She crossed her arms, refusing to be cowed. “Youdidbring me here. Surely you didn’t actually believe that I wouldn’t be curious about the man I’m with?”
He leaned against the door, crossing one bare ankle over the other as he lifted his arms and set them on either side of the frame. The imposing figure he made caused her head to spin in a disturbing—and alluring—way. “What do you wish to know? I have nothing to hide.”
She swallowed, realizing this was the moment she had waited for, a glimpse into his mysterious past. Instead, what fell out of her mouth wasn’t the words she had intended to say. “Who is the couple in the painting?”
He stilled and he visibly tensed. “You’ve been in my studio.”
It wasn’t a question but more of an accusation, as if she’d done something unforgivable. “I was,” she admitted. “You are a very gifted artist—” Rather than accept the compliment with a smile or nod, his face turned grim. “But there is so much unfinished. I am sure if you completed them all and took them to a gallery?—”
“I will never allow it.”
She blinked at the pure animosity that came out of his lips. “Why not?”
He straightened, his hands falling to his sides, his feet braced apart on the floor. “Because of the woman you saw in the painting.” She wondered if he might elaborate or leave with that cryptic explanation. Clenching his jaw, Fleur was surprised when he added, “She was my lover. At one time I imagined foolishly that I was in love with her. The only piece I’ve ever finished was the one that reminds me of her, of the betrayal I suffered at her hands and how she left me to die. She was the first person to encourage me to continue painting. These days I would rather pick up a dagger than a paintbrush ever again.”
Although Fleur didn’t want to feel empathy for him, she couldn’t resist taking a step toward him. “It doesn’t have to be a bad memory. I would be happy to?—”
“No.”
With that, he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him with an air of finality that reverberated around the expanse.
CHAPTER8
Fleur slept little that night and something told her that Mr. Porter did not as well. He certainly hadn’t seemed pleased when he’d left her bedchamber. She decided to apologize to him this morning for pushing too far. She understood that, while he might have looked upon painting as a calming pastime at one point, now it was nothing but a sordid recollection. Considering that he had treated her quite fairly until this point made her guilt rise to the surface. She was not an unkind person by nature and she had been unsettled all night worrying about their confrontation.
She rose and performed her morning ablutions and then combed her fingers through her hair the best that she could. Unfortunately, she remembered that a brush was not all that she was missing. The few things she’d taken to Harriette’s townhouse were still there. She had nothing but the shirt Mr. Porter had loaned her to sleep in and the shroud she hoped never to lay eyes on again.
With little other choice, Fleur padded over to the door and headed down the stairs. In the early morning light of day, she still thought the structure seemed cold and barren, as if accusing her of her wrongdoings with each step that she took. She paused halfway down and clutched the banister for support. Taking a deep breath, she continued her descent.
She checked a few of the rooms on the lower level and didn’t see any signs of Mr. Porter. It was as if he’d effectively disappeared.
Finally, she spied a door at the back of the house. The door was shut but when she dared to open it, she found her benefactor bent over a ledger and scribbling away. There was little else in the study but the desk and his chair, empty and devoid of many furnishings or personal touches like everywhere else.
He stopped writing when she entered and glanced up. He had donned his cap once more. She also noted that he was fully dressed.
“Where did you sleep last night?” That hadn’t been the first thing she’d intended to say but it was the prominent thought in her mind.
He set down his pen near the inkwell and shut the ledger. Folding his hands on the top, he asked, “Why? Did you miss me?”
She didn’t miss the sardonic tone. Rather than engage, she asked, “Is there any of your… houses that you have made your own?”
“They are all mine.”
She waved a hand. “Never mind.” She looked down at her attire. “Is there anything else for me to wear?”
He frowned slightly. “Are you intending to go somewhere?”
She blinked, curious as to why he might pose that question. “Am I to be a prisoner here then?”
“I didn’t realize that we were entertaining. Or going to the opera.”
Again, there was that mocking tone. She didn’t like it.
Last night, she’d believed she might have actually had a civil conversation with him. She hoped that it might last, that they might have the chance to know each other better, not this barely concealed animosity when she didn’t know what she’d done to provoke him.
She crossed her arms. “I wasn’t asking for that. But perhaps some common decency wouldn’t be amiss. Or something to read? Something to justdo. I am used to being busy. I was a teacher in Greenwich.”
He snorted. “You wish for me to turn this house into a schoolroom?”
