Chapter 21
“You look wonderful.” Anna adjusted the rose in Thalia’s hair and stood back, admiring her from a distance.
She might have looked wonderful—and the mirror agreed with this assessment—but she felt as though there were snakes writhing in her stomach. “I feel as though I might be sick.”
“People can be cruel,” Anna agreed. “But you might be surprised at how many are on your side.”
“I doubt that.”
“Simon has it on excellent authority that many are very impressed with your sculpting, and that while it’s a shame Rossi doesn’t exist, the talent still does.
Do you think you are the only female artist to adopt a pseudonym?
” Anna laughed. “Don’t be silly. It has been done throughout history, and of course, some people are getting in a tizzy about it, but they are the same people who would throw a fit if a lady were to declare she wanted no children, or that she wanted no part in a marriage with a man who belittles her.
There are plenty who support you, Thalia. I support you.”
Thalia cracked a smile, and Anna pulled her into an embrace. “Poor dear. I know it must be hard for you—but it will get better. And you can still sculpt. People will still purchase your sculptures, I’m sure. Elliot will help you, and so will I.”
“I’m fortunate to have a friend like you,” Thalia said, embracing her back.
“Of course you are. Now, are you ready to go?” Anna looked pointedly at the clock on the mantel, which now read eight in the evening. “There is such a thing as being too fashionably late. And you wouldn’t want your Duke to worry.”
At the thought of Maxwell, Thalia’s stomach dropped. He had sent her away to stay at Anna’s, and she didn’t know if that was because he had already decided he wanted as little to do with her as possible, or if it could be for his stated reason—to spare her the droves of callers.
And there were so many. Even those claiming to support her had drained her energy.
She followed Anna to the carriage, and a short drive later, they pulled up outside her own home along with all the other guests.
Despite the scandal, very few were staying away, it seemed.
Maxwell had been correct in his presumption that people would turn up, whether to gawp at her or as a show of support.
Simon helped her down, and the two ladies entered the house.
Thalia gasped.
There, at every possible place, was a sculpture of hers. So many of them crowded the space. The culmination of years of work was all lined up for perusal.
And people were perusing. As she watched, ladies and gentlemen peered at her models as though to find errors there. Her statues were examined in minute detail, her vases squinted at, everything she had created exposed for judgment.
But while there were quiet murmurs, there was no outrage, no one demanding that the statues be broken or her sculptures destroyed because they were made by her.
Maxwell appeared, striding through the hallway to greet her.
“Thalia,” he said, taking her hands and kissing her cheek. A show of affection that would be very obvious to everyone around them. “What do you think?”
People were staring. Thalia took a deep breath, her knees feeling weak and watery. “You did this?”
“I did,” he confirmed. “I thought you would like it.”
“I do, I—” She chewed her lip, her chest feeling so tight, she thought it might burst. “Thank you.”
He smiled, tucking her hand in his arm. “I wanted to show my support.”
“You turned the ball into this?”
“Well, there will still be dancing, if people would like. There are musicians and space enough for them. But the real purpose of tonight was to show the world that you are talented, and that I support you.”
Her heart swelled. “Maxwell,” she said, her throat thick. “If I had known—if I had known back when you first offered for me what sort of man you were, I would have never turned down your first proposal.”
He laughed, but before he could say anything, Simon came up from behind him. “Excuse me, Your Grace,” he said, winking at Thalia. “May I steal your husband for a moment?”
“Be my guest,” Thalia said, waving him away. Maxwell would be wanted that evening; there would be time later for them to talk. “Go, go, be off with you.”
He held up a hand in acknowledgement and left with Simon. The warm feeling in the base of Thalia’s stomach didn’t ease, especially when Lydia came bounding up to her.
“You’re back! I missed you.”
“I was only gone for a day or so,” Thalia said, smiling.
“Is this not amazing? Maxwell insisted on it all, and I must say, I never knew it was you! How fantastic. If I had known you were the one who made my birthday present, I would have been all the more excited to receive it. Has anyone ever told you how very talented you are?”
“Thank you, Lydia. That means so much to me.”
Joyce came up from behind Lydia, smiling tightly.
It seemed the woman only ever had that expression, which Thalia still found mildly off-putting.
The other woman had been trying of late, which Thalia appreciated, but there was still that…
pinched look about her. As though Thalia carried a bad smell that only Joyce noticed.
“It’s very brave of you to show your face in this way,” she said in a conciliatory tone that immediately raised Thalia’s hackles. “It must not have been easy.”
A handsome young man in his early twenties raised his hand from across the room, and Lydia went immediately to join him, a beatific smile on her face. Evidently, this was a beau they ought to keep their eyes on.
“Thank you, Joyce,” Thalia said with a distinct lack of genuine appreciation. “It has been hard, but so far, people’s lack of judgment has been remarkable.”
“Oh well, they could hardly offend you here, could they?”
Thalia felt as though her smile stretched too tight over her own lips. “It’s not entirely out of the question,” she said.
“Lydia is so thrilled you are part of the family,” Joyce said. “She has hardly stopped talking about you since the wedding. It seems she thinks you are the ideal bride for Maxwell.”
“But you disagree?”
“Not in the slightest,” Joyce said, looking back out across the ballroom. “It’s clear he esteems you.”
Esteems. Not loves.
Thalia felt the distinction as though she had marked it in the ground with a blade. A line in the sand.
Maxwell liked her. He clearly thought a great deal of her art, whatever he had claimed the first time they met, and he was prepared to publicly support her.
But that was as far as it went. He didn’t love her.
“You are very fortunate,” Joyce continued. “Very few husbands are as kind. I should know.”
Thalia glanced sharply at the older woman. “Your marriage was an unhappy one?”
“Most are, my dear. We married for all the wrong reasons, and we were deeply unhappy about it. He was willing to overlook the fact I had a child with another man in exchange for my father’s favor, and I was obliged to bring Lydia up as though she were his.
Knowing that as soon as I bore a son, my daughter would get nothing.
It’s a cruel system, and we are the victims of it. ”
We married for all the wrong reasons.
Thalia didn’t have to ask to know the right reasons, including love and very little else. Reasons that, naturally, she did not have.
“One cannot expect too much from one’s husband,” Joyce said, watching as Maxwell smiled at a young lady by his side. Jealousy fired in Thalia’s stomach, hot and uncomfortable.
She knew Maxwell would never enter into any sort of arrangement with another young lady. He was better than that, and she believed in the strength of his lust for her. But she couldn’t help the wave of possessiveness that came over her when she saw him smile at another lady.
He hadn’t given her his heart; thus, he could offer it to someone else.
They had not married for love. What would happen if he ever fell in love with someone else? This was not an arrangement they could ever escape. Would she have to sit back and watch him love someone he could never have?
How could either of them be satisfied with such an existence?
“He is a good husband,” Joyce said, oblivious to Thalia’s inner turmoil, “but he is still a man, and he will behave as a man behaves. I offer you this advice now, in the hope that it will save you some future pain.” She looked at Thalia with such open sympathy on her face; it made Thalia’s stomach twist. “I know you want more from him, my dear, but you should not set your expectations too high.”
“Because he will inevitably disappoint me?” Thalia asked.
“That is the reality of marriage. If one goes in expecting the world of one’s husband, one is bound to be disappointed. And I want to save you from feeling hurt. Trust me, I have been there before.”
Joyce had been in a loveless marriage, and it had rendered her bitter and suspicious of the world. Prolonged misery had that effect on a person, and Thalia wanted no part in it.
She glanced around the room, feeling numb again.
Maxwell was with Simon, smiling and laughing, turning that laugh toward a new lady.
No doubt it meant nothing in his mind, but she could not help turning over every interaction in her mind, trying to feel her way through to the point where everything finally made sense again.
Her heart hurt.
She wanted to cry.
Joyce took herself away, and Thalia wished she could do the same, but just as she was searching for a way to escape, a lady and gentleman came to speak with her.
The lady was young, and with the kind of curves that Venus would have wept at.
Thalia immediately wanted to sculpt her, perhaps commit her to marble—a glorious medium that would match the overt voluptuousness of her figure.
In contrast, her husband was tall and refined, his hair turning silver, but his blue eyes were focused. Thalia recognized him as being the Duke of Kirkford, one of Maxwell’s acquaintances. Which meant the lady by his side, her arm tucked neatly into his, must be his wife.