If she did that, she would start a war that might never have a victor.
“If you must know, that is one of my husband’s more famous paintings,” she said, hands on her hips.
“Come now, Louisa.” Henry’s voice was low and his gaze didn’t stray from hers. “Do you really expect me to believe that? I’ve seen your paintings.”
“Ten years ago.”
“And in that time, your style has remained the same, if a little more refined. And the way the feet point the same direction no matter where one stands—that is unmistakable.” His nostrils flared as though a thought had just occurred to him. “Did Bolton force you into painting for him?”
“You of all people have no right to ask what my marriage did to me,” she said, matching his intensity with her own.
Agony rippled across his face, though she must have imagined it, because the next moment, his expression was blank. “Does anyone except your illustrious friend know?”
“You are referring, I presume, to Mr Knight?”
He was silent, waiting for her to continue. The silence tactic was one she frequently employed, and it grated to have someone use it on her.
“No one else knows,” she said through gritted teeth. “Even my mother is oblivious, though given her lack of interest in my talent, that is hardly surprising.” The only thing her mother had done was mourn the lack of children Louisa had borne from her marriage.
“Presumably he is threatening you over it?” Henry sounded as though this was a foregone conclusion, and not a particularly troublesome one. Although there was still the hint of tension inhis brow and across the hard line of his jaw, his words were matter-of-fact.
“Willyou?”
“Threaten you?” A hint of puzzlement entered his voice.
“Yes, Henry. Have you any intention of demanding something in exchange for keeping my secret?”
Disgust clouded his eyes. “What sort of man do you take me for?”
“To be frank, I no longer have any idea.” She held his gaze, though it was like gazing into the sun. They breathed in tandem, breath mingling in the space between them. The ball was in full swing just feet away, but tucked away in their corner, she felt as though they existed in a different world, separated by a veil.
Just for a moment, she felt seventeen again, meeting a young man alone for the first time in her life and wondering with breathless anticipation what might happen if he tilted his head.
“Louisa,” Henry said, his voice low, tortured, and she could bear it no longer.
“If you have no intention of threatening me, this conversation is over.” Giving him no time to reply, she wiggled past him, her shoulder brushing his chest and her hand grazing his hip. He made no move to stop her, and she took another glass of champagne on her way past, tossing it back and wishing its effects would hit her immediately. Then she would not have to picture all the different ways that conversation could have gone.
Then she could forget that she had ever loved him, and that she still, despite all odds, wanted him.
If only she could learn to forget. But nine years of remembrance told her it would not be that easy.
Henry breathed through his nose, his head bowed and his back to the room. His body still pulsed with the awareness he had been at pains not to show, and even though she was gone, he could still imagine the faint outline of her in front of him, face upturned, eyes sharp and hard.
They weren’t who they had been when they’d first met, young and foolish and so easy to tip into love. Time had crafted them into something different, and he no longer knew how to navigate this dynamic.
Complication. He had once used that term to describe her, not knowing at the time how true that would come to be. This was indeed a complication, and for more reasons than he could count.
It had been the work of a moment to identify the true hand behind the painting. Even if he had not heard Lord Bolton’s name uttered in hushed whispers, he would have recognised Louisa’s style from a mile away. She had tried to hide it, but it was alive in everything she did. Art was a living, breathing thing inside her, something he had never been able to understand, no matter what pains he had gone to.
That Bolton had taken advantage of this was his fault. If Henry had ever thought, all those years ago, that relinquishing her would have led to this, he would have acted differently.
The scope of what he had done, the full implications of it, were only now becoming plain. It was vile and he was, indirectly, responsible; he deserved to feel this crushing guilt just as surely as she hadn’t deserved any of it.
But assisting in this was one thing he could resolve for her—a way of repaying the hurt he had caused. All he would have to do was exert enough pressure on Mr Knight that he retracted his threat.
Louisa would never have to know.
He had not saved her nine years ago. But perhaps he could save her now.
