Page 62 of Beguiling the Baron

Chapter 41

Tia had stayed with Hal until the sun rose, her heart bleeding for him as he had revealed his tale, and she did all she could to offer comfort. Again and again, she’d told him how much she loved him, and reassured him he was worthy of every sliver of her love, worthy of every last drop of her heart’s blood.

Recalling his memories had caused him such pain, she’d feared he would weep. But he was strong—perhaps even more so than he realized. He’d told her how much he admired her for surviving deprivation and loss without becoming hard and bitter, as he had.

He had praised her compassion and patience until she’d begged him to stop, lest her head explode with pride. And he’d made her promise never to let any resentment simmer, but to always tell him if he let her down in any way. It was an easy promise to make, and she had insisted on his word that he would do the same.

After a parting she had great difficulty in making, she’d returned to her room and strove to give the impression of having been there all night.

When she went down to breakfast, Hal was there, making the meal into exquisite torture.

To have him so close and yet so far, to receive the knowing, smoldering glances from his blue eyes and not be able to respond to them, was hell on earth. She could hardly believe Mama didn’t notice the atmosphere between them—it was charged like a thunderstorm. Tia tasted not one single bite, for her hunger lay in only one direction.

Both she and Hal had agreed to a brief engagement. He planned to obtain a special license today, after a declaration, in the cool gray hours before dawn, of no wish to be separated from her any longer than need be.

It had also been agreed to make the announcement tonight, at dinner. Polly was to come down from the nursery, and Hal would join them all in the dining room, dressed in his best. He would present Tia with his late mother’s pearl and ruby ring as a token of his intent and after that—hopefully—the happy couple would receive the approval of their nearest and dearest.

As soon as breakfast was done, Tia made her excuses to Polly and left her in the care of Nurse before hurrying down to meet Hal. He joined her with an expression of delight that warmed her to her very soul.

Despite his smile, when she took his arm, a tremor ran through him. Why? Was he worried she’d disapprove, that she’d be wounded by what she saw within the folly? Surely, their love was strong enough to overcome this last obstacle?

When they reached the top of the folly steps, he lifted her hand and kissed each fingertip, before removing the key from around his neck, and inserting it into the lock.

She took a deep breath and entered the gloomy tower. He busied himself around her, lighting lanterns and candles, sending the shadows flying against the walls. The chamber they were in was smaller than she expected, overwhelmed by the number of drawings and sketches plastering the walls. A great swathed object in the middle of the floor took up space as well, its shape obscured by a stiff, paint-spattered canvas.

She glanced around her again and saw a workbench loaded with tools—hammers, chisels, mauls, all covered in fine white dust. There was grit on the floor too, gray like the mortar but paler where it had blended with the white.

Puzzled, she approached the canvas to draw it aside, but Hal seized hold of her wrist.

“Not yet, my love. I want to show you upstairs first.”

Making her way carefully up the gritty stairs, she found herself in another circular chamber. This one smelled of turpentine. Several easels bearing covered canvases were set about the edges of the room.

On a small table in the middle stood a set of paint pots, brushes, and stoneware vessels. Pegs driven into the walls held several aprons, all speckled with paint.

An artist’s studio. Hal was a painter.

“You’re an artist? This is your wicked secret?” The sense of relief was so powerful she almost swooned. She’d been worrying herself to death about this?

“Wait.” He lifted the cloth from one of the canvases and held up a lamp for her to see.

She stared at a half-finished picture of a woman holding a book, her dress a dark blur of eager brushstrokes. But she recognized the dress—her favorite, the one with the stripes.

The face. Her face.

He was painting a portrait of her, from memory. She leaned in close enough to see the brushstrokes, individual blobs of white making the light shine out of dark eyes, the carefully placed streaks of darker red that gave shape to lips.

My lips.

Hal hovered behind her, waiting. But when she reached out to stroke a finger across the shiny surface, he caught at her hand. “Careful. It may not be quite dry. If you press on it, it’ll smudge.”

An unspoken question hung between them. Eventually, she said, “You have quite a talent.” She heard his exhalation of breath and knew her opinion mattered to him a great deal. But what were all the other canvases? With a queasy tension in her gut, she approached another easel and lifted the cloth.

This portrait was complete. It showed a slender woman in a yellow dress, with guinea-gold curls framing a perfectly oval face, and blue-gray eyes staring out at the observer, bearing an expression of detached hauteur. Beautiful, but proud—that was how the artist had captured the woman Tia now recognized as the late baroness.

There were other pictures—on the walls, on the table, pinned to the back of the door. Some were pastel, some charcoal; a few were watercolors . . . but they were all of the same woman.

Hal’s late wife.