He lifted his head, puzzled. “I did.”
“That’s good.” After a while, Mary said, “I suppose we should paint something, or I’ll have some explaining to do.”
Will turned on his side, propping his head on his hand. “Give me a minute. Let me think . . . gypsies stole your canvas?”
“That’s the best you can do? And you an Irishman?”
“I’m distracted today.” After seeming to mull, he said, “I’ve been thinking about Louisa’s problems.... I suppose she could move into my house.”
Mary sat up abruptly. “Move in with you?”
“If the firm goes bust, as you fear, and Louisa loses the house, she can live with us . . . after we’re married.”
“Married?”
“My flat’s a bit pokey, but I expect we can all make do.”
He was on his knees in a fluid movement, facing her, cupping her face, his eyes inches away. “Marry me, Mary Allingham.” He kissed her lips lightly, then lingeringly. “Say yes.” He kissed her mouth’s corner, tracing his lips along her cheek. He breathed in her ear, “Please say yes.”
When he pulled back, Mary looked into eyes that were green and gold-flecked and fringed with dark lashes. She felt light-headed, felt something thrumming inside her. It was her beating pulse. She started to speak, but her voice caught, so it took her a moment to say the word.
“Yes.”
Sometime later, Will rolled on his back and stretched like a cat. “I suppose we should get on with some painting while there’s still light in the sky.”
Mary sat up and raked dark curls away from his forehead. She traced a finger along the curve of his cheek and the groove of his upper lip. She heard his breath catch and then felt its warmth. Mary leaned over and touched her lips to his. She lifted her head and smiled. “I suppose we can paint . . . if we must.”
He took her in his arms again.
Still later, they packed their luncheon things, letting the brazier cool. Then they set up their easels, unfolded their camp chairs, and set to work.
Before she began, Mary looked at him. “You’re wrong about all of us needing to move into your flat. The house belongs to me, not Louisa. And my fortune has always been independent of the publishing firm.”
Will smiled. “If I’d known that, Mary Allingham, I’d have asked you to marry me a month ago.” He reached for his tube of Paris Green and squeezed a generous disk of emerald in the corner of his palette.
He looked over at her quick intake of breath. “Mary . . . my love. I was joking.”
She pointed her brush. “That color . . . I just realized. I hadn’t thought of it until now, but I’ve avoided using it.”
He looked at the tube. “Paris Green?”
“Ever since . . .”
“Since when?”
“Since my brother died.” She took a deep breath. “Since Charles killed himself.” She still had trouble saying the words. Mary saw Will’s confusion. “It’s loaded with arsenic.”
“Are you saying—”
“Charles broke some off the block in my studio, ground it up, poured it into his whiskey, and drank it.”
“Good God. Mary . . . my dearest girl.”
She looked down at her hands, gripping them so tightly that her knuckles shone white in her flesh.
“I don’t understand. How . . .” Will’s jaw tightened. “How could he do that to you?”
“Most of the time, I ask, how could he throw his life away? My fun-loving brother.” In a low voice, she said, “But he did.”
