A Lady of Talent (26 page)

But his day of surprises was far from over, as, a few hours later, he was astounded to learn that the Marquess of Shelburne was awaiting his presence in his very own library.

“Hello, old man.” Irrepressible as ever, Neville held out his hand as Sebastian entered the room. “I realize that it may seem a bit outré calling on the man whose fiancée has just left him for oneself, but in this case, I must venture to say that I think it all for the best Surely, you will agree that the lady and I are far better suited to one another than are the lady and you. There are no hard feelings, I trust?”

“No hard feelings.”

“Good. Then we can proceed to the next issue, and the true reason for my visit, which is to tell you that there is someone else who is far better suited to you than Miss Wyatt could ever be: my sister.”

“Your sister?”

Neville laughed. “I may not be a clever fellow like you, Charrington, but I’ve eyes in my head. I have seen the way you two look at one another, heard the way you talk with one another. Cecy is a good girl, but far too serious and responsible by half. I suspect that you are precisely the same, which should take a great deal of the worry off her shoulders—though with my marrying Barbara, a great deal of worry will already have been. Well, I shan’t embarrass you any further with my presence, but I just wanted you to know that if you want my blessing to marry Cecy, you may have it. I shall likely be at White’s the rest of the day, and she will be at home, so you do not need to fear to put it to the touch.”

And with a jaunty wave of his curly-brimmed beaver, the Marquess of Shelburne was gone, leaving Sebastian to stare fixedly at the empty spot on his wall where Cecilia’s picture had recently resided.

How long he stood there, he had no idea, until suddenly, coming to his senses, he muttered, “He is right. There is no time like the present” He snatched up his hat and gloves, ran down the stairs, and strode off down Curzon Street towards Golden Square.

Neville was right about another thing: Cecilia was at home, but she was not in her studio. Instead, she was in the front parlor doing absolutely nothing but gazing out over the square in front of her. The events of the last few days had left her thoughts and feelings in such a turmoil that she could not put her mind to anything except the confusing mass of emotions that continued to assail her.

She had gone from anger at what she considered to be Sebastian’s betrayal of her trust, to her own shame over failing to act as promptly and rigorously as she should have where Neville and Barbara were concerned, to admiration for Sebastian’s resourcefulness and determination at chasing after the runaway pair, to sorrow at the way he had said good-bye.

There had been something so final in his whispered
thank you
and the way he had kissed her hand, a finality that told her he would never again come to her studio just to talk to her or stop by his mansion in Grosvenor Square in the hope that she might be mere in the ballroom working out measurements for her paintings. A finality that made her completely alive to the desperate passion of his kiss in the curricle as they chased after Neville and Barbara. It had been a kiss between two people who would never fulfill the promise of the special bond that had existed between them.

And it was that very finality—his clear acknowledgment of his commitment to Barbara, a commitment that could not allow Cecilia in his life—that made Cecilia admit to herself what her heart and her body had known for a long time now: that she was in love with Sebastian, and that there was simply nothing she could do about it except try to survive as best she could.

Undoubtedly, at some point, the insight she had gained from the experience, the joy and the suffering, would slowly come to affect her paintings, making her grow as an artist in ways she could never have imagined before. But for now, it quite simply hurt—slowly, exquisitely painfully, and excruciatingly hurt.

Then had come her brother’s sudden announcement that Miss Wyatt was soon to become the Marchioness of Shelburne. Cecilia, whose emotions were already stretched to the breaking point, did not know what to do or think. Surprisingly enough, Neville seemed genuinely happy, and not just because he was marrying a fortune or because this proposal did not involve an uncomfortable journey in a badly sprung carriage, but because he truly enjoyed Barbara’s company. And, struggle though she did against it, Cecilia could not help feeling just a little bit jealous of her brother’s happiness.

So Neville had gone off to his club and Cecilia had continued to sit staring out the window, not knowing quite what else to do. In fact, she was so absorbed in her own confusing welter of thoughts that she did not hear the steps on the stairs or Tredlow’s, “The Earl of Charrington to see you, my lady.”

She did not hear anything at all until a deep voice spoke behind her. “Cecilia, are you quite well?”

“My lord!” She started and rose to her feet to find Sebastian smiling down at her in the way that had always made her heart feel as though it had taken over her entire body. “I am so... I mean, Neville has told me that... In short, I hope that you are not up—” She broke off suddenly, terribly afraid that she had been wrong all along and that he had actually cared for Barbara.

“You mean that Neville has told you he has saved me from a truly disastrous mistake I nearly made?”

“But I thought that marriage to Miss Wyatt was something you had considered quite carefully for some period of time. Surely—”

“I
did
consider it for a length of time, and when I made the decision to ask her to become my wife, I was completely convinced that it was something I truly wanted to do. But that was before I was in possession of all the facts.”

“What facts?”

“Well, I don’t suppose one would call love a fact, precisely, but it was before I knew that such a thing as love actually existed. But then, much to my joy and my sorrow, the unbelievable did happen: you came into my life and proved to me that love did exist after all. And all of a sudden I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you. I, who had relished the idea of a coldly formal and comfortably distant marriage, suddenly found myself wanting desperately to share my every waking hour with you. Feeling that way, I found the idea of being with her, or anyone else, worse than being alone. It was torture indeed.

“But now, thanks to your brother, it is a torture from which I am free at last, free to say I love you, Cecilia. I have always loved you, and I want you to become my wife. I want to be with you forever.”

Cecilia’s knees went weak and her hands began to shake, as the wave of happiness washed over her. It was true, then. He did love her. He had not loved Barbara. But as that first wave receded, the cold fear of doubt came swirling in its wake. What would it be like? What would being together forever be like, and what would it do to her, to the life she had tried so hard to build?

Other women had their husbands, their children, and their estates; she had her art. And she knew that much of her success in her field had come because she did not have those other distinctions, because she had been able to devote herself to her career with a single-minded passion. What would happen to it if she developed another passion? Would it simply go away, wither up and die? And if it did, what would become of her?

No! She could not risk it. She could not throw it all away—all that was real and established—simply for the promise of love. She could not throw a lifetime away, no matter how much she wished at this particular moment to surrender herself completely to the wonder of newfound love.

“What is it? Why not?” Sebastian took her chin in a firm but gentle clasp, forcing her to look up at him. It was only then, when he held her head still, that she realized she had been shaking it
No, no, no.

“I cannot,” she whispered, her voice full of tears. “Please go and leave me. I cannot marry you or anyone.”

“Cecilia,” he pleaded, as tears filled her eyes and began to spill down onto her cheeks. “My love, just tell me why, and then I shall go. I will do anything that you want to make you happy, but please, let me know what it is.”

“I... I must be alone. I cannot work if I am not alone. I cannot be like other people. My painting is all that I have,” she wailed as the tears began to fall in earnest, and her body was wracked with sobs of despair. Why oh why did she have to discover love only to learn that it was impossible for her?

“My darling girl.” Sebastian pulled her into his comforting aims and held her, gently stroking her hair until the sobs had subsided. “I would never, never do anything that would in any way take you away from your painting or your career. How could I, when it was a picture of yours in the first place that taught me what love is?”

He smiled down at her bowed head. “Have you ever thought that perhaps being married might give you more rather than less time to devote to your art? You will have someone to share your responsibilities instead of having to shoulder them all by yourself. There will be someone else to take some of the burdens from you. I too share the same sort of worries. For years, it was my loneliness and isolation that were my strengths. They allowed me to focus all my energies on rebuilding my life and my fortunes. It was only after I had succeeded beyond even my expectations that I began to wonder what it was all for. Then I met you, and I knew the reason behind it. It was so I could truly live life. Just being able to share what little I was able to share with you inspired me. Knowing you made me want to be the very best that I could be—even better than I had been before.”

Gently he released her, and taking her hand in his, he said, “Follow me.”

“What?”

“I will show you what I mean.” He led her down the stairs and into her studio, where he picked up her sketchbook. “May I?”

She nodded.

Slowly, carefully, he flipped through the pictures until he found the sketch of Cupid and Psyche. “There. See? That is not the way it looked when you first showed it to me. Then, it was still and lifeless. Now it is full of this.” He cupped her face in his hands, bringing his lips down on hers, warm and demanding, sucking all the strength from her body until she was overcome with that desperate insatiable longing. He pulled her into his arms so that her body was molded against his, so that every beat of his heart throbbed in her veins, until there was nothing in the world but the two of them—no pots of pigment, no stacks of canvases or bottles full of brushes. Just the two of them consumed by the hunger and longing for one another.

And then, just as quickly as he had pulled her to him, Sebastian let her go. “You cannot say that you would have been able to fix this picture if you had not shared this with me,” he whispered against her cheek-He laid the sketchbook unsteadily back on the table where it had lain, but he was breathing so hard his hand shook, and it slipped and fell to the floor with a smack.

As he bent to retrieve it, his eye fell on another picture—the picture to which the sketchbook had opened when it fell—a picture of Samson, his sinewy chest bare, his chained arms straining at the pillars, his jaw squared, and his face set with determination. It was his own face. Sebastian’s face lit with a fire and a pride that only love and complete understanding could inspire.

“Oh.” Cecilia gasped, reaching vainly for the sketchbook, her face suffused with a self-conscious blush. “No.” He held it up beyond her grasp. “It is good, my love, so very, very good. You are truly a lady of talent. But you cannot deny that love gives the inspiration that makes one truly great.”

He looked deep into her eyes. “You once asked me if I thought it was honest to marry someone without loving them. I now ask you if you think it is honest to love someone without marrying them. And I promise you, I will only take no for an answer.”

Then, not giving her any time to respond, he pulled her back into his arms and pressed his lips hungrily to hers until she could not think of anything at all.

For Jane Eastman, one of the world’s best reference librarians

Copyright © 2005 by Cynthia Johnson

Originally published by Signet (0451210093)

Electronically published in 2009 by Belgrave House/Regency

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.