He sat back against the bench and ran his hand through his hair. “Why does it matter?”
“Because—” I shook my head in confusion. “Because I’m me, and you’re you, and I thought we knew each other.”
Austen was quiet for a moment, and then he finally said, “Honestly, it was the last thing I had that no one could take away from me. I was afraid that if people knew, it would be torn from me, too.”
My heart ached for him as I sat back on the bench and took his hand into mine. “Is that what you were doing at Loch Lomond?”
He nodded. “I was commissioned to finish a painting for a client in France, and I needed to get it done before the fifteenth. I finished it yesterday, and I left it with my caretakers to mail after the paint dried. I came back to London as soon as I could.”
“Why do you paint in Scotland? Why not here?”
“There are too many memories in London. I’ve tried, but the only place I can truly let my mind go is in Scotland.”
“What about that morning when the movers were at your house? I thought you were selling some of your parents’ paintings.”
“I’d finished the paintings in Scotland and brought them with me to ship to Italy. I don’t usually leave my caretakers responsible for shipments, since it’s easier to have them sent from London.”
“You’re extremely talented,” I told him with a smile. “Your paintings are stunning.”
He returned my smile as the carriage joined a busy thoroughfare. The noise increased as the carriage slowed to accommodate traffic.
“I wish I could have been there when you saw them,” he said.
“I do, too.” I nibbled my bottom lip, not sure how he would react to my next statement. “I went to see you.”
“What do you mean?”
“In 1938. After I saw the paintings.”
Austen frowned. “Did I say anything to you?”
“No. You shook your head, as if you didn’t want to speak to me.”
There was no humor in his eyes as he regarded me, and I wished I knew what he was thinking.
“Why did you go?” he finally asked.
“I missed you, and ... I wanted to ask you about the portrait.”
“Portrait?” He frowned. “What portrait?”
“The one of me.”
“I don’t have a portrait of you.”
“You will.”
He studied me again, pain and uncertainty in his gaze. “After you leave, you mean?”
I nodded.
He turned away from me and shook his head. “I’m a fool.”
I put my hand on his arm, but he pulled away.
His rejection hurt, and I stiffened.
When he turned back to me, there was so much grief in his eyes, it stung. “Who are we fooling?” he asked. “I keep thinking that by some miracle, you’ll choose me, and this will continue. But it won’t, will it?”
