“If there’s trouble again, I want to help,” Pippa said in a rush.
He looked up at her, his surprise evident. “It’s just mudlark business, sweeting—”
“Mudlark businessisyour life, and I want to be part of it. I didn’t want to interfere this time because you obviously had everything in motion. But in the future, I want to know what is going on and assist however I can.”
“You want to be involved with the larks?”
She didn’t know what to make of his sudden stillness. He stared at her, his features taut, his eyes dark and watchful. With sudden wrenching anxiety, she wondered if she’d overstepped. Although they’d talked about sharing each other’s lives, maybe he’d only meant certain aspects. Maybe he only wanted companionship…and sex. Most men kept their public and domestic spheres separate, after all.
She remembered how Edwin had hidden his financial problems and use of drugs from her. How he’d berated her whenever she’d asked about money or his strange and secretive behavior.
“A man doesn’t like a woman who meddles,”he would say in tones of frigid displeasure.
“Pippa?”
She started. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“Where did you go just now?” Cull’s tone was quiet.
“Nowhere.” Angry at herself for letting the past dig its claws into her once more, she fumbled for a response. “I…I was thinking about your question. And I don’t want to intrude where I’m not wanted.”
Hearing herself, she cringed. She sounded so meekand pathetic. Where was her spine, her fire? She focused on her soup, stirring the thick golden liquid as she tried to calm her raging emotions.
“You’re wanted.”
Her gaze flew up. Cull was watching her with a burning intensity, as if she were the only thing that existed for him. Her heart thrashed against her ribs.
“I want you, Pippa. Not just in my bed, but in my life,” he went on. “I know we talked about sharing things, but I wasn’t sure how far the sharing went. I’ve never done this before. Never wanted to do this with anyone but you. And if you are saying that you want to help me with the mudlarks, that you want to be part of that life…I cannot tell you what that means to me.”
I want everything with you,her heart cried. What came out was, “Longmere didn’t paintPortrait of a Lady Dreaming. I did.”
Panic besieged her.Why did I blurt that?
Cull cocked his head. “I know.”
She stared at him. “How could you possibly know?”
“I arranged for a private viewing of the exhibition. When I saw the painting, I knew it was your work,” he said steadily. “I’m no art expert, but Longmere wasn’t capable of capturing such…such feeling.”
“The critics hailed it as evidence of Longmere’s buried genius. They praised his technique. Said that if only he’d lived longer, he might have been one of the greatest painters of his generation.”
“They’re idiots.”
“They’re experts,” she countered.
“Experts can be idiots.” Cull reached over and covered her hand where it lay on the table. His strong, callused grip warmed her chilled skin. “I don’t know technique from a toenail, but I do know this: Longmere was not capable of understanding that woman’s feelings, never mind rendering it in paint. A cove like him would never know what it was like to love someone with his whole heart, to be willing to give himself up for that person…only to find that he’d been alone in his dream. Nor would he understand the sadness, yearning, and hope of a dreamer’s heart.”
Cull’s insight pierced her to the quick.
A tear sliding down her cheek, she confessed, “That painting killed my husband. It is my fault he’s dead.”
Unable to stand her pain, Cull pulled Pippa into his arms and carried her over to the turquoise settee. He sat her on his lap and said gently, “Explain.”
“Longmere was obsessed with his art. With showing the world his genius. It was all he cared about, and I wanted him to have his dream.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “One night, I found him passed out in his studio, with this painting half-finished. I thought he’d been drinking…I didn’t know he’d been taking a new drug called Devil’s Bliss, which was more potent than even opium. Because of the upcoming exhibition, he’d put so much pressure on himself, had worked day and night. Yet when I saw this piece, I knew that it wouldn’t gain him the recognition he craved.” Her breath hitched. “So I…I fixed it.”
It was as Cull had suspected. The emotion of the portrait—the luminous longing and pain—was pure Pippa. It was her eyes in the model’s face, her heart that lit up the paint.
“Go on,” he said.
