Feeling a little ill at the thought of hearing Lionel prattle on about places she’d seen with her own family, Charlotte shook her head emphatically. Then she recalled her manners.
“No, thank you. I have just been ... on an errand.”What a banal way to describe touring the church where she would be married to the most wonderful man in the world.
However, the engagement announcement hadn’t yet been made, although she knew it would appear in the papers that very day. But the Evans were not her first choice of people to tell outside of her family, and to disclose such a thing out of the blue on the street seemed vulgar and boastful.
Charlotte excused herself. “I must get back to the shop.”
Viola released her hand. “All right. Another time. I’m sorry we lost touch, but now that my brother is back, perhaps we can return to our former friendship, the three of us.”
It had become blatantly clear over the course of the past few months that they had no common interests outside of the art academy. Not only had Lionel behaved reprehensibly, Viola had become peevish when Charlotte had expressed dismay at his departure, and then petulant when she no longer took an interest in his conceited letters. And that was before the request for money.
Nevertheless, there was no reason to be rude.
“Are you going back to art class?” Charlotte asked Viola, but her glance took in Lionel, too, and it was he who answered.
“If my sister still wants lessons, I can now instruct her, after all I’ve seen and done.” He gave a superior smile. “I’ve painted with some great artists in an atelier in Paris, and I would not go back to our old teacher, regardless. I don’t think any of us gained much from him.”
Lionel had gained a pretty blonde traveling companion, and Charlotte vaguely wondered what had happened to the model by the time they’d reached Rome. She couldn’t bring herself to care enough to pry, even if that had been an acceptable topic.
“I shall bid you both good day, then,” she told them. “Enjoy your ices.” That was if Lionel thought British ice could hold a candle to the Frenchcream icein Paris. After all, a few short months had apparently turned him into the next Delacroix if not Botticelli.
“Charlotte,” Viola said, halting her departure. “I hope you will forgive Lionel his former ill manners and abrupt departure.”
Viola didn’t know the half of it unless she included stolen kisses in those “ill manners.”
Because she no longer cared a wit, she said, “There is nothing to forgive, I promise you.” And she meant it. That aside, it would be impossible to return to any semblance of friendship with Viola alone, not with Lionel constantly being mentioned, or worse, linger about with his smug expression. It was unseemly.
“Good day, Viola. I wish you well.” She hoped that sounded as final as she intended. Then her glance flickered to Lionel. “Good day to you, Mr. Evans.”
Again, he took her measure, head to toe. It caused her cheeks to warm with shame for him, and she didn’t care for the sensation.
“Good day to you, Miss Rare-Foure. I hope we shall meet again.”
Lionel’s eyes, which she’d always thought flawlessly exciting, sparkling with interest, now looked wild with inappropriate thoughts in comparison to Charles’s intelligent and loving gaze.
Hurrying away, Charlotte felt rattled. It was the only way she could describe the unsettled feeling at seeing him again so unexpectedly, despite no longer having an ounce of affection for him.
THE SPRAY OF STONES upon her window and the wall beside it had her throwing up the sash in the wee hours of the morning.
As soon as she opened it, she recognized the perpetrator. Lionel appeared to be reaching for even bigger rocks in her parents garden and was swaying like a ship in choppy seas.
“Charlotte, Charlotte. I dream of you and you alone. My muse of fire! Let me paint you in the nude.”
Rolling her eyes at the drunken fool, she called down to him, “Mr. Evans, be quiet.”
“Your cruelty knows no bounds. Am I truly now ‘Mr. Evans’ to you when I have claimed those perfect lips?”
Sweet mother! Did he care nothing for her reputation?
“I have returned,” he added unnecessarily, “to claim the rest of you.” With those words, he held his hands up and spread his arms wide as if he would catch her should she jump from the second floor.
His behavior was indefensible. Delia had probably popped awake at the first shouted words and had heard everything. Her parents, whose room was on the other side of the house, hopefully had not roused from their slumber. But Mr. Finley and Lydia may also have awakened. Not that she thought their household help were disloyal gossip-birds, but anyone with a cup of tea in one hand and a biscuit in the other was liable to start gabbing about something this irreverent.
“Go away, Lionel,” she said, hoping by using his name he would calm down and retreat.
“Oh, yes! She loves me still. Look at yonder window how Charlotte outshines the sun,” he said loudly, mangling a Shakespeare quote that even she knew by heart.
“What will make you leave this instant?”
