Free Portrait Of A Lover by Julianne MacLean Page B

down the hill at Century House again, and imagined Annabelle waking this morning under clean, white embroidered sheets, eating a breakfast prepared by a devoted kitchen staff. Her maid would have helped her dress and knotted her hair, and another set of maids would have cleaned out the grate in her fireplace, swept her polished floor, and fluffed her feathery pillows.
    It was a world very different from his.
    He felt nauseous all of a sudden, and slid down the side of the tree to sit on the ground. Resting his elbows on his knees, he raked both hands through his hair.
    What did he think he was doing? How could he be so selfish, thinking he could take Annabelle away from the life she knew and force her to alienate her family, then drag her down into the hell that was his life?
    He supposed the problem was that he felt something for her that he’d never felt for any other woman. He loved her laughter, her intelligence, her nonconformity. She inspired him with her artistic creativity, challenged him and made him think, and she made him feel at ease and at home—which was something he rarely felt with anyone.
    He had grown to care for her so very deeply and devotedly that it was now much more than a simple matter of lust. What concerned him today was her welfare and well-being. Her future happiness.
    Yet with his feelings as profound and passionate as they were, he wasn’t entirely certain he could be noble and self-sacrificing enough to do the right thing—which was undoubtedly to give her up.
    “ ARE YOU READY TO SEE IT? ” Annabelle asked later that afternoon, meeting Mr. Edwards at the water’s edge as he dragged the heavy boat onto the beach.
    “I’ve been ready for six weeks,” he replied.
    She had noticed with some concern that he’d seemed downtrodden most of the day. He was not his usual flirtatious self, and had been very quiet. During lunch she’d asked him if he was all right, and he’d assured her he was just tired after a long, busy week. She had accepted his explanation, hiding her fear that it might be something more.
    “Well, come and see it, then,” she said, holding out her arm. “But close your eyes.” She took him by the hand and led him to the easel. “All right. You can look now.”
    Mr. Edwards opened his eyes and stared at her painting for the longest time while she watched him apprehensively. His eyes moved over the details in the center of the canvas, then he studied every corner.
    At last he looked at Annabelle, who warmed at the tenderness and wonderment in his expression.
    “What do you think?” she asked hesitantly.
    He slowly approached. “It’s beautiful, Annabelle. Too beautiful to give to me. It should be in a gallery somewhere.”
    She shook her head. “I’m not famous enough to be in a gallery.”
    “You should be. You will be.”
    Annabelle smiled, dumbfounded by the astounding pride and elation that came from knowing someone truly appreciated her work.
    No. He more than appreciated it. He was awestruck. Not just with the painting, but with her.
    All at once she wanted to shout out loud across the lake and hear her voice echo back in return. She was so happy to be with him, and so proud of this piece! It was beyond a doubt the best thing she’d ever done.
    “Can I assume you like it?” she asked.
    He came to her. “I more than like it. I love it. It has movement, yet stillness at the same time. And the reflections in the water…” He returned to stand before the painting, and moved his hand over it as he spoke. “They look so real, yet when you study them, you are struck by the fact that you are seeing only the surface of the water, and there are deep, unknown depths beyond. It’s the most incredible thing anyone’s ever given me. I’m not worthy of it.”
    “Of course you are.”
    He returned to her and cupped her cheek in his large, warm hand, stroking with his thumb. His touch gave her shivers.
    Slowly he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her while he