Chapter Twenty-Two
A t the inn in the village, Melissa felt everything but freedom when the painter positioned her in front of a backdrop of dark brown velvet drapes.
“It’s just a few hours,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said from her perch on an armchair, watching Melissa undergo what seemed like the worst embarrassment of her life. On the easel was a stretched canvas nearly the size of her. The dark background was meticulously painted, but there was a silhouette of a man, and she knew just the one. In the sketched spot reserved for his wife, Melissa was to fill in as a model for the body. What she hadn’t expected was that she’d wear the princess’s dress.
“And she knows about this?” Melissa asked, trying to pull the bodice up for the tenth time. Clearly, the Princess of Wales filled this dress out more than she did—in every part.
“You’re doing her a favor by keeping her from sitting with him,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “She can’t forgive his transgressions, and he needs her in this portrait. With your help, I can please them both. In return, you’re free to leave his court, and I will return with this painting completed.” The emphasis on “completed” couldn’t be missed.
“To secure the Royal Warrant?”
“It’s the doctors and nurses with all of their talents and devotion to medicine who will secure it. I’ll merely supervise the execution of the documents and their safe delivery.”
“Could you remain still, please?” The painter admonished Melissa as if she were a schoolgirl dressed up for a play. She felt as though she were on stage indeed. But this was boring. All three hours of sitting motionless.
Every time Melissa tried to speak, Cosway raised his hand, holding up a paintbrush as if the flag to beg for silence. When the sun finally hung lower, he sighed and sat back. “We might have to finish this in Brighton. I don’t have enough light.”
“I’m not returning to Brighton,” Melissa said to Mrs. Dove-Lyon more than the painter. She knew he had little influence.
The older woman rose from her armchair and opened the drapes. “You have another hour or so of daylight. This has to suffice.”
“But it’s just the first layer, the underpainting. I need at least another two, if not three, until—”
“You have an hour with the subject, Cosway. Commit her to memory and finish this when we get to Brighton,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon commanded.
At first, the older man snuffed. But then Mrs. Dove-Lyon arched brow and he cringed visibly. This woman truly ruled Society from the shadows and Melissa began to admire her prowess.
Cosway proceeded to walk around Melissa, holding up the wooden end of his long bristled brush as if he were measuring her shoulders and decolletage. He came uncomfortably close and Melissa held her breath. She may be the subject of the painting but she wasn’t an object.
“Is this truly necessary?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon seemed to try to help, but the man was unperturbed by his mental measurements.
“Indeed, it is.”
Melissa cringed when he held the long paintbrush horizontally over the level of her nipples as if he were checking that they were even.
“I must ensure that the prince will be pleased when we finish this in Brighton,” the painter said at the exact moment the door swung open and hit the wall with a thud.
John stood breathless, his boots muddy and his gaze stern. “What is the meaning of this?”
But what felt worse was that his anger seemed directed at Melissa.
“You agreed to be my wife,” John spoke the words before the thoughts fully matured in his mind. He saw the hunched-over painter staring at Melissa’s chest as if he were judging her. Red-hot anger raged through his veins. She may not be naked, but she was posing for another man, and it irked John more than he could say. Melissa stood there in a red and white dress that was clearly too large for her, and next to her, an older woman dressed in black turned to John.
His heart skipped a beat.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” He shut the door behind him as he entered the room and invaded the space between the painter and Melissa.
She’s my love .
“Your Grace,” the older woman curtsied. It was a simple gesture of respect even though he’d lost the title. She was showing him, not telling, that she meant no harm.
Still!
“You!” was all John managed. Melissa’s eyes were wide, and she remained motionless next to him as he spoke to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “You promised me a wife and then stood by as she was snatched away from me.”
“I thought you never cared for Lexi!” Melissa cried out before John knew what he’d said.
“That’s true!” He turned back to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who was now giving him a look sharper than that of a viper ready to strike. “But I met you and imagined a life beyond merely being alone.” His voice trembled with anger, but there was something else he didn’t wish to acknowledge. “And when I was stripped of my title, I had nothing left to offer you. Without the title, I couldn’t even approach the prince and ask him to release you. For me, Melissa. I still can’t—”
“I received your request. That’s why we are here,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, pulling back the sheer curtains to let more light into the room. And you’re wasting the little daylight we have left.”
Melissa sat back on the stool, a solemn look on her face. She blushed and avoided John’s gaze.
“Stay still, Lady Thumbridge,” the painter said with a self-indulgent grin at John.
“What is this even?” John eyed the painting and felt his chest tighten when Melissa remained ramrod for the painter to continue.
“I can explain.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon pulled him toward the armchair and sat down. “Hear me out!”
“No!” John shouted, eyeing Melissa’s half-exposed chest in the odd dress that was not even hers. “I won’t stand by! I let everyone steal from me. First, my wife, I couldn’t save her. Then, I nearly lost Herbert because I was too blind to see his grief beyond my own. The title. But not her! Not this time!” He went to Melissa and bent down on one knee. “Melissa, please, come with me. Whatever she has on you to force you to be painted and return to Brighton, I will find a solution.”
“She already has one,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said from behind him, but he waved her off.
“Melissa, please come with me.” His voice was a plea against heartbreak.
“Only a few minutes of daylight, John. Then I’m free to go,” Melissa said.
“Come with me now.” He reached into his waist pocket and retrieved the silver box. He pressed the lever down and opened it.
“Just a few more—” Melissa said, but then John rose, speechless. The box was empty.
“This has my family’s heirloom, a ruby, and the crest and…” he choked on his words. The image of Herbert earlier in the study came to his mind. He wouldn’t have stolen the ring to give it to the farmer’s girl, would he?
“Come with me!” John reached for Melissa’s arm, but she didn’t extend her hand. “Melissa? I have to go and find the ring. Please!”
“If I can’t finish this tonight, we shall continue in Brighton,” Cosway said.
Melissa inhaled sharply and looked at John. She shook her head ever so faintly, her eyes glistening with tears. John’s heart crumbled into pieces, devastated by Melissa’s silent refusal that cut through him more deeply than words ever could. Her tear-filled eyes mirrored his own sorrow, enveloping him in a profound sense of helplessness and isolation.