“I do know,” he said. “The people who have been central to our lives are always there in us and always will be, even when they are no longer alive and we are not actuallythinking about them. We are fortunate if our memories of them, conscious or unconscious, are happy ones. If we know and can feel deep down inside ourselves that they loved us constantly and unconditionally.”
He looked at the portrait over her head. None of them had had any inkling of what was facing them so soon after they had posed thus for the painter and laughed at the absurdity of staying still for so long—laughter the painter had chosen to use in his painting. What a blessing it was that one could not see into the future. When they had laughed—he had started it by announcing in a frantic sort of agony that he had anitch—they had been utterly happy. If one discounted the agony of his itch.
“And then you lost your father,” she said.
“I was twenty-eight by then,” he said. And he didnotwant to pursue this point.
“Did you hate him?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“Doyou hate him?” she asked.
“No.”
She drew back her head to look into his face. She had the advantage over him that the closest candle was behind her. He had hatedhimself.For not asserting himself more forcefully after returning home to live full-time when he came down from university and declaring once and for all that he was absolutely not interested in... Well, that he was not interested. He hated himself for dashing unheeding into a room he had thought empty without ascertaining first that itwasempty—thatof all rooms. For not telling his father the truth. Though he would have hated himself more if he had. He hated himself for withholding the truth and putting that look of raw pain and barely leashed anger on his father’s face.
She raised one hand and set her fingertips against his cheek.
“The only way I could retain my soul,” he said, “was to keep on loving him. To keep on knowing that he was an honorable man.”
She searched his eyes with her own and nodded slowly.Please do not ask,he begged her silently.Please do not ask what happened.
She did not. She turned her hand and brushed the backs of her fingers over his cheek before taking a step away.
“I will look at the other portrait another time,” she said, nodding toward the remaining painting at the end of the line. She must have realized that it was of his father’s second family, which had included him—until he was twenty-two. “In the daylight. Have you thought of having new portraits done? Of the adult you as Earl of Brandon? Of Maria? Perhaps of the two of you together?”
“I have not thought of it,” he said. “Perhaps I will wait until I have a countess. And children. Though I would like a portrait of Maria. She was four years old when that one was done.” He inclined his head toward the last painting.
“I know a portrait painter who would do a wonderful job of it,” she said. “He is my sort-of brother-in-law.”
“Is that a legal designation—sort-of brother-in-law?” he asked her.
She laughed and the breath caught in his throat. There was a great deal of joy in Lady Estelle Lamarr, even if she had not shown much of it directly to him. When she smiled or laughed, she seemed to be lit up from within.
“Camille is my stepsister,” she said. “We did not grow up together. She was already married with children when my father met her mother—or rather met heragain.But we love each other. Joel Cunningham is her husband. He hasbeen growing in renown as a portrait painter to a point at which I believe it is a matter of great distinction now to be able to boast that one has secured his services.”
“And you believe I might be one of the chosen few?” he asked her, feeling a bit amused.
“Well,” she said, “you would have his stepsister-in-law to speak up for you. And his stepbrother-in-law too. Joel is very talented. But that is not a strong enough word. He is—amazing.You would have to see for yourself. He always explains that he does not paint what he sees with his eyes. He points out that the eyes are such a small part of one’s entire being. He has to observe and converse with his subjects long before he starts to paint them. He has to find the core of their being and then paint from that deeply held knowledge.”
“It sounds like a slow process,” he said.
“I believe,” she said, “that is why he is so much in demand. He does not produce a dozen or so paintings every week. Or even one.”
“Has he painted you?” he asked.
“No.” She shook her head.
“Perhaps he will paint you,” he said, “when you are my countess.”
She smiled, though she did not laugh this time. “I do not believe he enjoys painting groups,” she said.
“I will commission him to paint my countess on her own, then,” he said.
She did laugh then. “You, Lord Brandon, are presumptuous,” she said.
“Persistent,” he said. “Consistent. An optimist. Do you want to stroll along the gallery and back? Or would you prefer to watch the charades?”
