Chapter 22
Sophie did her best to avoid Wesley the next day, having her breakfast sent up on a tray and retreating to the privacy of her attic studio.
The portrait she had begun of Captain Overtree was still covered in cloth, but she thought she might begin working on it again.
Doing so would remind herself of the man she was married to, and keep his image always before her.
She retrieved the canvas from where it waited, silent and shrouded against the wall, and carried it back to the easel in the center of the room, where the sunlight could shine on it once again.
The door opened behind her, and Sophie spun toward it.
Wesley stood in the threshold of her studio—her sanctuary, Stephen’s gift to her.
Pulse tripping, she asked, “What are you doing up here?”
He stepped inside and began to close the door behind him.
“Leave it open.”
He hesitated. “Do you think that wise?”
“I think it a wise precaution, yes.”
He met her gaze. “Are you sure you want the servants to hear what I might say to you?”
She swallowed and bit her lip, making no further protest.
He slowly closed the door with a click.
He began, “Katie mentioned your little studio up here. You cannot hide from me forever, you know. We need to talk.”
“Nothing you say will change anything,” she cautioned. “But I will listen if you want to talk.”
“I disagree,” he said, then his voice gentled. “I’m hurt, Sophie. I can’t believe you turned around and married someone else right after I left. After us. Did I mean nothing to you?”
He’d meant everything to her. But now irritation flared.
“Don’t lash out at me. You are the one who left without saying good-bye.
If you were so interested in talking to me, you might have done so then.
But instead you left only that cool, dismissive note.
” Her voice rose. “Thank you for a beautiful season. I shall always remember you fondly. . . ?”
He winced. “That was wrong of me. I did send a letter of apology as soon as I reached Plymouth. Asking you to wait for me. Did you receive it?”
“Only recently. Mrs. Thrupton forwarded it here. Maurice had mislaid it—perhaps intentionally.”
Wesley ran an agitated hand through his hair. “Dash it.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” she said. “By the time it reached the studio, I was already bound for the coast with your brother.”
“Why? Is this my punishment? For traveling to Italy to further my career?”
“No.”
“I should have spoken with you, I know. Explained myself. I tried to find you, but when I asked O’Dell where you were, he said you had gone to Barnstaple for the day.”
“Barnstaple? I went nowhere except the cottage and Castle Rock.”
He huffed in disgust. “I should have guessed he lied.”
Her throat tight, she managed a raspy, “You couldn’t wait for me? Or look for me?”
“The captain refused to wait. The ship was leaving with the tide. I had little time to decide, so I took my chance while I could.” He stepped nearer and lowered his voice. “But you have read my letter now? You know how I feel?”
Sophie nodded, tears burning her eyes. The words she’d longed for—too late!
“I was wrong to leave. I regretted it immediately and knew I had to come back to you. And here I am. Only to find you married.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Of all the men in the world, why would you marry an ogre like Marsh? I can’t bear the thought of him touching you.”
She did not correct him—did not admit they had not consummated their marriage. It made no difference, legally or otherwise. Instead she lifted her chin and challenged, “Why do you insist he is loathsome? He is not.”
Without intending to, she glanced at the shrouded portrait on the easel. He followed the direction of her gaze. With a furrowed brow, he stepped forward and yanked off the cover in one jerk.
“Don’t!” She felt as exposed as if a stranger had ripped the clothes from her body. “How dare you come in here and—”
“How dare I?” He gaped at the partially completed portrait, then at her, frowning darkly. “You are painting him?”
“Yes,” she said defensively. “Kate asked me to teach her. And we both thought a new portrait of Captain Overtree, before he left for war, would be a good idea.”
“If Katie wants to learn to paint, why did she not ask me?”
“Apparently she has, but you have yet to find the time.”
He made no reply, scowling at the painting.
She went on nervously, “You are welcome to teach her. I don’t pretend to match your skill.” She grew increasingly uncomfortable as he stared at her work in progress.
She lifted her chin. “How would you feel if I barged into your studio and uncovered one of your paintings in its early, vulnerable stages?”
“I invited you into my cottage studio in Lynmouth. Into my life. And this”—he gestured toward the painting—“is my reward.”
She shook her head. “It’s not for you or about you.”
“How you’ve idealized him. You’ve made him better looking than he actually is. It isn’t realistic.”
She told herself his criticism had more to do with the shock of discovering her marriage than about her actual skill, but the harsh words still hurt.
He glowered at it. “Your perspective is off. The hands look flat, wooden, lifeless. The colors lack value.”
“Have you finished?”
He turned to her. “No. I haven’t even begun.” Stepping close, he grasped her arms.
“Let go of me.”
“Not until you tell me why. Why could you not have waited? Why did you have to marry him? Why, Sophie? Why?”
Looking at the portrait, she echoed Wesley’s own words back at him, “His ship was leaving. I had little time to decide, so I took my chance while I could.”
A double knock sounded at the door, and Wesley’s grip loosened. Sophie quickly pulled away, putting several feet of space between them.
Carlton Keith opened the door and stuck his head in. “Hello? Anybody home?”
“Oh, Mr. Keith. You are just in time. Come in.”
Wesley glared at him. “Go away, CK.”
“Nonsense,” Sophie said, “You are just in time to settle an argument.” When he hesitated, she added, “Please, Mr. Keith. I insist.”
“Very well.” He stepped into the room, looking from one to the other. “Can’t deny the request of a lady, can I, Wes?”
“Only if you don’t value your teeth.”
“I do, yes. But surely you wouldn’t hit a one-armed man.”
“I am giving it serious consideration.”
For a moment, Wesley’s stern demeanor reminded her of Stephen, and it unsettled her further. Perhaps the brothers were more alike than she’d realized.
She said, “Mr. Overtree criticizes this portrait of Captain Overtree. I would appreciate your honest opinion.” She didn’t really care what Mr. Keith thought—she simply wanted to keep him there between them.
Keith nodded. “That’s Marsh, all right. Well done, Mrs. Overtree.”
Wesley scowled again. “Oh, come on. Marsh never looked so good in his life. This is a romanticized ideal of the honorable captain. His chin isn’t half so determined. And his scar twice so.”
Mr. Keith asked her gently, “Is this how you see him, Mrs. Overtree?”
She looked at the portrait. “Yes. I don’t claim my work is flawless, but I believe I have captured his appearance.”
“Balderdash,” Wesley protested. “It’s too flattering by half.”
Keith looked at him. “I seem to recall you, Wesley, painting a certain dowager countess with gratuitously flattering lines.”
“Yes, I admit I took certain liberties to make sure the lady was pleased with her portrait—she paid a hefty commission for the privilege. But this . . . ?”
“I like it,” Mr. Keith said.
“And I would like you to leave.”
“Actually, I promised Mrs. Overtree I would play for her this afternoon, did I not?” Mr. Keith said, raising his brows at her.
Had he? “Oh . . . yes. I nearly forgot.”
“Play?” Wesley asked. “Play what?”
“You are looking at Gloucestershire’s renowned one-armed pianiste,” Keith said with self-deprecating humor. “Care to hear me play—no charge?”
Wesley crossed his arms. “Later.”
“Oh, but the light is just right now for reading sheet music. I do so hate trying to squint by candlelight to read those reeling notes.”
He offered Sophie his arm. “Mrs. Overtree.”
“Thank you, Mr. Keith.” She squeezed his arm. “And I mean that sincerely.”
During dinner that night, Wesley could not keep his gaze from sliding across the table to Sophie, admiring her like a favorite painting.
She was even more beautiful than he recalled.
Her cheeks were rounder and pink with the blush of health.
Her figure more womanly than he remembered.
Had the flush of happiness, of wedded bliss, put those roses in her cheeks?
Wesley doubted marriage to his stern, dour brother could have done so.
Whatever the case, the more he looked at her, the more he regretted letting her go.
As they enjoyed Mrs. John’s sponge cake and orange jelly, Kate said, “I came looking for you today, Wesley, but I could not find you. Where did you go?”
Sophie flashed him a concerned look, clearly worried he would tell them.
“Careful . . .” Keith warned under his breath.
Beneath the table, Wesley shifted his leg away from Keith’s chair, just in case Keith was tempted to kick him in return.
“Well, Kate. You happened to mention Sophie’s little studio in the attic, so I thought I would pay a call. See what all the fuss is about.”
“Studio?” the colonel asked. “In the attic? What are you on about?”
“Oh yes, it’s quite true,” Kate said, all smiles. “Stephen secretly set up and supplied an art studio for Sophie in the old schoolroom, knowing how much she likes to paint. Such a romantic gesture.”
Marsh—romantic? Wesley lost his appetite.
“I don’t understand,” his mother said, a little frown line between her brows. “Why all the way up there? Sophie, you might have done your little watercolors or what have you in the morning room or the garden like most young ladies.”
Sophie hesitated. “I . . .”
“She is modest, Mamma,” Kate defended, “and prefers to paint in private.”
“Then why did Wesley think it necessary to intrude?”