She found the Duke of Oxford’s newest addition on the far wall. Small, inconspicuous even, the oil paint on canvas was by an artist whose name she didn’t recognize.
“Claude Monet,” she muttered, reading the signature scrawled at the bottom.
Whoever he was–or would become–his talent was apparent in every brushstroke. He’d depicted a busy boardwalk in the height of summer, with a dozen different shades of blue between the ocean and the sky. If she stared intently enough, she could almost smell the salt air and hear the call of gulls as they swooped to pick up pieces of bread thrown by giggling children.
“Ye should have a painting hanging right beside it,” drawled an achingly familiar brogue from directly behind her.
On a startled gasp, Brynne nearly jumped out of her heeled shoes.Wouldhave, had Lachlan not laid a steadying hand upon her shoulder.
“What–what are youdoinghere?” Her hazel eyes as wide as the sky in Monet’s beach scene, she whirled around to confront her husband with equal parts disbelief, irritation, and bewildered joy. “You nearly scared me to death!”
“That wasna me intention.”
“Then whatwasyour intention?”
“Tae see ye,” he answered simply. On a low whistle, he stepped back, his gaze slowly traveling from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. “I dinna have the words tae describe what a vision ye are, Bry. A sunset comes close. The colors of it. The way it dances across the horizon as if painted by God’s own hand. But compared tae ye, it’s nothing but a picture scrawled by a child.”
She wasn’t going to be charmed.
She wasn’t.
She refused.
“Lachlan, if you’ve come here to win me back–”
“Aye and it’s a high opinion we have of ourselves, isna it?” he smirked. “I received an invitation from the Duke of Oxford, same as ye. I didna realize our separation extended tae me being unable tae attend a ball.”
“Oh. I thought…” Flushing, she trailed away while Lachlan continued to grin.
Dashingly handsome in all black save the white of his cravat, he was the very picture of a refined aristocrat with his auburn hair contained in a tail at the nape of his neck and his face cleanly shaven. If not for the glint in his eyes and that roguish dimple in the middle of his cheek, she might have almost believed he was a gentleman.
“I figured it would be more awkward not tae seek ye out than tae pretend we didna know each other,” he said, arching a brow.
“Yes, you’re right.” She gave a tiny shake of her head. Pasted a smile on her face. “Of course, you’re right.”
“And who is it we have here?” he asked, nodding at the painting she’d been admiring before he snuck up behind her.
Taking a deep breath, Brynne pivoted towards the wall and linked her hands behind her back as an irrational surge of annoyance went through her. Why did Lachlan have to be heretonight, of all nights? Even though he had as much a right to attend the ball as she did…and this wasn’t going to be the first, or the last, time that their paths inadvertently crossed. She pressed her lips together. If this was how he wanted it to be between them–friendly acquaintances, if not outright friends–then she’d do her best to accommodate his wishes. And ignore both the accelerated beat of her pulse and the slick tug between her thighs brought on by his nearness.
A year and a half she’d had to miss him, andthiswas how her body reacted when they’d barely spent a day apart? It was baffling. It was bemusing. It was an outright betrayal. Or maybe it wasn’t. Tell someone they had to have something, and they didn’t want it. Put it out of their reach, and it was all they desired.
But she couldn’t desire her husband.
Because…because she just couldn’t.
And that was all there was to it.
“Monet. Claude Monet.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve never heard of him, but if the Duke of Oxford has seen fit to add him to his collection, then he surely is an artist of substance.”
“And why is it the duke doesna have one of yer paintings?” Lachlan asked. “I’m sure this Monet fellow is all well and dandy, but it’s a beach with some sand and steps. Blaine could do something similar, if he had half a mind tae. But I’ve seen yer paintings, Bry. The scope of them. The sheer, staggering depth. If anyone deserves tae be in this gallery, it’s ye.”
“You’ve–you’ve seen my paintings?” This was the second time her husband had surprised her this evening. She’d never lifted a paintbrush at Campbell Castle, although she supposed he could have gone through the canvases she had brought with her and kept in a trunk in their bedroom. She just never thought that hehad, given that he’d never shown any particular interest in her artistic endeavors.
Until now.
“The scene ye painted of our meadow on the hill is me favorite. The colors ye used. The blend of grass, and trees, and stars. Second only tae being there in person.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That painting is in my bedchamber. At Hawkridge Manor.”
