Page 53 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
He had furnished this room for her. While Anthony was not a talented painter, he did love making art. His father insisted that his devotion to painting was not suitable for a young man, much less one lacking in talent. But Anastasia had encouraged him to pursue his passion even if he was not very good, so he had. Anthony had furnished an entire studio in his townhouse. He and Anastasia had spent long hours in the room together, painting all manner of things. Sometimes, it was fruit or flowers. Often, it was one another. They had painted and exchanged sly remarks, while Anastasia’s lady’s maid and James watched with amusement and sometimes, a little embarrassment.
Anthony turned the knob and slowly entered the room. There was no dust or grime, no linens draped over furniture,or anything to indicate that the room had been untouched. Anthony knew that this was because the maids regularly cleaned the room, but it felt strange to enter the room after such a long absence and find it utterly unchanged. If he breathed too heavily, he might inhale the familiar scent of Anastasia’s perfume and the lavender water that she used in her hair.
“Here you are,” Anthony muttered.
He clasped his hands behind his back, irrationally afraid to touch anything. Anthony could almost convince himself that Anastasia would enter behind him, and her laugh would fill the room.
“Let us open the curtains!” She had always loved to fill the room with the pristine light of the morning sun, heedless of the carpets and furniture which would fade if exposed to too much of the sun.
“Do you see how much better it is?” she would often ask.
Then, she would describe how the light changed everything—lent colors to fruits and flowers, beauty to even the most pedestrian of subjects. She would talk about contrast and line with such passion that Anthony would be left utterly enraptured by her love for art.
He idly lifted a brush and twirled it between his fingers, gazing at the unfinished canvas before him. The night thatAnastasia died, this painting had been still wet. It was nothing more than a scattering of lines and colors, but Anthony knew that Anastasia had intended for it to be a self-portrait when the piece was completed. If he squinted, he could imagine how the oval of color would become Anastasia’s lovely face and how the black and dark brown would blend into the lighter hue of her hair. She had worn a pale blue gown that morning, trimmed with white lace that fell like a waterfall over her round, delicate shoulders. On the canvas, the gown was nothing more than a smattering of smooth, bold paint-strokes.
“Your last painting,” he mused. “Do you know how often I have thought about completing it? Or trying to, rather.”
Anthony considered finishing the painting every time that he saw it. He associated the painting with Anastasia, and he felt that finishing it would be—in some small way—returning her to him. It would be a piece of art that he completed with her, Anastasia’s final painting and his memory of her. Anthony always hesitated, though. How could he even hope to capture Anastasia’s beauty, as lacking in talent as he was? All the passion and love in the world could not transform a talentless man into a proper artist.
He would ruin the painting with his folly. If Anthony tried to finish it, he would paint one eye larger than the other, make her nose crooked, paint her hair in colors that were too flat. The painting would bear every mark of having been completed by an amateur, and yet Anastasia had loved his art, as flawed as it was.
“I still remember quite clearly what you looked like,” he murmured. “Your face, your hair, your eyes…”
When he gazed at the painting, he could envision how it would become the very visage of Anastasia. He sighed. In his mind’s eye, she was always alive and perfect. He never saw her in her final moments, as pale and bloodied with her neck at an unnatural angle.
Anthony grasped a chair and pulled it toward him, so he could sit before the painting. The paints were all still in their bottles. He experimentally opened the blue paint and found that it was still in fine form. Anthony twirled his brush in it, stirring the paint a little. He gazed at Anastasia’s unfinished gown.
In his mind, he could see how to finish it. Anthony remembered gazing at her above his own easel, which had contained a rough painting of a bowl of fruit. When he closed his eyes, he saw every crease and fold in her dress. He saw how the fabric stretched over her full and lovely breasts and tapered at her slender waist. Anthony had painted her often, producing terrible portrait after terrible portrait, simply so he could justify staring at her.
He gingerly pressed the tip of the brush to the sleeve of her gown, leaving the smallest drop of color. Anthony had not painted anything since Anastasia died. Painting now felt as if he were doing something right or committing an unforgivable sin, and he could not decide which. Anthony took a steadying breathand painted a gentle, curved line over the circle of blue that Anastasia had left.
Anthony paused and looked at the painting. Thus far, he had done nothing to destroy the painting. Anastasia would have done precisely the same thing; she always began with unremarkable shapes and colors and arranged them in just the right way.
“You would tell me that it did not matter if I made errors,” Anthony said, smiling slightly. “You would insist that any painting I produced would be good, even if it did not look as nice as I wanted it to.”
He remembered sitting behind her, watching her careful brushstrokes. Sometimes, Anthony had dared to lean close to her and had kissed her neck. Those times were seldom, though. Anthony had been forever aware that James and Anastasia’s lady’s maid watched him. He wondered if Bridget would enjoy seeing the studio. It was, he reflected, somewhat shameful that this once lively room had been reduced to silence and emptiness.
Chapter 25
There were no callers. Bridget was not especially surprised, for only Anthony was interested in her, and his attention was feigned. The only other man who might call was the Marquess of Thornton, and he was mercifully still absent. Across from her, Anna was occupied by painting the scene outside their window of the street and the rose gardens that lined the path.
“Do you think that Mr. Russell will make an appearance today?” Bridget asked.
Anna glanced up from her canvas. “He will not. David mentioned that he has business today and for the rest of the week.”
“David, hm?”
Pink rose to Anna’s cheeks. “Yes, David.” Anna paused, and a dreamy expression crossed her face. “You must not tell anyone, but we kissed during the poetry reading.”
Bridget gasped, feigning surprise. “No! I do not believe it!”
Anna smiled. She laughed, the sound low and rumbling. “I did not know that I was capable of such a depth of feeling. When I kissed him, I felt as if we were the only two people in the entire world, and I never wanted to stop.”
She understood. Bridget had felt the same way when she kissed Anthony, and there was nothing in the world that she would trade that moment for. It was only unfortunate that Anthony had not felt the same. She stifled a longing sigh, her mind recalling with perfect clarity how his kiss had made her chest flutter in the most pleasant way.
He was only pretending to court her. Of course, the kiss meant nothing. Bridget tried to tell herself that the situation was truly quite simple. She could not manage to make herself really believe that, though. Bridget had seen the longing in Anthony’s eyes when he gazed at her. He wanted her, even if he regretted the kiss. “You really love him a lot,” Bridget said.
“More than I have ever loved anyone,” Anna said. “He is such a gentleman.”
