Page 60 of Lady Constantine & the Sins of Lord Kilgore
Damnation. Callum would have preferred to have two men to speak against his cousin, but at least Trask was alive. By tomorrow night, Callum might well be one step closer to being able to confess to Constantine what he’d done at the asylum. He was both relieved and worried at once, but more than either of those emotions came an intense need to see her, which he could not indulge again. “I’m leaving. Tell Constantine—”
White shook his head. “Tell her yourself. Not a puppet. Not a puppet. You’ll find her alone in the painting studio with the Frenchie.”
“Who?”
“Monsieur Lamont. The painter. Painting her in your studio. Don’t like it. Don’t like it.”
“What the devil is she doing alone with a man I don’t know in our home? Or anywhere,” Callum growled, already striding out the door.
He stalked through the house, up the stairwell to the painting studio he’d not set foot in since returning home, not that he’d had time really since recovering, but it was more that he’d had no desire to go to the studio. In fact, he’d worried that the creative part of him had been ripped out of his soul in the time at the asylum. But the minute he flung open the door and the smell of paint surrounded him, the minute he glanced at Constantine across the room, reclined on the settee with one of her legs bent at the knee to bare it in all its glorious loveliness, he wanted only to paint—her.
The sun shone over her from the window behind her, and a memory stirred of him long ago telling her that he wanted to paint her in nothing more than a necklace with a large stone nestled between her breasts. He had the necklace, too.
“Callum!” she gasped, sitting up.
The painter, Monsieur Lamont, turned toward Callum at the same time. The man looked to be Callum’s age, and he was handsome. Too handsome for Callum’s liking for him to be alone in a room with Constantine.
He cut the distance between them, holding the man’s gaze, as he came to stand before the canvas where Constantine’s likeness was painted, looking as if she’d just experienced carnal pleasure. Callum narrowed his eyes upon the man. “This look you’ve put upon my wife’s face better be purely from your imagination.”
“Callum,” Constantine said in a chiding voice as she scrambled to her feet. “Monsieur Lamont is a professional.”
Callum raked his gaze over the well-formed man who looked like a rogue, perhaps the exact sort of rogue Constantine would allow to service her if Callum could never rid himself of the nightmares and continued to push her away. “Get out,” he said, hearing the lethal tone in his own voice.
“As you wish, my lord,” the man said and gave Constantine an odd, conspiratorial smile.
The moment the door closed, Callum looked from the painting to Constantine and found her gaze upon him with what seemed to be a hopeful look in her eyes. “Why?” he asked, not elaborating. He sensed she’d understand what he was asking.
She stepped toward him and reached up to trace a finger over his brow, her light touch stirring a tidal wave of emotions in him. “Because,” she said, inhaling deeply and seeming to consider what to say for a moment before a decisive look came over her, “I was hoping you’d see him painting me and it would make you wish to do so yourself.”
She placed her hand on top of his heart, and the organ tripled its beat in response to her touch. He could feel the confession he wanted to give on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back. He had to get Ross locked away and then see if the violent nightmares would stop.
She shook her head, casting her gaze down. “It was foolish to think I could make you want to paint me as you once said. You probably don’t even remember it.”
“I believe what I told you was that I wanted to paint you in nothing but a necklace,” he blurted, cursing himself for his lack of control around her. This was the very reason he’d woken this morning, and known he had to depart, but jealousy had driven him up here.
“I cannot stand to think that may never happen.” The sadness that touched her face twisted through him. She’d hoped for more from him. He knew it. He ached to give it.
Impulsively, he grabbed her hands and tugged her to him, kissing her fingertips, her chin, her nose, her lips. They were so warm and tasted of a hint of chocolate. He wanted to ask her a hundred questions suddenly. Did she like chocolate for breakfast? Did she like to sleep late or rise early? Did she care to read in bed or in the drawing room? How many children did she want? Boys or girls? Did she prefer the country or Town? It felt like a damn band was wrapped around his chest and getting tighter and tighter.
“Don’t give up on me,” he blurted, unable to keep in the bloody, pathetic plea.
She pressed her hands to either side of his face. “Never,” she whispered fiercely. “Whatever it is, Callum, you can tell me.”
She knew. She knew there was something, some dark awful sin in his past. Of course, she knew. His wife was astute.
But instead of revealing the ugly truth, he surprised himself by asking, “Will you let me paint you as I wanted to? This—” he motioned to the painting “—is good, but he cannot capture you as I can.” Because the Frenchman didn’t love her. God, how Callum wanted to simply let the words fall from his lips.I love you.
She nodded, her eyes burning brightly, almost as if she had heard what was in his mind.
“Stay right here,” he said. He raced to the door, locked it, and then went to the drawer on the other side of the room where his paints and the necklace he’d bought for her as a wedding gift were hidden. He jerked the drawer open, started pulling out paints, and then moved things aside to find the necklace in a velvet bag in the back of the drawer. He pulled it out, then undid the string with hasty fingers and removed the necklace. A large emerald dangled from a thin gold chain. He’d sold three paintings to earn the money to purchase it.
He rushed back to her, necklace and paints in hand. She watched him silently, a curious expression on her face. “Where did you get that necklace?” she asked, her eyes suddenly narrowing as he set the paints on the stand and shoved Monsieur Lamont’s painting out of the way. He crouched down to secure a blank canvas from the shelf.
“Callum?” she asked, a terse edge in her voice. “You better not be trying to paint me wearing a necklace you bought for another woman.”
Rising, he looked at her, wanting to tell her that he’d bought it for her years ago, that he had known forever that he loved her, but instead, he said, “It’s not.”
She opened her mouth as if to question him further, but then she closed it, sucking in her lip and biting it. Finally, she nodded. “That’s enough for now, Callum, but…” Her words trailed off, but he knew. She needed the truth from him.
