“You left because I was a fool, but you stayed away because you’re choosing you, Cilia? Being friends with Tramel does affect a person.”
“Someone other than my father-in-law needs to choose me. Don’t you think?”
To regain her trust, Felton needed to become the person she turned to when she was fearful or sad or in need of a laugh. Like Ashbrook had said, he needed to act fully committed, no longer standing back, no more doing enough to win the battle merely to lose the war.
Stepping away from the scaffold, he folded his arms and chuckled. “Words were cheap, I suppose.” He clapped his hands. “Tell me how I’m to get started. Command me, Cilia. I need to do more.”
She peered down at him. “Give me your opinion on my art.”
Oh, no.
This could be tricky and further push her away. Too light and pithy or too syrupy in his praise, she’d never think well of him.
“Are the brush strokes too heavy, my lord? Does the scale not look right? What’s your judgment?”
Back to formalities? Hand shading his eyes, he scanned the massive canvas while furtively gazing at her and the lip she bit.
He’d never noticed how sensitive she was to his opinion. Cecilia couldn’t be indifferent to him. “Something about the way the light hits the clouds and spreads. It offers such perspective. Like all your paintings, in Town and at Warwick, I feel I can walk right in.”
“You looked at them all?” Her voice had taken a light and airy tone. He must’ve said the right thing.
“Yes, I’ve studied them.” He paddled back to the scaffold. “You never said why you made me pose as a Roman soldier and not like the one of the girls picnicking in a meadow.”
“I like Rome. My father traveled there and told us of the massive stones. He always said we’d go and have an adventure.”
“You never thought to go there when you left me. Your talent will only grow by seeing these things in person. I remember when . . .”
Her head dipped and she tugged off her paint-stained apron. “Other considerations take precedence. You understand competing priorities.”
He did, and as he studied Cecilia’s puffy cheeks, the wonderful weight gained in her bosom, Lady Ashbrook’s words repeated,the artist was with child.
Theirs.
Not his, nor hers, but theirs—his and Cecilia’s from the night he should’ve said he loved her.
Would Cecilia not tell him? A woman accused of infidelity by her husband wouldn’t. Recovering her love wasn’t all that was at stake. Saving the family they should’ve had was his new plan.
CHAPTER33
FELTON—THEHELPFULHUSBAND
Cecilia touched her face. “Do I have paint on my nose? You’re staring.”
“No. You’re perfect. Still perfect.” He tugged his hands behind his back. “What may I help do, my lady? Stir colors? Tidy rags? Take you home and feed you properly?”
“I’m working, but you can go home. This will take all night.”
Maintain contact.That was Repington’s second tenet. The man could give Liverpool a run. “I’ll find a way to be useful. Being somewhat out of a profession has made me aimless. With the girls at Warwick, there are no demands of my time. Tonight, I can be out as long as I wish.”
She shrugged and started adding more details to lines she’d drawn in the upper corner.
He relaxed his shoulders, trying hard not to look forlorn or torn or concerned.
Felton was all of those things, including mourning. Ten months apart when he could’ve been with her, protecting her, loving her, finding British treats to enthrall her and make her eyes sparkle—this was time they’d never get back.
He turned to jump from the stage. The notion took him back to the beginning, jumping out that government window and gratefully meeting Cecilia.
“Tell me about your party, Cilia. I want to make sure I have enough room and provisions for them. We will be a merry group.”
