Chapter 31

CHAPTER 31

Evie sighed despondently as she set aside the brush she had been attempting to wield for the past hour or so. She had no appetite for food or any of her usual hobbies, and she did not relish the thought of promenading in the park, where people might gawk at her and speculate even more about her tenuous relationship with her husband.

I should be with my husband right now. Instead, I must contend with their whispers and gossip, not to mention the possibility of an annulment.

Even if Colin were to offer half of his fortune, would anyone still dare to marry her knowing she had once been married to the Duke of Ashton himself?

Her brother might be hopeful enough to believe that there would be other suitors to come, but Evie more or less had a grasp of the ton, and they were far more likely to place the blame for the failure of their marriage on her head.

Never mind that she would much rather stay married to Daniel, but he had not even sent word to her in all this time.

Is he truly going to let me languish here without saying anything?

She turned away from the blank easel and sat down on the window seat, staring bleakly out the window instead.

What was left to paint when it seemed as if all the color had drained from her life?

“Your Grace.”

She turned to look at Jane and managed a weak smile. “Please convey my gratitude to the Duchess, but I would much rather stay in my rooms today, as I am currently indisposed.”

Her maid looked at her so sorrowfully that Evie felt as if her heart might break all over again. In all their years together, Jane had never looked at her with such pity.

I suppose I do look rather pitiful now.

“Actually, it is not Her Grace that wishes to see you,” the maid murmured. “You have a guest, Your Grace.”

“A guest?”

Evie stood up, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. Could it be him? Had Daniel finally come for her after he settled the accounts with Lord Sidmouth and everyone else?

“A Mr. Turner, Your Grace,” Jane replied politely. “He claims an acquaintance and that he is here to offer guidance.”

The hope that soared dizzily in Evie’s heart crashed down.

“Oh.” She smiled bitterly and shook her head. “I do not suppose I am in the condition to be entertaining callers at this time, Jane.”

“He also said that you were going to say that,” the maid replied with a bewildered look. “But he also said to tell you that he was sent by His Grace.”

“Colin?”

The maid shook her head. “Your husband, Your Grace—the Duke of Ashton.”

Your husband.

It was Daniel.

Daniel had sent Mr. Turner to her.

Evie tilted her head to the side and smiled at Jane. “Perhaps I should get ready to meet Mr. Turner, then.”

Mr. Turner looked as he always did, although Evie felt as if she had aged decades since they last met.

When she walked into the parlor, he stood up, and the sight of his stained cuffs made her smile a little.

“Please forgive me for my lack of hospitality, Mr. Turner,” she apologized. “I have been… currently indisposed.”

There was a twinkle in the artist’s eyes as he looked at her with a sympathetic smile.

“Your Grace is much too polite,” he said kindly. “His Grace had mentioned that I might be able to lift your spirits with a few lessons.”

It was as if someone had taken a knife, plunged it into her chest, and then cruelly twisted it.

“His Grace?” she managed to choke out.

Mr. Turner nodded. “I sought you out at Ashton Hall, as His Grace has previously asked me to discuss painting with you and maybe exchange a few tips.”

“He said so?”

“His Grace is quite supportive of your passion for painting.”

Evie sat down as if in a trance. “Yes, it would appear so.”

Mr. Turner smiled as he sat down opposite her. “Now, you must forgive this old man’s bluntness, but your maid has informed me that you are currently… not given to painting at the moment.”

Evie could not help the hoarse laugh that escaped her lips. Mr. Turner’s manners truly were a little rough around the edges, but the aristocracy had always made adjustments for the idiosyncrasies of artists.

“I am truly sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Turner, but she was, indeed, correct,” she admitted with a sad smile.

The artist looked at her with a compassionate smile.

“Well, let this be your first lesson then, Your Grace,” he told her with a conspiratorial look. “Never hold back what you are feeling at the moment.”

Evie looked at him in confusion. “What do you mean, Mr. Turner?”

“I find that when I am at my least constrained, I produce the works that I am proudest of,” he confided in her. “Whatever emotions you are feeling, do not let them hold you back. Paint as you feel if you will, Your Grace. Do not paint simply because it is what you think others would like to see.”

She smiled bitterly at him. All her life, she had been bound by rules and etiquette. While her grandmother and brother had given her more leeway than most young ladies of the ton were allowed, there were still times when she felt trapped in the role she had to play in Society.

Most certainly, nobody had ever told her to let go of what she was feeling and to paint her grief as she saw fit.

But could she really do it? Could she put a name, an image to the darkness she was currently in?

“Whatever emotions you are feeling, Your Grace,” Mr. Turner told her. “You can release them all on the canvas and find that it will not judge you, whether you are right or wrong, or whether it is proper or not.”

He stood up and reached for his hat. “I suppose I have disturbed you long enough for today. I hope that we can have many more of these conversations in the near future.”

Evie stood up and nodded to the older gentleman. “Your words have provided me with a great comfort, Mr. Turner. I do look forward to seeing you again in, say, a week?”

The artist smiled brilliantly at her. “I would like nothing more, Your Grace, and—dare I say—I look forward to all the wonderful things you will create in the meantime.”

She laughed hollowly. “I do not know if I will be capable of any masterpieces at the moment, but I will do as you advised me today, if only so that I may indulge myself and unburden my thoughts for a moment.”

“Then my visit has been all the more worth it, Your Grace.”

She saw the artist at the door and thanked him once more for coming to see her, despite her earlier reluctance. In return, he reminded her of their next lesson and even managed to extract a promise from her that she would at least try to put her brush to paint tonight.

Later that night, when all of Blackthorn Estate had gone to bed, Evie summoned the courage to light her lamp, flinching slightly as she watched the flame flicker and dance before her.

After the tragedy that had claimed the lives of both her parents and an entire wing of the estate, Evie had always feared the flame. The very thought of it licking at her clothes at her skin used to make her recoil in sheer terror.

Tonight, as she watched it sway to and fro, confined in the glass casing of the lamp, she was entranced.

She had felt fire before—in Daniel’s arms as he kissed her fiercely. Passionately. As if he meant to devour her, body and soul.

She had felt the scorching heat of his touch as it slid along her curves, delving into her deepest secrets until she cried out in pure, undiluted pleasure.

She had felt the warmth of it washing over her when he tenderly brought a wet cloth to wipe the evidence of their arduous lovemaking between her thighs.

When he gathered her into his arms and wrapped her up in his embrace as she drifted into slumber.

She no longer feared the flame, for in her mind, Daniel had become the fire that burned through her soul and heart, incinerating all of the prejudices and fear she felt before.

And now that he was gone, she felt confused. Cold. Empty.

How could he easily give her up like that? How could he turn away from everything?

She could not believe that he could be so unfeeling—she refused to.

Evie sighed as she dipped her paintbrush into the paint and swirled it. Now that Daniel had decided to cut their ties, it felt as if she had been thoroughly burnt.

She laughed mirthlessly when she thought about how he was referred to as the Duke of Ash, for after the searing heat of all that they had shared, there was nothing else left of her.

Not even the embers remained.

Only ashes and dust.

Daniel sat staring into his fireplace with a gloomy look in his green eyes. The tips of his fingers held a glass of brandy, which he would occasionally swirl and take a sip of.

He heard the distinct, light footsteps of his butler from behind.

“Has Mr. Turner gone to see the Duchess?” he inquired softly.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Barnaby replied. “He was able to secure an audience with her just this afternoon.”

Daniel smiled a little at that. At least she did not turn away his gift.

He had hurt her—perhaps irreparably—and this was but one of the ways he could hope to make amends. He had seen how her eyes lit up when she spoke to the artist, when she spoke about her art. She had downplayed her talents before him, but that night in Vauxhall, he had been keen on gaining enough of her trust to see her works.

Now, he doubted he would ever have that pleasure in his life.

Maybe not until she would be brave enough to showcase her works. If she did, then he would purchase them all and hang them in his study, his private chambers—his goddamned tower even.

Because that would be all he would ever have of her.

That and the memories that still lingered like the scent she left on his sheets.

And the hole in his heart that he had never acknowledged until she filled it with her light.

Now, he was all alone in the darkness once more.

He truly did destroy everything he ever came to love.