Page 63 of So Wild A Heart

She turned to Devin excitedly. They were alone in the room for once, her father and the landscaper being outside walking through the overrun garden, the architect upstairs making notes to himself, and Hiram going over the books with Strong in Strong’s office. Devin could not help but smile faintly at the happiness on Miranda’s face; it was infectious. But he could not imagine what sort of package could have got her so excited.

“What is it? Dresses from London?”

“No. Better than that. At least, I hope it is. I hope you will like it. It is a wedding present.”

“A wedding present? But you already gave me that.” His hand went automatically to the ruby-and-gold pin in his ascot, part of a matching set with cuff links that she had given him on their wedding day.

“Yes, but that was different. That was a formal present. A—I don’t know, something you expected. This is my own personal present.”

Intrigued, he stood up as the footman came in, almost hidden by the large box he carried. With care, the servant set it down on the floor and bowed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Devin glanced at Miranda.

“Go ahead,” she said, “Open it. If you don’t like it, I promise I shan’t cry. It is just a gift of…of possibility.”

“Indeed.” He cut the string that tied the package and opened the box. He went still, looking at the objects inside. He turned to Miranda, an odd, questioning look on his face, then reached into the box and pulled out an easel. Digging farther down, he brought up a wooden box containing tubes of pigment and glass bottles for the paints after they were mixed, then a palette, a box of brushes, pads of paper, a box of charcoal pencils, bottles of turpentine and linseed oil, until finally the library table was almost covered with the art supplies.

Devin stood looking down at the things on the table. He ran his fingers down a tube, touched the silken hairs of a brush. Miranda waited, watching him, wondering what he was thinking.

“You don’t have to use them if you don’t want,” she said finally. “I just thought…you might miss it. While you were here, you might want to paint. To pass the time, at least.”

He turned then and looked at her, shaking his head in puzzlement. “How did you know? I mean—I gave it up long ago.”

“I saw your work at your sister’s house,” Miranda explained. “She told me that you were an artist.”

He grimaced dismissively. “I dabbled.”

“No. You are very talented. I saw the paintings. Your use of light, the colors…” Her voice picked up a little in excitement. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw them. I realized then that you weren’t just what one saw.”

“A wastrel, you mean?”

“Well, frankly, yes.”

Devin grinned faintly. “One can always count on you for honesty.”

He looked back at the things on the table. “I can’t believe…I don’t know that I can do it anymore. It has been years. I lost interest.”

“You might be rusty, but I don’t believe your talent died. It is still there.” She paused, then went on. “Rachel showed me the room in the west wing, the one where you used to paint. I’ve had it cleaned. You could use it again.”

“It has good light in the afternoon,” he agreed absently. Even when he had tried to sketch Miranda, he had not actually contemplated painting her portrait. He had assumed that he would never paint again. But now, suddenly, the idea tempted him. He remembered the smell of the oils, the feel of the brush in his fingers, the way light poured in through the windows of the room. He thought once more of the sketches he had done in private of Miranda.

“Why did you buy these?” he asked. “I mean, why do you care?”

“I hate to see talent wasted, and I think you have a tremendous talent. And I thought you might…find something you had lost.”

They stood looking at one another for a long moment. Finally he said, “If I decided to paint, would you pose for me?”

Miranda’s eyes widened a little in surprise. But she said only, “Yes. I would.”

“Then perhaps I will.”

Devin did not think he would begin to paint again. He had outgrown it years ago, as his father had always hoped he would. The supplies were a nice gesture and one that touched him, but he was not sure that he wanted to try them out.

However, later that afternoon, he found his steps turning toward the room Miranda had mentioned, the large, airy, sun-filled room that had been his studio when he lived at home. It had been cleaned, as Miranda had said, and all the supplies had been carried up and arranged on an old paint-bedaubed table there. The furniture in the room was minimal—besides the table, only a chair, a stool and a fainting couch.

He went to the box and opened it again, taking out the tubes of pigment one by one and laying them on the table, adding the small glass bottles. If he was going to paint, he would mix the pigments with linseed oil and put them in the bottles. He thought of mixing the oils together on his palette then, what colors he would combine, what mixture he would use to get the exact shade of Miranda’s hair. What combination of white and black it would take to reach the gray of her eyes—and how to add the touch of silver to them.

Almost without thinking, he unscrewed the top from one of the tubes and squeezed out pigment into a bottle….

It was four hours later that one of the servants finally found him, standing in the studio, lamps lit around him, his coat off and his white shirt stained and smeared with paints.