Page 63 of Beguiling the Baron

Tia’s scalp tingled as a sense of dread settled on her. Seizing Hal’s lantern, she returned to the room below and stood once more, staring at the covered shape on the floor. With a flourish, she whipped the cloth away and cast it aside.

And froze in amazement.

There, stretched out on a roughly hewn bed of marble, lay a perfect representation of a woman. Her hands were folded across her breasts and her hair, carved in elaborate detail, spilled across a pillow of gray-veined stone.

The sight stole Tia’s breath. Stunned, she forced her legs to move and bent low over the dead face, examining the sculptor’s art. The contours were there, the full lips, the deep eyelids, even delicate scratches for the lashes brushing against carved cheeks.

A perfect Venus in death, a monument to lost beauty.

But more incredible than the depiction of the woman was the veil draping her face. A veil of marble which interrupted her perfect features in folds like those of the finest lawn cloth.

Tia turned to Hal. “You? You did this?”

“For my sins, yes. I have worked on it nearly every day since her death, as a monument to her.”

“Hal, it’s . . . it’s truly remarkable.” Tears burned her eyes. What else could she say? Here, forever enshrined in stone, was a sculpted masterpiece, testament to a man’s love for his lost wife, a symbol of his devotion.

How was she ever to compete with this deceased paragon of beauty? How could she ever hope to take Mary’s place in his heart? Her eyes were wet with tears, her lungs so heavy she could barely breathe.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

“You love her even now.” Her voice cracked.

“No. Tia, please, I’ve put it all behind me. Now, I have you. How can I love a ghost, an idea, a memory? Not when I have found a living, breathing, beautiful woman who has helped me face up to—and overcome—my demons.”

Oh, how she wished she could believe him. “You come here regularly,” she choked out, “to commune with Mary and ask her shade for forgiveness.”

“I do not. I come now to draw you, to paint you. See, this table is full of sketches.” He gathered up a sheaf of them and thrust them at her. “See? All you.”

She turned squarely to face him, wracked with sobs. “I don’t believe you can love like a normal man, Hal. This work shows obsession to the point of madness.”

She swallowed hard and forced out the words that tore her apart.

“I can’t marry you.”