Chapter 11 #2
Haydon imagined plunging his hands into the soft swirl of daintily arranged curls, plucking the pins loose and dragging his fingers through the fiery-gold silk until it spilled across the snowy mounds of her breasts.
As for that gown, he felt reasonably certain he could have it unhooked and slipping down the curves of her delectable body within mere moments.
Disconcerted by his thoughts, he looked away. “There is just one more thing needed to make your ensemble complete.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small crimson box. “Here.”
Genevieve stared at him in surprise. His expression was masked. Hesitantly, she took the box and ran her fingers over its velvety surface, enjoying the rare delight of mystery and anticipation. After a moment, she slowly opened it.
Resting upon a satin cushion lay a gleaming gold band with a small ruby stone embedded in its center.
“It is not nearly as grand as what you deserve,” Haydon said, his voice slightly taut, “but I’m afraid it was the best I could do on such short notice, with rather limited funds. I did think it was about time that Mrs. Maxwell Blake had a wedding ring.”
Genevieve stared in silence at the glowing circle.
At the time of her betrothal, Charles had given her a heavy, ornate ring with a trio of enormous diamonds in its center.
It had been a family heirloom, he explained to her gravely at the time, and had graced the hands of three Linton countesses before her.
He had then rambled on about who they were and what their accomplishments were, which mostly included stoically bearing children and being glorified hostesses.
At the end of this pompous dissertation, he had informed Genevieve that she could take pride in the fact that he had chosen her above countless other potential candidates to wear this ring, and that he was certain she would do the piece justice by making him proud and never giving him cause for embarrassment.
Of course, he had angrily demanded it back when their betrothal was broken, as had been his right.
She had never worn any jewelry since.
“It’s lovely,” she said softly.
“Here.” Haydon removed the ring from the box and took her hand in his.
Her skin felt silky and cool against his palm, and as he leaned closer he was suddenly aware of the delicate scent of orange blossoms. He slipped the ring over the third finger of her left hand.
“I’m afraid it’s a little big,” he apologized.
“We shall have to have it sized when we get home.”
The word “home” fell easily from his mouth.
He knew the moment he said it that it was wrong, but he did not correct himself, for fear of drawing them into a discussion in which they had to face the impossibility of their situation.
He was well aware that he could not go on pretending to be Maxwell Blake forever.
He had a life to reclaim, however empty and indulgent and meaningless it was.
Moreover, he was an escaped murderer and his very presence posed a constant danger to Genevieve and her family.
He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her again, pushing those thoughts aside.
Tonight they had an art exhibition to attend, in which the cream of Glasgow’s art world would cast its eyes upon the work of the artist Georges Boulonnais and determine whether or not they thought it had merit.
“Come, Genevieve,” he said, gathering her evening cloak in his hands and draping it over her slim, bare shoulders. “There is a carriage outside waiting to take you to your premier exhibition.” He retrieved his own hat and coat and opened the door before gallantly offering her his arm.
There would be time enough to face the stark reality of their lives in the morning.
MR. BLAKE! OVER HERE!” ALFRED LYTTON FLUTTERED a skeletal hand in the air as he fought to negotiate his way through the crush of people surrounding him.
“Mr. Lytton,” said Haydon when the bespectacled art dealer finally managed to emerge through two bodies, “it seems your gallery has attracted something of an audience. My dear, you know Mr. Lytton, do you not?” he continued, turning to Genevieve.
“I believe you mentioned that your father had bought some paintings from him years ago.”
“Yes, of course,” said Genevieve, overwhelmed by the crowd of people staring at her paintings.
The canvases had all been set in heavily carved gold frames, which gave them a far greater look of import than they had borne while strewn about her cellar.
She had no idea if the people currently gaping at them loved them, hated them or were merely indifferent. “How are you, Mr. Lytton?”
“It’s a madhouse!” Mr. Lytton burst out excitedly, gazing about.
“An absolute madhouse! My associates had invitations delivered to our regular clientele, but because it was such short notice, we also decided to print a small advertisement in The Herald, thinking that we might lure a few more interested parties. Well, Mr. Stanley Chisholm, the esteemed art critic, happened to see the advertisement, and he decided to come by the gallery yesterday while we were still making preparations. It is no exaggeration to say that he was quite taken with the work. Quite taken indeed. So much so that he wrote an article for today’s Herald, hailing Monsieur Boulonnais’s work as exquisite and saying that anyone with an interest in seeing paintings of rare sensitivity must not miss this exhibition.
He also happened to mention that the reclusive artist just might be making an appearance here this evening, which seems to have had the effect of rousing people’s curiosity.
” He bobbed his head about nervously. “Do you know if Boulonnais is here?”
Haydon pretended to search the room, which was filled with elegantly attired women and men who were laughing and sipping champagne. “My wife and I have only just arrived, so I cannot be certain. If I see him, I shall let you know immediately.”
“I do hope he decided to make the trip. At last count we had already sold thirteen of the twenty paintings—and the evening has scarcely begun! The Duke of Argyll purchased five of them before we had even shipped them here from Inveraray, but I told him they had to be included in the exhibition. He did not mind, of course. The exposure will only have the effect of increasing their value.”
Genevieve’s eyes widened incredulously. “You have sold thirteen paintings?”
“And I don’t mind telling you, after we saw how glowing Mr. Chisholm’s article in The Herald was, we adjusted the prices accordingly,” Mr. Lytton admitted surreptitiously.
“Your husband’s commission on the sales will be even greater than we expected, Mrs. Blake, and of course his friend, Boulonnais, will profit very handsomely as well.
I trust he will be so pleased that he will continue to permit our gallery to represent him in Scotland. ”
Haydon smiled. “I have no doubt that when he finds out how well the work was received, he will be interested in maintaining your representation.”
“Excellent. Do forgive me, but Lord Hyslop is signaling to me that he wishes to purchase that painting of the girl with the rose. A magnificent piece, really. So beautiful, and yet there is something terribly melancholy about it. I should have asked more for it.” He sighed with regret.
“Excuse me.” He straightened his spectacles and made his way across the room.
“Thirteen paintings,” Genevieve repeated, stunned.
Haydon retrieved two glasses from a silver tray that was sailing by on the arm of a harried waiter. “Would you care for some champagne?”
Genevieve gripped the stem of the glass so tightly Haydon feared it might snap.
“Let’s have a toast,” he suggested. “To the mysteriously reclusive Georges Boulonnais. May he continue to paint and enchant the art world for many, many years.” He raised his glass, took a sip, then frowned. “What’s wrong, Genevieve? Don’t you like champagne?”
She shook her head, distracted by all the people laughing and milling around her. “I don’t remember. I haven’t had any since the night my betrothal to Charles was announced. That was years ago.”
“I believe you will find it tastes much better when one has something truly wonderful to celebrate. Not that your betrothal to Charles wasn’t cause for a drink,” he added dryly.
She gave him a mildly exasperated look before cautiously sipping her champagne. A flurry of cold bubbles danced upon her tongue and tickled her nose. She took another sip, and then another. The crowded room was warm and she was suddenly extremely thirsty. Another swallow and her glass was empty.
“More?” asked Haydon.
She nodded. “Please.”
He dutifully retrieved another glass for her. “Perhaps you should drink this one a little slower,” he advised. “Champagne does have a tendency to go down easily, and then all at once make one feel rather lightheaded.”
“I’ll be fine,” Genevieve assured him, taking another sip. “You needn’t worry about me.” She turned away so she could watch a group of people who were having an animated discussion in front of her painting of Simon and Jamie.