Page 54 of When Hearts Surrender

“Belle, please. Ma’am makes me feel old.” I let out a few chuckles, but she doesn’t smile…not one bit.

After clearing my throat, I ask, “Was it you just now out there? I heard a loud creak and someone moaning before you came in. I wasn’t aware there were guests here.”

Agnes looks at me, as if debating how to respond. I fight the impulse to fidget under her intense scrutiny.

“Ms. Belle, that wasn’t me before, but,” her voice is soft and foreboding, and I can’t help but shiver, “I may be speaking out of turn, buta house and a family this old are bound to have ghosts and…unwanted visitors.”

Cold sweat forms on my upper lip as she leans toward me and whispers, “I’d be careful if I were you…and not go asking questions you may not want the answers to.”

With that, she leaves the room and shuts the door quietly behind her. The beating in my chest intensifies and an icy chill sweeps over me. Stories of curses and the mysteries of the family float to the forefront.

What’s going on in this place?

Chapter 20

It’s wrong. It’s allwrong.

I set the paintbrush down on the easel and stare at my latest work, the painting rendered from the sketch I drew at Lake Superior months ago.

The frigid waters, white-tipped waves crashing against the hard rocks, the lighthouse, a lone sentinel warning sailors and lost souls of the rugged terrain. Every stroke, every swipe of color is infused with a piece of my soul. It captures the haunted loneliness, the restlessness I felt that day.

And yet, something is still missing, a riddle I can’t solve, but the answer feels just within reach. I’m thrown back to my dreams last night.

I had my arms wrapped around the mystery woman whose face I still couldn’t see, the one who was painting the canals of Venice. In this dream, she was running through the rose garden before the scene shifted.

Moonlight illuminated the canvas in front of her, the scent of roses lingering in the air.

She laughed, her voice blurry, but I remembered the way my heart skipped a beat.

“Someday, I’ll learn to paint…so I can paint you,” I whispered before pressing a kiss to her dark hair.

I woke up with heartache in my chest.Fucking dreams.

Puccini’s “O mio babbino caro”plays from the phonograph, the song made famous by the classic movie,A Room with a View, from the eighties—a movie both my grandfather and Mom loved when they were still alive.

Rolling out my tight shoulders, I stare at the art I’ve spent the last hour on after a dreary day of meetings at Fleur, after which I’d made the mistake of reviewing news articles reporting the latest upheaval over my sudden marriage. Word has leaked that I drank too much at the reception and now the narrative has turned me into an unstable man.

Fuck. I was just trying to forget the attraction I felt towardmy wife.

Our stock has marginally improved, but the public definitely isn’t buying the image of a family man yet.

Twisting my heirloom ring on my finger, I regard the canvas.

The strokes are too heavy, the colors too muted. I frown.This is what you get for not painting what your muse is asking you to paint.It’s still the best work I’ve done this year, and I don’t want to contemplate why that is the case.

My fingers twitch, another impulse to get a new canvas and start on it…the one thing I want to paint but couldn’t bring myself to.

A full portrait of Belle in the rose garden.

Gritting my teeth, I close my eyes, listening to the heartbreaking melody. I don’t speak Italian, but there’s something about art and music that transcend languages and touch the soul.

“Aarroooooo!”

The hurried sounds of paws darting down the corridor interrupt my thoughts, followed by, “Silas! Naughty dog! You aren’t supposed to pee on the rug! You have an acre of gardens and grass to pee on and you decided to do it here. Come back here!” Belle’s dulcet voice cuts through the gloom and I hear her sprinting down the hallway.

More barking is followed by a few yips and halting footsteps. I guess she caught Silas.

My lips twitch as amusement sifts through me.

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