“I disagree,” he said, then his voice gentled. “I’m hurt, Sophie. I can’t believe you turned around and married someone else right after I left. After us. Did I mean nothing to you?”
He’d meant everything to her. But now irritation flared. “Don’t lash out at me. You are the one who left without saying good-bye. If you were so interested in talking to me, you might have done so then. But instead you left only that cool, dismissive note.” Her voice rose. “Thank you for a beautiful season. I shall always remember you fondly...?”
He winced. “That was wrong of me. I did send a letter of apology as soon as I reached Plymouth. Asking you to wait for me. Did you receive it?”
“Only recently. Mrs. Thrupton forwarded it here. Maurice had mislaid it—perhaps intentionally.”
Wesley ran an agitated hand through his hair. “Dash it.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” she said. “By the time it reached the studio, I was already bound for the coast with your brother.”
“Why? Is this my punishment? For traveling to Italy to further my career?”
“No.”
“I should have spoken with you, I know. Explained myself. I tried to find you, but when I asked O’Dell where you were, he said you had gone to Barnstaple for the day.”
“Barnstaple? I went nowhere except the cottage and Castle Rock.”
He huffed in disgust. “I should have guessed he lied.”
Her throat tight, she managed a raspy, “You couldn’t wait for me? Or look for me?”
“The captain refused to wait. The ship was leaving with the tide. I had little time to decide, so I took my chance while I could.” He stepped nearer and lowered his voice. “But you have read my letter now? You know how I feel?”
Sophie nodded, tears burning her eyes. The words she’d longed for—too late!
“I was wrong to leave. I regretted it immediately and knew I had to come back to you. And here I am. Only to find you married.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Of all the men in the world, why would you marry an ogre like Marsh? I can’t bear the thought of him touching you.”
She did not correct him—did not admit they had not consummated their marriage. It made no difference, legally or otherwise. Instead she lifted her chin and challenged, “Why do you insist he is loathsome? He is not.”
Without intending to, she glanced at the shrouded portrait on the easel. He followed the direction of her gaze. With a furrowed brow, he stepped forward and yanked off the cover in one jerk.
“Don’t!” She felt as exposed as if a stranger had ripped the clothes from her body. “How dare you come in here and—”
“How dare I?” He gaped at the partially completed portrait, then at her, frowning darkly. “You are paintinghim?”
“Yes,” she said defensively. “Kate asked me to teach her. And we both thought a new portrait of Captain Overtree, before he left for war, would be a good idea.”
“If Katie wants to learn to paint, why did she not ask me?”
“Apparently she has, but you have yet to find the time.”
He made no reply, scowling at the painting.
She went on nervously, “You are welcome to teach her. I don’t pretend to match your skill.” She grew increasingly uncomfortable as he stared at her work in progress.
She lifted her chin. “How would you feel if I barged into your studio and uncovered one of your paintings in its early, vulnerable stages?”
“I invited you into my cottage studio in Lynmouth. Into my life. And this”—he gestured toward the painting—“is my reward.”
She shook her head. “It’s not for you or about you.”
“How you’ve idealized him. You’ve made him better looking than he actually is. It isn’t realistic.”
She told herself his criticism had more to do with the shock of discovering her marriage than about her actual skill, but the harsh words still hurt.
