and ears and hands tell him a new story that refuted the mantra his heart had chanted endlessly, he knew she had loved him before, truly and honestly.
Her voice had admitted it in her studio, breaking as she begged him not to leave her again. Her eyes had admitted it, the moment she realized that he had returned. When she had told him, years ago, that she would marry his cousin, she had done it coldly and implacably, leaving no room in the air around her for him or his love — snuffing out whatever she’d felt for him so comprehensively that it was as though she’d never felt at all.
But in her paintings — the fierce, wild ones that stood unframed, not the pretty, predictable efforts that hung from the walls — he had seen glorious, focused, fiery passion. Not the icy Virgin Queen she played for her guests; not the jaded, indolent widow she feigned for him.
Those paintings, like the Ellie who always came apart for him when she gave in and forgot the past, were the Ellie who might have been.
Could Nick resurrect her? Could that Ellie unlock who he might have been — make him a better man than the one who looked forward, with shameless hunger, to having her again? Or did he still hate her too much? Did he hate her enough to leave that would-be Ellie locked away in the darkest pits of her own heart, a goddess condemned to gnaw at her own flesh for all eternity?
Did he hate himself enough to refuse what they could have? Or could he give up on the plans of the past ten years and choose a different path?
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ellie spent most of the night wide awake. She almost drank from the bottle she’d taken from Nick, but the fumes put her off the stuff. In the morning, she didn’t feel tired — just restless and unhappy, wondering what Nick’s response to her demands would be.
She had to stop thinking of him. She rang for Lucia early, dressed in a comfortable morning gown, and went to her salon. Her books would distract her until she had to mix with her guests. But her salon wasn’t empty. Prudence sat there alone, scribbling something on a piece of paper as she perused the book propped open on her writing desk. Most mornings, Ellie was glad to see her. But her greeting, when it left her lips, sounded annoyed rather than pleased.
Prudence was too perceptive by half. “Are you feeling unwell?” Prudence asked, laying aside her pen. “You seem…piqued.”
Ellie must have sounded worse than that to make Prudence stop writing. “Is that what you would call it? To tell the truth, I don’t know what I feel.”
“Shall I ring for tea?“
Ellie noticed that Prudence did not offer to leave. She tried to ignore her flaring annoyance. “No need — I sent for a tray. But I believe I shall take my chocolate and my thoughts elsewhere.”
Prudence eyed her thoughtfully. “I know how tempting it is to think you might find it easier to be alone. But you are a reasonable woman. You may find that company may help if solitude has yet to do the trick.”
“You are the first to ever call me a reasonable woman.”
“Intelligent, then,” Prudence said with a grin. “Reason is given too much adulation anyway.”
Ellie sat down across from Prudence, lounging on the same chaise where she had received Nick — was it only four nights earlier? It felt like four months. The broken glass had all been swept up, but it seemed that Nick’s scent still hung in the air, an invisible web that held her down and wouldn’t let her forget.
“Do you smell bergamot?” she asked Prudence.
Prudence sniffed the air tentatively. “No?”
Then it was on her skin, not in the air. She had slept in his shirt, with his scent wrapped around her. A proper woman might have blushed, but Ellie shrugged it off.
Further questions were forestalled by a footman bearing Ellie’s chocolate. “Would you care for a cup?” Ellie asked as she poured.
Prudence shook her head. Ellie waited until the footman was gone before she picked up the conversation again. “What did you mean, earlier? About finding that solitude isn’t doing the trick?”
“I won’t claim to understand you, Ellie. We’ve both lost brothers and had our share of difficulties with our parents, but we aren’t the same. Witness how you’ve been your own mistress all these years, while I escaped my mother