She turned back and added more indigo into the sky.
Felton wasn’t sure if his answer passed muster, but he hadn’t lost ground. Her heart was linked to her brushes. A little bit of herself went into her work. Such tension.
He thought taking a new bride to a new world would be enough adventure for Cecilia, and that she’d make an unassuming wife. Her conversation was pleasant. She seemed grounded and thoughtful. The not so observant spy missed her passion. Art was her soul.
“Do you think about how we started, Cilia? I think people focus too much on endings and what went wrong, not enough on what was right.”
“Felton, I need to get this right. Then we can leave and get to Tramel before it’s too late. Unless you’re here stalling. Is that what you and your cousins the Gladstones want—Tramel’s death?”
“I’m not sure what they prefer. You can ask them about it. They’ll all be in attendance at Warwick.”
The grip on her brush tightened, and she snapped the handle in half. “Your cousin Jeremiah Gladstone will be there?”
“Yes. I’m sure he and my aunt would love to see you again too.”
“More of your beloved family.” Her tone was harsh. She began climbing down, and Felton braced against the shaking scaffold.
Halfway down, the bright chandelier light poured through her loose smock, illuminating the woman, the wonderful curves.
So many things to rediscover once her love was restored.
“Except for Tramel and the girls, my family hasn’t been kind. Perhaps I can make a point of clearing things up with them.”
“Yours. Your family.” She bit her lip and turned toward the audience’s chairs. “Does it matter? You’re going to end us. They’ll be happy.”
He helped her the final distance, setting her slippers to the stage. For a moment, she was in his arms.
Thick thighs, small waist, more heft to the perfect bosom—Cecilia, with the paint smudge on her nose, was more perfect. “I won’t be happy . . . knowing that I didn’t at least right this wrong. My offering them grace may have given them and you a false impression. You’re my Lady Gantry. You deserve your due respect.”
Her hands were on his chest; the coldness of her fingers seeped through his shirt.
He tightened his arms about her. “Still always chilly. I’m almost always hot. Missed giving you my heat.”
She jumped away, breathing heavily as always, every time they were close. Pulling on her coat, she headed down the steps. “I need air.”
“But it’s colder outside.”
Those sweet lips parted, then she shook her head. “This won’t take long.”
Trying hard not to smile, he dipped his chin. “I’ll see if I can get the scaffold tighter. It will be steady and dependable when you return.”
Across the empty stage, their gazes met and tangled like time hadn’t gotten away from them.
Then she left.
There was no need to give chase. Felton knew she’d be back. An incomplete work, one commissioned by the theatre, would be finished. Her love of art would allow nothing less.
Tightening the ropes, binding limb to limb, he needed a plan. Just being in the same carriage with strangers to Warwick wasn’t enough privacy to air and forgive all the grievances needed to repair their marriage.
Yet, he still lacked the clues to what would heal the rift. Like his bride, time would soon run away.
CHAPTER34
CECILIA—RUMBLINGREMORSE
Walking outside into the cool evening air was an act of defiance, the need for distance from my husband and his dispassionate politeness. I’d left him and he didn’t have the decency to be angry at me. Was saving face and returning with the wayward wife worth more than his feelings?
Felton wasn’t invisible to me. He was a good man.
