Page 52 of Married to a Wicked Duke
And that meant discussing things with Veronica. He would keep things professional, Frederick told himself. After all, that was what they were here for. This gallery was a business venture.
Just like our marriage, he tried to tell himself. But the thought had become so ludicrous he almost laughed. There was nothing businesslike about what he had done to Veronica in her bedchamber last week. Or in her studio. And there was certainly nothing professional about the way he lay in bed each night imagining her body moving beneath his own.
Shaking the thought away—in the name of keeping thingsprofessional—he led her up a narrow, creaking staircase to a small attic room on the third floor. It had a steeply pitched roof and a small window that let just enough light into the room for the paintings to be properly appreciated. Mrs. Lane’s self-portrait was leaning face-down against one wall, her second, unopened piece sitting beside it.
“I know this is quite an unusual suggestion,” Frederick began, “but I wondered if we might dedicate this room to Mrs. Lane’s work. I believe they deserve to have a room all of their own, and by putting them in a confined and darker space like this, I think we can increase their emotiveness and power.”
Veronica nodded, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet as she walked slowly across the attic. “It is unusual,” she agreed, “but is that not why we decided to put the gallery in the townhouse in the first place? Because it would be something new and different?”
Frederick nodded. “Indeed.”
“May I see the paintings?”
Frederick turned the self-portrait around, pulling off the cloth that was protecting it. “This is the piece she showed me last week.”
He heard Veronica’s inhalation. “Oh,” she murmured. “It’s… beautiful. In a dark, haunting way. Don’t you think?”
Frederick nodded.
Veronica knelt down in front of the painting to examine it. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to a swirl in the background where an array of colors melted into blackness. “Her use of color here is magical. It is as though the darkness is swallowing the light.” She sat back on her heels and let out a deep sigh. “The poor woman. She is obviously in a lot of pain.”
“Yes,” Frederick agreed. “I hope we can ease it slightly by giving her this opportunity.”
“We ought to be thankful she has givenusthis opportunity,” said Veronica. “This work is exquisite.” She nodded towards the figure in the foreground of the painting. “Is this her?”
“Yes,” said Frederick. “A self-portrait.” He reached into the crate and pulled out the second canvas. “She brought a second piece to the house today,” he told Veronica. “I’ve not yet opened it. I wanted to wait for you.”
She smiled slightly. “Let’s see it.”
Frederick leaned the canvas up against the wall and began to slowly remove the paper it was wrapped in. With each piece of wrapping he removed, more of Mrs. Lane’s characteristic darkness emerged. And when the entire painting was revealed, Frederick heard his own murmur of surprise.
Just like the first piece, the painting was dominated by a figure, but this time, it was not Mrs. Lane. It was a younger man, his face distorted and barely recognizable. The darkness in the background seemed somehow to threaten him; seemed to be taking him over. For several moments, neither of them spoke. Frederick stared at the image for a long time, his gaze fixed on the haunted eyes of Mrs. Lane’s son.
“He killed himself,” he said suddenly.
Veronica turned to him in alarm. “What?”
Frederick stared at the painting. He was unsure where the words had come from. But somehow, instinctively, he knew he was right. “Mrs. Lane’s son. He killed himself.” That darkness that was swallowing him, that look of despair… It was all painfully familiar. All at once, dread began to press down on him, that all-too-familiar weight returning to his shoulders, so constricting he could barely breathe.
“Did Mrs. Lane tell you that?” Veronica asked softly. “Or are you just guessing?”
“I don’tneedto guess,” Frederick hissed. “It is all right there on the painting. Can’t you see it?”
“I…” Veronica frowned. “Perhaps, I…”
Frederick stumbled backwards, feeling dizzy and unmoored. All he could think of was escape. He pushed suddenly past Veronica and charged down the stairs, unable to bear the sight of the painting for a moment longer.
ChapterTwenty-One
Veronica stood motionless, listening to Frederick’s frantic footsteps clatter down the staircase. She felt her eyes drawn back to the paintings in front of her. But this time, it was not Mrs. Lane’s grief she saw expressed in them, but her husband’s. She knew something in the image of Mrs. Lane’s son had spoken to him deeply, had touched on the rawest of nerves. Knew it had unearthed a trauma he did his best to keep buried—one he had never been willing to share with her.
Slowly, quietly, she crept down the stairs. “Frederick?” There was no response, except her own voice, echoing back at her through the empty house.
She kept walking, past the empty rooms and down the long hallway. She found him in the room with the discussion area, his back to her and his head rested against his arm as he leaned up against the bare wall. The paintings they had commissioned were propped up against the wall around him, one now lying face-down on the floor. Veronica was not sure if it had fallen, or if he had kicked it over in a sudden burst of emotion.
“Frederick?” She approached him slowly, waiting for him to fly into a rage and storm away.
He stayed motionless, letting her approach. Veronica touched a tentative hand to his shoulder. When he did not pull away, she stayed there for several wordless moments, holding her hand against his body in an attempt to steady him.
