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He sat opposite her. “Everyone in the ton says so. Now tell me what is going on or I shall be forced to go on an interrogation rampage all over Covent Garden for the ne’er-do-well who broke my dear mother’s heart.”
Margot’s eyes widened. “There was no…breaking.”
The wretched child actually snorted. “Laughter, tears, emotional bedlam. Your heart is in abject peril, Mother, a fool could see it and you did not raise a fool.” With that, he lifted his brows and stared her down with an intense glare that was so like hers that she shook her head in amused surrender.
“No, I raised a miniature tyrant, clearly.”
“Stop prevaricating or shall I go fetch Farrows?”
Goodness, was he serious? When he half rose from his seat, she held up a defeated hand. “Very well. There was…someone, but it’s finished now.”
“How so?” Percy asked.
“I…they’re too different for our world, Percy. It would never work. I’m me, and as you well know, practically impossible to love.” Her voice gave an abominable quaver on the last. “I have you and that’s all that matters.”
“You’ll always have me.” He reached for her hand and squeezed. “But you know that’s complete horseshit about you being impossible to love. You are the most wonderful woman I know, even if you pretend to everyone that you’re not.” Brow furrowed, Percy let out a resolute breath. “Waverly is gone. Don’t let him dictate your life and your worth from the grave. You are worthy of love.”
The bridge of her nose tightened. Oh God, she was going to cry again! “Percy…”
He shook his head, eyes sad but earnest. “He was my father, but that didn’t make me blind to his flaws. He was a beast to you, Mother, and you tolerated it for the sake of his name and our reputation.” Percy raked a frustrated hand through his hair. “I suppose I do have him to thank for the life lesson on how to never treat a woman.”
Her heart sank. “I didn’t realize you’d witnessed…any of that,” she said weakly. “I’m so sorry, I never meant for you to—”
It was his turn to lift his palm. “Don’t you dare accept fault for his actions. He was in the wrong, not you. Now did this person make you happy?”
She didn’t even have to think. “Yes.”
“Did he make you smile?” Percy asked.
Margot closed her eyes and thought about all the times Ara had made her smile, so much so that she’d had to hide some of them for fear of developing a condition. Was there such a thing as smiling too much? Or being too happy? She lifted tremulous eyes to her son. Despite her fears, he was the only one whose opinion she valued. “She did.”
Percy blinked in surprise for a slow second and then that brilliant smile Margot so loved took over his face. “Then you have to get her.”
“It’s too late. She’s with someone else.”
Her son’s eyes flared blue with amusement and so much love that if she hadn’t been sitting, her legs would have given out. “Mother, I know this might be news to you, and we’re still working on getting that heart of yours functioning, but it’s never too late for a good grovel.” He grinned with a wink. “Besides, I know just who we can get to help!”
Ara loathed birthdays.
Why, oh why, had she agreed to let Lady Rawdon of all people throw her a party? But the persistent countess was like a runaway carriage when she got an idea into her head, and she’d insisted it would be a way to cheer her up, considering…
Well, considering that Ara’s pride and her heart were still equally bruised and showing no signs of recovery. She hadn’t left her home or painted in weeks. Her muse had absconded to Mayfair without a backward glance and just the thought of looking at a blank canvas made her stomach roll. Ara had managed to clean her studio, however, but that was as far as she could bring herself near an easel. Thank God, the countess had taken the seven paintings off her hands or she might have started sleeping with them.
Ara could still remember the look on her face when Lady Rawdon had seen them for the first time. “By God,” she’d whispered in reverence. “They’re…she…magnificent.”
I know exactly how you feel, Countess.
The series that Ara had halfheartedly nicknamed Venus Undone was a slow seduction, a gradual building of affection as each portrait progressed, and the friendship between them had flourished. As Margot blossomed, Ara had become more infatuated with the woman behind all the icy walls. Her fascination was apparent in each meticulous brush stroke, growing more and more devoted as each consecutive piece reflected more and more of Margot.
A love affair in portraiture…the inevitable fall of the artist for the muse.
God but she was truly a sad cliché.
The art itself was provocative given its racy subject matter. Though one couldn’t see Margot’s full face in any of the paintings, that didn’t take away from the visceral effect they had, especially when viewed in sequence. Symbolically, anyone could read something into the series—a journey of discovery, a descent into carnality, a study in temptation. But that was the beauty of art—it was always open to the viewer’s interpretation.
To Ara, however, the series would always embody the deliverance of Margot from her cage of thorns, if ever so briefly, from that very first day to the very last. And that final painting had been Ara’s absolute demise—the confident poise, the voluptuous grace, and the bold sensuality had taken it from stunning to spectacular.
It should have been named The Liberation of Margot.
