby certainly needed to be changed.
Chagrined, he hurried to pick Felicity up, wondering how he’d let himself become so engrossed in his work. He’d never gotten lost like that when he was painting Anne.
Chapter Four
Roger Croft, the Earlof Winters, stepped off the ship onto the dock in London, a smile stretching his lips as he glanced around at the hustle and bustle. It was good to be back on English soil. He’d been gone for over a year, and he’d hated every moment of it.
