Page 11 of Moonstone Landing
His eyes widened in surprise. “Why would they give you pitying looks?”
Hen was beautiful, smart, and not in want of funds. Probably not in want of suitors either. She had it all, did she not? “Are you in mourning for someone you loved?”
Yet, she did not dress in mourning attire. Nor had he noticed any miniature portrait or other token of a man’s love either carried in a locket or pinned to her gown.
She rose and walked over to his bureau. “I found this today while looking through your things.” She held up a painted miniature portrait of himself. “It is a very good likeness. It must have been done shortly before your…you know.”
“My death? Yes, it was.” He folded his arms across his chest and cast her a rakish smile. “It was done on my last trip to France. I was in Honfleur picking up lace, perfumes, and wine to bring back to England. While strolling near their docks, I met an artist who offered to paint my portrait.”
Hen took another moment to study it, turning the miniature over in her soft hands. “He is obviously talented. He did a very nice job.”
“She.”
“What?”
“The artist was a woman. Married to a wealthy count who did not seem to mind her…er, free-spirited nature. The French are that way, unlike the pinch-lipped English, who are all about setting rules on what others should do.”
Hen dropped the miniature in his top drawer and shut it with a slam. “I ought to have realized. Have you no shame?”
“Me? I was not the married one. If it did not bother her or her husband, where is the harm? I got a lovely portrait out of it. Kindly do not throw it away. It might be worth something someday. She did have artistic talent.”
“Among other talents,” Hen muttered, sounding quite indignant…or was that jealousy he was noting?
“I am not suggesting I would ever break my marriage vows,” he said, although he did not see that he owed Hen any explanation. “I am simply not condemning others who do. It is none of my business what consenting adults decide to do.”
Those warm, chocolate eyes of hers sought his own. “Oh, really? You would be faithful to your wife?”
He reached out and ran his knuckle along the line of her jaw, knowing he could not feel the softness of her skin. Nor could she feel his hand. Still, he needed to caress her. “If you were my wife, I would love you always. I would never break my vows to you.”
She eyed him with pain. “I am tired, Captain Arundel. I think I must go to sleep.”
He nodded. “Will you at least call me Brioc? The formality seems unnecessary since you sleep each night in my bed.”
“I sleep there, but I don’tsleepthere…not with you.”
He arched an eyebrow.
She sighed. “I do not want to know if you sleep there, too. All right? Keep it to yourself. We cannot touch each other or feel each other anyway, so it does not count.”
“Fine, I will not mention it. Are you angry with me, Hen?”
“No, how can I ever be? Good night, Brioc. Thank you for showing me around the village today. I really enjoyed myself. And…”
“What is it, Hen?”
“Thank you for rescuing Miss Gray and her students. That was such a brave and magnificently noble thing you did.”
He shrugged. “Others sailed out to the sinking sloop with me.”
“But you led the way. No one else could have done what you did. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I wish I could touch you,” she said in a shaky whisper and closed her eyes. “I am so proud of you and so honored you have allowed me to move into your cottage. I will treasure it and the memory of you forever.”
He leaned forward and put his lips to hers, knowing neither of them could feel the kiss. But he needed to kiss her just the same.
He imagined the taste of cherry pie and mint tea on her tongue.
“Sweet dreams, my lovely Hen.”
She opened her eyes and stared at him in confusion. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
