Then a solemn knock.Pound. Pound.
It was probably a light rattle of the door, but sometimes I struggled with sounds. A walk would settle me, but not in cold London streets.
Knock. Knock.
“Lady Gantry, may I enter? It’s been a week.”
I liked that he never barged inside. Sometimes I locked the door to keep Lady Jane out, but not today.
“Answer, please. A yes or no.”
“Why do you want to enter, my lord? I know how precious your time is.”
“Cecilia, let me in. I want to make amends. I need to. I’ve been trying for days.”
I set aside the brush and palette. “Have you not left already, my lord? No friend in danger?”
He knocked again. “It’s been seven long, lonely days. You haven’t come to dinner.”
“What of breakfast? Did we not share eggs and toast?”
He tapped the door. “I meant a private meal in my chambers. Please, I’ve no plans to go anywhere, not anytime soon.”
“The last time we shared a meal in your chambers, I didn’t paint for three days. That is highly unproductive.”
“But what a three days, Cilia. Please let me in.” His voice sounded determined. Felton was always respectful, never making or forcing demands. He was perfect in that way, but he’d left me adrift, caught in my own stubbornness.
“I’ll get the key. I must see you.”
He wouldn’t be deterred this evening.
“A moment.” I put the landscape away in the closet where it would dry, and brought out the clownish image I’d worked on a few days ago when he posed. My Roman soldier in the woods of Stabroek—I set upon my easel and called to Felton.
With a silver tray in his hand, he came inside. “First, I’m sorry again. I’ll do better. Two, you’re right. I’ve been neglectful. Three, you’re beautiful. Four, I offer chocolate sauce and blackberries.”
The scent of sweetened darkness teased my nose. Hints of vanilla filled the air. Felton came near and dipped the fattest berry into the chocolate. It dripped heaven back into the bowl.
“Open wide, Cecilia.”
When I did, he put the berry on my tongue. Tart and sweet, the roasted cocoa danced in my mouth.
“Aye, I think Lady Gantry likes.” He fed me one after the other.
There had to be purply-black juice on my lips.
Setting down his tray, he took a napkin, patted my mouth, then he kissed off the rest of the chocolate. “There, clean and tasty.”
Such a simple thing, a short touch of my lips to his, and my heart raced. Glances tangling, he had me in his arms.
His scent, the clean pines like the woods of Warwick, was what his hugs smelled of and reminded me of sheltering in his arms as we walked the grounds. I’d paint that image next week.
“I missed you so, Cecilia.”
Weak, letting him nibble my neck, I began to waver. Had I forgotten, I was a strong woman. My mother’s blood, her labors and sacrifice, were in me. I couldn’t be reduced to wanton nothingness, to a place where his needs outweighed my own.
Pressing on his finely done-up brass buttons, I freed myself. “Felton, you just can’t come here and expect—”
“Expect to be with my wife, my Cilia.” His exaggerated whisper was soft, like the way he touched me.
