Chapter 6
In the morning, Stephen awoke with an ice pick in the back of his skull and a stomach full of bile and regret. He was swamped with remorse for his behavior of the night before. For showing weakness to his new wife. For breaking his vow to himself.
The truth was, he was attracted to Sophie, and the very thought of her undressing and bathing in the bedchamber they were meant to share did torturous things to him.
Yet he had promised he would not press her, that he expected nothing.
Why had he done so? He wished he’d never suggested a marriage in name only.
In hindsight, he knew he’d done so to lower her risk in accepting him.
To protect himself from rejection if she turned him down. Stupid, proud fool that he was.
How disheartening to find himself married to a woman who loved someone else and wanted nothing to do with him.
And that thought had fed a revolting combination of resentment and self-pity that no man should succumb to, especially on his wedding night.
It was either have a drink, or go upstairs and make a fool of himself.
So he had broken his code of the last five years and had one pint. And then another.
Now he was surprised to find himself in bed, and partially undressed.
In the sunlight that jabbed his eyes, he saw her seated at a little table in the corner, sticking pins in a coil of hair atop her head.
He would have liked to see it down. Too late.
And she was already dressed. He had a tantalizing memory of glimpsing her in nightclothes, so the maid must have slipped in and helped her change while he slept on.
Or rather, slept it off. He cringed in regret.
“I am sorry, Miss . . . Dash it, I don’t know what to call you.”
“My name is Mrs. Overtree,” she pronounced without pleasure.
“I suppose it is. Well, Mrs. Overtree. I apologize for last night and promise not to do it again.”
“Which part?”
He eyed her warily. “I hope I didn’t do anything . . . worse . . . than becoming stupidly drunk?”
“Um, no. Nothing.” She stood up. “Well. Mrs. Partridge promised to lay quite a spread for breakfast this morning, and I am very hungry. I doubt you feel like eating, so I will leave you alone to wallow in your misery.”
More miserable than you know. . . .
After the door closed with a wince-worthy bang, Stephen glanced around for his coat, and saw it lying over the chair nearby.
He dragged it close and dug in his pocket for the portrait, relieved to find it undisturbed.
He lay back, looking at it, almost ruing the day he’d found it in the first place.
He very much doubted he’d be in his current predicament if he’d never set eyes on it.
On the sea voyage back, Sophie realized their roles were now reversed.
Captain Overtree was too ill to eat much or do more than suffer, curse every wave, and now and again to retch.
She felt a modicum of pity but decided he was getting his just rewards.
And, she admitted to herself, she was relieved he was too ill to make any advances.
She brought him bread and a wet cloth to wipe his face, approaching the bunk cautiously as she did so. He reminded her of an untamed animal, temporarily subdued as though by a sedative that would soon wear off. She felt safe ministering to him now but reminded herself he was still dangerous.
She knew she should be reasonable. It would not be realistic or fair to live as strangers, despite his assertion that theirs would be a marriage in name only.
But she was in no hurry to change his mind.
Memories of Wesley, his secret smiles and caresses, were too recent, too well remembered, too dear.
Leaving the captain sleeping, she went and stood on the deck, breathing in the brisk sea air, refreshing after the dank confines of the cabin. The wind lifted her hair, just as it had so often atop Castle Rock. And on its current, memory took her back. . . .
That day, more than a year ago, had begun like so many others.
She had checked their inventory of paints, brushes, and canvases, then reviewed her father’s appointment diary, wishing for all their sakes he had more commissions scheduled.
He did have two pupils coming at the end of the month.
And one of their cliff-side cottages had been let by another painter due to arrive later that day, a Mr. Wesley Overtree.
Probably another of the many young hopefuls who came to the area with dreams of capturing its wild beauty but without the skills to do so.
It was a challenge for the most skilled artist. And certainly for her.
She tied her smocked painting apron over her day dress and set about arranging her father’s brushes, which she had cleaned and laid out to dry the night before. She then mixed and prepared a fresh palette of paints, so he might continue his work in progress.
Ingrid, their maid of all work, stepped in from the back kitchen, bringing her a cup of tea and another for her father, just as he descended from his room above.
“Morning, Papa.” Sophie handed him his palette and tea.
“Morning,” he murmured, looking bleary-eyed and in need of a shave. He’d been up late the night before with a party of artist friends visiting from London.
He shuffled to his easel, positioned near the front window overlooking the Lynmouth harbor. There he sipped his tea and continued his portrait of Sir Thomas Acland, Baronet.
Sophie went to her own easel at the back of the studio and set down her teacup, preparing to continue painting the gown of Sir Thomas’s wife.
Flowing yards of silk in subtle tones of wine—burgundy in the shadows, to claret, to purplish-puce where sunshine had lightened the fabric.
Her father had completed the fine detail work of Lady Acland’s face, enlisting Sophie’s help in adding liveliness to the woman’s bright eyes.
And now it fell to her to finish the tedious dress and background, according to his specifications.
She did not bother to pull shut the curtain that concealed her work area from the rest of the studio, as they would not open to the public for another hour. And she did not like to be shielded from her father’s eyes any longer than necessary when Maurice was near.
Maurice O’Dell was the favored nephew of her father’s second wife.
He had taken the young man under his wing at his wife’s request and had high hopes for him—saw him almost as the son he never had.
Sophie could not deny the young man had talent, but he also had a quick tongue that could flatter and cut with equal skill, and had a way of looking at her that made her uneasy.
He appeared suddenly at her side and whispered, “I’m painting Miss Roe’s hair today. But it isn’t as pretty as yours.”
It was the closest thing to a compliment she had ever received on her looks.
“If I were painting your hair, Sophie, I would use old gold, bright gold, and copper.”
“What’s that, Maurice?” her father interjected. “Old gold for Miss Roe’s hair? You must be joking.”
The outside door opened and a man walked in. Sophie looked up and caught her breath.
Before her stood the most handsome man she had ever seen.
Slightly above average height and slender—his bearing graceful and confident.
Wavy dark hair framed a striking face with fine features that were almost beautiful.
Sophie was reminded of Guercino’s painting of David, except this man’s hair was not as long, and a day’s growth of beard made him look more masculine than the harp-carrying youth in the portrait.
He was in his late twenties or perhaps thirty and was dressed in the garb of a wealthy gentleman, though he disdained to wear a cravat, his white shirt open at the neck beneath his coat and waistcoat.
“Ah, Mr. Overtree!” Her father beamed. “You’ve arrived early. We didn’t expect you until tonight.”
“An honor to see you again, sir.”
Her father glanced over and gave a less-than-subtle jerk of his head, gesturing for her to close the curtain shielding her work area. He did not like to advertise the fact that she painted his backgrounds, especially to patrons or illustrious visitors.
Sophie drew the curtain but did not miss the knowing glint in Mr. Overtree’s eyes.
The two men exchanged greetings and pleasantries and news of mutual acquaintances in the art world.
Then her father summoned her. “Sophie, come out here, if you please.”
Sophie removed her apron and complied.
“Sophie, meet Mr. Overtree. Mr. Overtree, my daughter, Sophia.” He added, “Mr. Overtree and I met in London, at a lecture of the Royal Academy of Arts.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dupont,” he said with an elegant bow, his golden-brown eyes brushing over her face.
He was polite in his address, but his expression revealed no particular interest. Men rarely gave her a second look.
They seemed universally to skim over her painfully slender figure and pale coloring in favor of curvy, dark-haired beauties, like the lushly beautiful Countess of Blessington, who epitomized the feminine ideal and had artists vying for the privilege of painting her—her father and his contemporaries among them.
Had the visitor been less august, Mr. Dupont would probably have assigned Maurice or even Sophie the task of trudging up the steep path to their clutch of cliff-side cottages.
But in this instance, her father said he would show Mr. Overtree the accommodations himself, having reserved their largest and best cottage for him.
Nothing was too much trouble, and he announced his assistant would carry his bags. Maurice frowned darkly at this but complied.
Her father gestured the man out the door, leaving his tea to cool and his paints to dry. Sophie sighed. She would have to begin all over again when he returned.