“Ah.” He nodded. “My condolences.”
She tipped her head in gracious silence.
“I never met the artist,” he said. “My father and I saw the painting at the Royal Academy when it was exhibited, and my father decided to buy it.”
“That was just before Stephen died.” Aware of MacBride’s steady gaze, she could not look at him. Tilting her head slightly away from him, she studied the painting in silence.
“It is beautiful,” he said.
“I was younger then. And a bitembonpoint,” she added, referring to her lush, rounded form in the painting.
“A curvaceous and beautiful young lass.”
“A foolish lass.” She turned away. Sir Aedan set a hand to her elbow. Odd how his touch felt so natural, she thought. Being alone with him felt natural too, not scandalous. The welcome of familiarity, yet with an edge of danger in what was yet unknown.
“You dislike the painting,” he murmured.
“It reminds me of what came after. And it is—frankly rather embarrassing.” She felt the sudden tingle of tears forming, and lifted her head. “I have aged and changed. I do not remember ever looking quite like that.”
“May I?” Reaching up, he slid her eyeglasses free and set them aside.
Blinking at the slight blur of his firelit features, she did not protest. She wanted his thoughts, his attention. Her weak eyesight softened his appearance, but as he bent toward her, his face clarified in its hard beauty. She thought again of a warrior angel, protective, powerful, stunning in aura, form, and countenance.
He glanced toward the framed painting and back to her. “The earlier version has a pleasing roundness in the limbs, aye, but the features are identical. An elegant, classic, quiet sort of beauty. And the later version…” He touched her jaw with hisfingers as if she were a statue and he an art critic. He tilted her face and her heart leaped.
“The later version?” she asked, almost laughing. “I am the original version.”
“I knew her before I knew you. Hush. There is refinement in face and figure now. Perhaps too thin, though the graceful bone structure is enhanced. The earlier version is lush and wild and passionate. She is a dream. A legend. The later version has an honest beauty, simple and uncommon. And a vibrancy that is quiet but very attractive.”
Spellbound, she waited, pulse quickening as he tilted her cheek with his fingers.
“The first image has innocence and wildness, but there is something… sad there. And the later girl is cautious. There is a touch of sadness. The mouth is wary.” His fingertip glided over her bottom lip.
Her knees faltered. “Cautious, aye. Afraid someone might try to—”
“Kiss her?” His fingers stilled on her chin. “I am more of a gentleman than that.”
She drew a breath. Her heart pounded. “I know.”
“Shall I go on?”
She nodded, feeling caught in a dangerous, delicious, secret game.
“The girl in the painting is a sensual creature, yet immature. She knows love but not life. She is lost and tragic.”
“She is a tragic princess. From a legend. Lost in briars.”
“She is. But she has something the latter princess hides. A sort of…blissfulness.”
“Happiness,” she blurted. “She was happy then, for a while. She was adored.”
“She should always be adored.” His fingers traced her cheek.
Caught by his sultry magic, she closed her eyes, felt swamped by loneliness. Then she stepped away, yanked her yearning heart back to its cage.
“I am sorry,” she said. “This was a mistake.”
“Was it?” He picked up her spectacles and handed them to her. “Sorry.”
