It washer.At the opera, that first night, her green dress and defiant chin captured in bold strokes. But it was her eyes that caught her attention. He’d painted them looking directly at the viewer—challenging, alive.
“When did you paint this?”
“The night after the opera. I couldn’t sleep—couldn’t stop thinking about you. So, I painted what I remembered.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful. I only captured what was already there.”
She turned to him, this complicated, broken, extraordinary man she’d married.
“Paint me again.”
“What?”
“Paint me. Now. Like this.”
“Marianne—”
“You’ve shown me your darkness. Let me be your light.”
He studied her for a long moment, then nodded, moving to prepare a canvas. “Sit by the window. The moonlight…”
She sat where he directed, watching him work. The change in him was astonishing—his posture eased, his expression softened, his movements fluid and sure. This, she thought, was the man he might have been without the pain, without the ghosts.
“Tell me about Catherine,” she said as he painted. “Before.”
He hesitated, then resumed his brushstrokes. “She was light to my shadow. Always laughing, forever in trouble. She wanted to marry for love—drove our father to distraction.”
“What happened to her? After the accident?”
“She blamed herself. Said if she’d been more careful… I tried to tell her it wasn’t her fault, but she couldn’t bear to look at me. Mother sent her to our aunt in the country. After Mother died, Catherine left for the continent. We’ve spoken only through letters since.”
“She wants to reconcile.”
“She wants to ease her guilt.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps she wants her brother back.”
“That brother no longer exists.”
“No,” Marianne agreed softly. “But this one does. Changed, scarred, but still her brother. Still the man who loved her enough to die for her.”
He set down his brush, moving to kneel before her. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make me believe things might be different. Better.”
“Because they can be. If you let them.”
He kissed her hands, paint-stained fingers against her skin. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Probably not. But you have me anyway.”
They made love there in the studio, surrounded by his art, the moonlight soft upon their skin. It was unlike their other encounters—slower, deeper, walls giving way to something fragile and real.
Afterwards, as they lay tangled on the floor, Marianne traced the scar upon his cheek.
