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His throat tightened at the sight of her gentle smile. They both knew she wouldn’t be around to see the finished mansion.
“Plus,” she said, “if I get fed up with this, I can always watch you work.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “I would feel so much better if you’d paint without your shirt on. In fact”—her eyes danced, and for a moment, he lost sight of the black circles beneath them—“why don’t you paint in the nude? I’m sure that would help a lot.”
“You do, do you?” He tossed the rag he’d been using to wipe his brush at her head. “No nude painting. Anyone walking up the drive can see right in here. And I won’t be responsible for giving the housekeeper a heart attack.”
“Spoil sport.”
She rested her head on the arm of the sofa and watched as he applied the finishing touches to a moonlight scene, with a lone figure standing by the water.
“We would have had wonderful children,” she said on a sigh.
Duncan cleared his throat before answering. “Aye, we would have.”
When he looked over, she was fast asleep, a gentle smile on her face—and Duncan started a portrait of the woman he loved.
That had been his last visit to the studio. Three months later, she’d been taken from him. Now, here he was again, standing in front of the room that used to be his sanctuary, and he shook at the thought of going inside.
This was pathetic.
“Man up!” he barked at himself, and he turned the handle.
He’d expected to find a room knee-deep in dust and strewn with cobwebs. Instead, the air was fresh and flower-scented, and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Stunned, Duncan slowly walked into the centre of the large room, with its high ceilings, and perfect northern light. Someone had kept the place in pristine condition. It looked like he’d only walked out of it an hour earlier.
He trailed a hand over the trolley table used to store the paints he’d been working with on his last painting. Each tube had been wiped clean, and the lids maintained to ensure they didn’t crust up and become impossible to open. His brushes were soft and supple, not hard and dried-out as he’d expected to find them.
He scanned the rest of the room. There were dust cloths over the half-finished canvases he’d stacked in the corner. And someone had fitted white UV-filtering blinds to the windows, to protect the colours in the drawings pinned to the walls. Lastly, he turned to the canvas he’d abandoned, the one still sitting on the easel. That too had a dust cover draped over it.
Slowly, he lifted the cover, to reveal the portrait of Fiona sitting in the garden. The blow he’d been expecting didn’t come, only a bittersweet sadness at seeing the half-finished work again. As he moved to drop the cloth, he noticed something tucked into the top of the easel, above the painting.
A rose.
A fresh rose picked from Fiona’s garden—one of the few left untouched by the gardener.
With trembling fingers, he gently removed the flower from its perch and brought it to his nose. It was the same subtle fragrance that filled the room. And he knew that the scent couldn’t have built in the time the flower had been there, there must have been roses present for months—longer, even. It was a quiet and unassuming tribute to the woman he’d lost, and the art he’d abandoned because of her.
The flower, the careful preservation of the past, the working state of the room...it could only have been one person. The woman he’d relied on for two long years but was now beginning to see.
Donna.
He stood there, trying to absorb the magnitude of what he’d found. The depth of thoughtfulness in caring for his studio, in honouring Fiona’s memory, almost overwhelmed him. Donna had stepped in to look after the things that were most important to him when he’d been unable to face them. She’d kept his soul alive. Because that was how he’d always seen his art, as the very core of himself, the best part of him—his soul.
And at that moment, he felt the dark, heavy cloak that covered him split wide open. A cool breeze blew through the crack, sweeping away the musty staleness that prevailed. Bright, diffused light from the sheer-covered windows rushed into the darkness and chased it away. He staggered, holding on to his painting table to keep himself steady. As he felt a smile break out, he lifted his face to the light, breathing the cool, fresh air deep into his lungs.
He’d been sleepwalking through life for far too long, but now he felt...alive. A rush of adrenalin demanded he move. There was no time to waste. He wanted to feel his paintbrushes in his hands, needed to lose himself in the colours and shapes and brushstrokes on his canvas. He wanted to live again.
After sweeping the dust cloths off the canvases, he opened the blinds to let the full light of day flood the room. Carefully, he took the half-finished painting of Fiona from the easel. He wouldn’t complete it. It was perfect as it was. He leaned it against the wall, where she could watch him work, and then he unpinned all the sketches he’d tacked to the walls. They were old ideas. His head was full of new ones.
After grabbing his sketchpad and pencils, he strode towards the sofa and settled in to work. To think. To begin again. That’s when he heard the door creak open, and he turned to find Donna peeking in at him. Those expressive eyes of hers took in the changes to the room and rested for a moment on the rose he’d left on his painting trolley. Her cheeks flushed, as though she was embarrassed at being found out, and then those eyes settled on him.
“I’ve cleared my schedule,” she said tentatively. “If you still want a model, I can pose.”
Duncan didn’t give her a chance to change her mind. He covered the distance between them in the blink of an eye, took her hand and swept her into the room. Closing the door tight behind her.
Chapter 9
What was she doing? This situation was not good for her mental health. And yet, here she was, posing for Duncan because she couldn’t think of anything else that would keep him occupied while the women from the institute planned a party in his home.
Lies. Lies upon lies upon lies...
