Page 64 of When Hearts Surrender

“I’m fine. Give me a second.” I breathe in and out a few times, and things slowly come back into focus and I stare at the painting once more.

My heart is still rattling in my chest. I can’t tear my gaze away from him, this man who bears an uncanny resemblance to the frigid king in my life.

“Who is he?” I whisper.

“My great-great-great-grandfather, Silas Ashford Williams Anderson the Third. This painting used to be hung next to the grand staircase.” Maxwell’s deep voice rumbles in my ear, and I startle, finding him standing right behind me.

He looks at Melody and murmurs, “I got it from here.”

She nods and turns to me. “Belle,” I’m thankful she doesn’t call me Ms. Belle like everyone else in the household, “I’ll have the detailed gala plans for you to review next week.”

Quietly, she exits the room and closes the door.

Maxwell stands next to me and regards the painting of his ancestor, his face solemn.

He’s wearing a navy three-piece suit today, the frigid billionaire back in full force. A quiet intensity hums from his frame.

“You look like him.” I turn my attention back to the painting, trying my best to ignore the fluttering of the butterflies in my stomach.

“And so I’ve been told. I was named after him, the first duke who settled in America a few years before the Civil War started. He donated a lot to the side of the Union during the war, much to everyone’s surprise. Because of his wealthy heritage, people expected him to side with the South, but his father and grandfather were abolitionists in the British Empire in the 1830s.”

“Do you know why he left England? I’d assume he had a lot of power with being a duke and all that.”

“From what he wrote in his journal, it’s because he wanted adventure and freedom. To break away from the shackles of peerage. To make something for himself.” Maxwell stares at the portrait and shakes his head. “I don’t think he got what he wanted, to be honest.”

“Why?”

“He wasn’t a happy man—at least that’s what I gathered from his letters and journals. He and his wife were estranged, but that wasn’t very unusual for the wealthy people back then. Divorce wasn’t common.”

“Do you know why?”

“No. I figured it must’ve been one of those loveless high-society arranged marriages.” He snorts, glancing at me. “Not much has changed since then, don’t you think? Our family is still steeped in tradition and I don’t think you’re ever truly free after escaping from a lifetime in a prison…unless you have amnesia.”

A few more mirthless chuckles escape his lips, and I want to throw my arms around him and give him some warmth.

Maybe people call him the frigid king because he always looks so lonely, shouldering an insurmountable weight for his family.

Living in his prison.

“He looks so sad in the painting.”

Maxwell sighs. “It’s interesting how you feel the same way because whenever I asked my dad or my grandfather in the past, they’d say men back then always wore severe expressions on their faces. But maybe it’s the artist in me, because I always thought he looked sad.”

Turning away, he leads me out of the gallery. I guess story time is over. As we walk down the dark corridor, lit only by one sconce, he surprises me by opening the door to the art gallery.

“His journals are stored in the library, but we’re missing a volume. If I were to guess, something happened in the 1860s, because afterward, his entries were angrier whereas the ones before were more hopeful.”

My inner history buff makes a note to find his journals in the library later on.

As we step into the art gallery, my eyes widen at the carefully preserved art pieces from the great masters of the past. Fashion design is intricately linked to art and I’ve always enjoyed visiting museums.

I spot a few gorgeous paintings of lilies by Monet, a few portraits I recognize as the work of Rembrandt.

“No way!” Gasping, I run toward a painting of people lounging at a park.

Maxwell laughs behind me as he follows.

“You have a Seurat too?” I marvel at the thousands of tiny little dots that make up the painting—pointillism, a technique pioneered by George Seurat—something I’ve always thought is amazing because the art up close appears to be haphazard tiny little dots but from afar becomes a breathtaking masterpiece of something else altogether.

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