“The full name is William Bellamy McKenna.”
“Oh, I see. I thought it was William Moore. I was mistaken.”
A part of him wanted to let her think she’d been the one to misunderstand. But another part of him knew he had to be honest. “’Twas not your mistake, ma’am. Up until now, I’ve used the pseudonym Moore instead of McKenna. But tonight, I’ve decided to reveal my true name.”
She cocked her head and gave him another once-over. “Very well, young man.”
He waited for her to question him further, to at least make a comment about him being Irish, which was obvious with his accent and now his name. But she linked her arm throughhis and tugged him closer. Not only did she wear an extraordinary amount of jewelry, but she also was wearing an entire bottle of perfume, or so it seemed. “I would love for you to take me around to each of your paintings and explain your inspiration. I’m of the inclination to purchase them all.”
“You can’t purchase them all, Charlotte,” said another older woman who stood nearby and had been eavesdropping on their conversation. “You must save some for the rest of us.”
Mrs. Chamberlain dismissively waved one of her jeweled hands, the rings and bracelets clinking. “I was introduced to Bellamy first, which means I get first claim on his paintings.”
With the women practically fighting over him, Bellamy smiled at Mr. Davenport. The curator smiled back nervously, then turned to greet another older lady who was breezing into the gallery with her husband.
Bellamy let Mrs. Chamberlain monopolize his attention for a short while, grateful for her words of praise over each painting—praise the other guests could hear. She continually stopped to introduce him to newcomers, more important and wealthy people from among the upper echelons of society.
A few raised their eyebrows when she explained that the initials stood for McKenna and not Moore. But her acceptance of him seemed to be all the permission everyone needed to put aside his Irishness and focus on his paintings.
After the first hour, all the paintings had sold—most to Mrs. Chamberlain, but a few to her friends. Mr. Davenport had already placed Sold signs on each painting, which only served to heighten the interest.
Bellamy knew the evening had been successful, probably more so than Mr. Davenport could have imagined. The worried lines and perspiration had disappeared from the man’sforehead. Instead, he was smiling broadly as he took orders for more paintings, his eyes alight and his praise of Bellamy flowing smoothly, as if he’d never imagined another outcome of the evening.
Bellamy pulled out his pocket watch. The top of the eight o’clock hour was almost upon them. He glanced into the lobby, hoping for a sight of Zaira. At that moment, a barouche halted in front of the lobby doors.
The Shanahan barouche.
His pulse picked up speed. He excused himself from the couple he’d been talking to and stepped out into the lobby, straightening his cravat as he did so.
The coachman was opening the door of the barouche, and Bellamy’s breath snagged in his chest.
Oscar had said he’d come and help with the plan to win over Zaira, and now Bellamy wished he’d taken up Oscar’s offer to be there.
Bellamy had sensed the turn in his relationship with Oscar for the better, but he’d decided he had to atone for his past mistakes and dishonesty without anyone coming to his rescue. And repairing his relationship with Zaira was something he had to do on his own.
James Shanahan was the first to step down out of the barouche. He lifted a hand to aid his wife next. As James extended his hand again, Bellamy held his breath, the anticipation inside him swelling.
He’d gone nearly mad staying away from Zaira for the past week. Not only had he missed seeing her and talking to her, but he’d been worried that she would think he didn’t care about her.
Oscar had assured him the gifts would alleviate any doubtsshe might have. He’d also insisted that the time apart would help her to see her own feelings more clearly so that when she came to the gallery, her heart would be tender and she would be ready to forgive him.
Bellamy hoped Oscar was right.
As she placed her foot onto the carriage step and took her da’s hand, he was able to get a full view of her. His racing heart slammed to a halt, his breathing ceased, and every thought evaporated. Except one.
Zaira Shanahan was absolutely the most spectacular woman in the world.
She was wearing a flaming garnet–colored gown. The color matched her hair, which was arranged halfway up and contained under a small matching bonnet with the rest of it hanging down in a cascade of ringlets.
She paused in the carriage doorway and pressed a hand against her throat, touching the garnet necklace there.
She’d worn the necklace he’d given her. That had to be a good sign.
As she stepped down to the ground, she released the necklace and straightened, giving him another perfect view of her striking beauty. Not only was the color the perfect match, but the gown showed off every elegant curve of her body and also contrasted with the silky cream of her skin.
Even though he had the urge to rush to her and draw her into his arms, he made himself remain where he was. He had to stick to the plan. This was his chance to show her he’d always loved her and always would ... and that he really did want to marry her and not because anyone was pressuring him to.
He could only pray his and Oscar’s plan would work.
