they were the most difficult aspect to capture." He gave Micheline a sidelong smile. "The same was true when I painted you. Even more so, I'd say."
"That's because all my feelings were pent up inside—and when I was in the same room with you, there was a veritable storm brewing inside of me!" She laughed softly, remembering. "I didn't realize at first that you did this painting, Andrew. Don't tell me that you're responsible for all of these!"
"I confess, if you'll promise not to hold them against me," he replied a trifle ruefully. "In the past I tended to spend nearly every minute here either out with the horses or painting in the gallery. After Mother died, it seemed a good idea to hang this portrait, along with the one of my father. Betsy began complaining, quite shrewdly, that the wall needed 'balancing,' and soon she started bringing out all the other paintings I'd hidden away. I fear that the room's beginning to look like a shrine to my rather average abilities."
"Average?" echoed Micheline, "Pas du tout! You are very talented!"
"I paint because I enjoy it. It's a challenge, and it relaxes me. The results are incidental."
Micheline had moved down to stare at the portrait of the Duke of Aylesbury. In it, he was younger and more contented-looking. His hair was sandy, threaded with white strands, and the angles of his face were softer.
"I did that a dozen years ago, just after returning from my studies in Florence. Mother 'commissioned' it for Father's birthday, hoping, I suppose, that the project would improve our relationship, but it all turned out badly, as usual. He was so critical of the finished product that I brought the painting back here and stored it in a cupboard. Years went by before I even looked at it again."
"Don't you think the duke has softened lately?"
Sandhurst made a sound that was half-sigh, half-laughter. "Perhaps. And perhaps you're responsible. Look what you've done to my well-ordered existence!" Putting an arm around her waist, he kissed her hair. "If he has changed, I'll be happy for his sake, not mine. I outgrew the need for parental approval before I ever left home. At this stage in my life, all I need is you, Michelle."
He spoke in a matter-of-fact way that warmed her heart long after they'd finished looking at the rest of the paintings. There were two village scenes, one of the Cotswold hills at sunset, one of Cicely standing next to a beautiful horse, one of Betsy looking very proud, and lastly, a whimsical portrait of Percy the spaniel.
"Let's go upstairs and have a bath," Sandhurst said when they'd finished touring the hall. "Together."
Micheline pretended to be scandalized, then twined her arms about his neck and pressed her body against his. "I'd love it... if Percy isn't included in that invitation."
The spaniel stood on the other side of the carved dog gate, looking forlorn as they climbed the wide staircase and disappeared from sight.
Chapter 32
April 26-May 29, 1533
At dawn, Micheline awoke to find herself warm in the circle of Andrew's arm, her face against his chest. The bedhangings of forest-green velvet were drawn back at the posts to allow the entrance of sunlight, and Sandhurst's body was golden brown in its glow. Wonderingly Micheline gazed at his sculpted face, the lips parted slightly, vulnerably, as he slept. His brows, so mobile when he was awake, were still, and long lashes closed his eyes.
He slept with her and made love to her without reserve these days. Micheline gloried in the knowledge that he trusted her now, and acknowledged his need of her with equal ease. There was no reason to speak the words aloud in constant reassurance; both of them could comprehend each other's feelings with barely a touch or a glance.
Micheline's eyes roamed over Sandhurst's body, for the warm spring nights invariably caused him to toss off the covers in his sleep. In her years with Bernard, she had never been acquainted with him as intimately as she already was with Andrew. She knew every contour of his face, the tendons of his neck and shoulders, the tapering lines of his chest, with its small mole on the far right side, the muscled ridges that progressed down his flat belly, and the sleek, hard contours of his rider's legs. She knew the texture of the crisp dark hair on his arms and legs—and elsewhere. In the past, her first husband's maleness had been a source of slight