Chapter 16

All the way back to the boarding house, Vanessa couldn't stop smiling. She wished she didn't have to be parted from Easton, but now that they had made love, she realized it would have been impossible to keep her infatuation for him secret for very long. It would have been evident to everyone at the manor what had happened. Stars probably danced in her eyes right now. She wasn't sure how she might find a way to conceal her newfound joy from Miss Grantham and Miss Stratford. She knew that they were discreet, but they likely wouldn't take it too kindly if they knew she had been carousing with Lord Fane.

Joining a gentleman to paint was one matter, but joining him in the bedchamber was quite another entirely.

However, the moment Lady Beauvais's carriage came to a halt in front of the sign proclaiming the Seaside Society, the matrons of the establishment were quick to embrace her fondly. As her things were unloaded from the top of the carriage and returned to her rooms, the ladies escorted her into the parlor where Vanessa found tea waiting for her.

As she was handed a steaming cup, Miss Stratford looked at her with empathetic green eyes. "How are you holding up, dear? You are certainly feeling quite a shock at the death of your husband."

She sipped from her cup. "Indeed. It was rather… sudden." She wasn't sure what else to say that wouldn't make her sound unforgiving, but the life she had led with Frank had not been a pleasant one, and she couldn't act as though she was heartbroken over his loss. Regretful that things couldn't have turned out differently, yes, but she wasn't going to turn into a despondent widow.

Miss Grantham was the one who tossed her graying brown hair and said stoically, "Josephine, really. You might recall that Vanessa left him because he treated her unkindly."

The lady shot her companion a sharp look, but then she gave a sheepish grin. "I was merely trying to express my condolences in a proper manner."

Vanessa's lips turned upward in return. "If you are concerned about upsetting my feelings, you needn't worry in that regard. I will lament Frank's life the same way I would a poor animal in the street, but even then, a dog doesn't have any choice in their life. Frank brought about his own demise by living in such a way. I tried to be a good wife to him, but he wanted no part of a calm existence. He always strived for more, and even his mistress wasn't enough to please him."

Miss Grantham clucked her tongue. "It's dreadful business, but I fear the worst is yet to come for you." She tilted her head to the side.

Vanessa swallowed the abrupt lump in her throat. "I am expecting Frank's solicitor to be paying me a visit in the near future."

"Indeed," Miss Stratford concurred. "I wish we could spare you the disgrace of hearing about your husband's estate, which, by your previous accounts, sounds as if it might be very little."

"I have no wish to benefit from his wealth. I have my freedom now, and that is all I ever truly wanted from him." Vanessa closed her eyes for a moment, as a sharp pain struck her through the chest. Sadly, it wasn't due to grief, but the continued relief she felt in knowing that she no longer had to run, to hide her true identity. She could spend the rest of her days living off the income of her painting. She truly didn't care if she lived in a grand estate again or not. She was content with a simple life because at long last she could manage things as she wished.

"Do you think you will ever remarry again?" Miss Stratford asked. "Perhaps next time might be for love?"

Vanessa considered her answer very carefully before replying. "If that is a query about Lord Fane—" She noted that the two women exchanged a glance. "I can assure you that while we are close, I am not prepared to commit to anything permanent right now, perhaps never again. Besides, he has his own problems to deal with at the moment. I don't need to add to his troubles."

"Very well said." Miss Grantham nodded her head firmly. "There is no need to rush into anything. You should enjoy being an independent woman. That is what the Society is here for, after all. Rest assured that Lady Beauvais will be a strong advocate for the viscount. He will likely be on his way back to Ireland within a fortnight."

As Miss Stratford murmured an assent, Vanessa found that she couldn't summon the proper enthusiasm. She wanted Lord Fane to enjoy the same freedom that she currently did, but it was the prospect of his leaving Burnham-On-Sea that pained her the most.

Once she had finished her tea, she excused herself and returned to her previous room at the Society.

This time, however, when she opened the door to her chamber, she looked at it in a new light. It wasn't the sanctuary that she had imagined it to be when she'd left Frank. As she glanced about the modest room, where her paintings sat about the room, her trunks in the middle of the floor, ready for her to open them again, she realized that the Society was now her salvation.

She walked over to one of the trunks that she knew held a needlepoint pillow and withdrew it. She sank down onto the bed and traced the delicate thread with the tip of her finger. It was the one thing she'd taken from her father's house that had belonged to her mother. He wouldn't let any of her things out of his sight, but she had managed to sneak this away and take it to her new home that she was making with Frank. She had long admired the simple craftsmanship on the pillow, the flowers in various color patterns. She had always felt close to her mother by holding something she had obviously taken pains to complete.

Vanessa closed her eyes and held the pillow to her chest and took a trembling breath. As the tears started to fall, she realized that for the first time, they weren't falling because of pain or regret or injury. They were falling out of love for the woman who had made this pillow. But they were also falling for the love she feared she was starting to feel for the man she had left behind at Lady Beauvais's residence.

They were happy tears.

* * *

Easton stood staring out of the window in the art room, his current projects neglected. He was nearly finished with Vanessa's portrait, and there was a part of him that didn't want to complete it. He feared that if he did so, the woman herself would vanish from his life, leaving behind nothing but a distant memory and her likeness on canvas that would haunt him for the rest of eternity.

He shoved a hand through his hair. He was starting to sound mad, like a poet who couldn't find a way to return to reality. But he supposed there was a reason they spoke of love with such passionate abandon.

He thought that surely he hadn't fallen for Vanessa so completely and irrevocably, but considering that their afternoon together had been one of the most remarkable times of his life, he could see no other way to describe how she made him feel. He wanted to rail against it, but what point would that serve? Only to confuse what he already knew to be true. He knew she felt something strongly for him in return, but did he dare to believe it could be the same? She had been hurt terribly in the past, used ill by both her father and her husband. Was she even capable of feeling anything but disgust for men at this point? She might have engaged in bed sport with him, but that didn't mean she was willing to turn over her newfound freedom and stay by his side for the rest of their days. He wondered if it was selfish of him to ask it of her after everything she had been through.

He decided that, for the moment, he had to turn his focus to clearing his name from any threat of fraudulent activity. If he hoped to make a permanent name for himself in the art world, he would have to find a way to prove that he was unique, and that he had copied no one else's style.

Thankfully, he was finding Lady Beauvais to be a powerful ally. Now that Vanessa had returned to the boarding house, she had taken it upon herself to travel to London to speak to the Prince Regent and find some assistance in that regard. She claimed that it was a good idea for him to see her now and again so that he remembered what a valuable asset she was for the Crown.

"Must you look so despondent? You are casting a shadow over the entire house."

Easton rolled his eyes as he turned to glare at Mr. Porter.

The man had entered the room with a bored expression, although with the way he wore his cap, it was difficult to see much more than the cretin's chin and smug expression.

"Don't you have something else to do?" Easton drawled in return. He walked back over to his easel and picked up his paintbrush, intending to rinse it and be done for the day without even dipping it in the paints. If only he had found inspiration outside and his motivation had miraculously returned. It would have been wonderful if it had been so simple. His muse was gone, and ever since then, his paints had remained undisturbed. The only thing he felt like working on was her portrait, and he wasn't quite ready for that just yet.

"Other than bedevil you until the authorities arrive and I get paid?" Mr. Porter shrugged. "Not really."

Easton resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Rather than continue this circular argument that got nowhere, he asked, "Do you paint?"

Mr. Porter glanced up at him in surprise, finally meeting Easton's eyes with the same directness long associated with the thieftaker. "I have done so on occasion."

"Indeed?" Easton walked over, grabbed a blank canvas, and set it on the easel he'd just vacated. Then he reached for a brush and handed it to him. "Might I suggest another way for you to pass the time, then?"

For a moment, Mr. Porter regarded the item as if it was some sort of venomous snake that he had to be careful when approaching. Finally, he reached out and took the item.

Easton said nothing more as he returned to the landscape he'd been studying earlier. Or rather, retreated to his previous location at the window.

He was standing with his arms crossed when Mr. Porter spoke up behind him. "Perhaps you might see if Mrs. McGavin would like to return to the shore to paint?"

Easton cringed whenever her married name was mentioned. Any tie to her deceased husband was another reminder of how much he wished he'd been the one to put him in the ground for the wrongs he'd done to Vanessa. "I thought I was banished to this house under your watchful eye until my accuser arrived?"

The smug grin widened. "Oh, make no mistake. I will be joining your little soiree, but it would be better than watching you sulk about like this."

With a frown, Easton countered, "I'm not sulking."

"Brooding, then." The other man shrugged. "Either way, it's depressing and while I don't believe in love, at least when you were around the lady you were fairly tolerable."

Easton rolled his eyes. "As if I care what you think of me."

"I didn't say you did," the other man pointed out. "But neither do I wish to sit here and pass the time like some sort of poetic tragedy." He set down the brush Easton had given him and turned on his heel to quit the room.

When he was gone, Easton wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to the elusive Mr. Porter to make him so cynical, and he wasn't sure he would ever find out.

However, the prospect of getting to see Vanessa every day, even if it was just for a short while at the strand, was enough to brighten his spirits.

* * *

Two days later, Vanessa paced her room. She finally had to stop and set her hands out at her sides in an effort to calm her nerves. It wasn't as if she'd gone months without seeing Lord Fane, but it had certainly felt like an eternity. She yearned to look into those unusual amber eyes and admire that confident grin. When she'd received the brief message the day before in his smooth handwriting, requesting that they meet at their cove to paint, her fingers had trembled with the desire to see him. She had held the missive close to her heart and prayed that it wouldn't rain and ruin this unexpected opportunity.

She hoped that it would also help with her painting. The first full day she'd been in her chambers, she hadn't found the proper wherewithal to think of anything to draw. It wasn't like her not to find some sort of inspiration, even if it was a simple bowl of fruit on the dining table.

She wondered if Easton's impediment was starting to affect her. He had called her his muse. Perhaps he had become hers in return.

It hadn't been a very comforting thought, and since she feared that he would be absent until the day he'd left for Ireland, she started to wonder if she hadn't just gained her freedom while suffering from a crumbling talent.

Hope rose up within her as the hour arrived, and after gathering her things, Vanessa had to stop herself from rushing down the beach. Something told her that the instant she spied Easton that everything that had been suddenly lacking would fill her with joy once more. When she had felt at her darkest point, he had been the guiding light back to her lost happiness.

Vanessa turned a corner, and the moment she spied the easel set up in her private cove on the strand, her heart leapt inside of her chest. She had to stop and allow her breathing to return to normal as she saw the burnished brown hair ruffled by the wind. She could lose her ability to see and still remember every hard plane and sharp line of the viscount's face.

As if some otherworldly sense could feel her presence, he paused in whatever task he was doing and abruptly straightened. He turned his head and as their eyes met across the expanse, everything melted away. The couples meandering on the beach, the children running about and playing—all of it turned into oblivion as she reconnected with her lover.

Her lover.

It seemed so long ago that she had been held so gently in his arms. She wanted nothing more than to feel that calm assurance again. She had never felt more secure. Or safe.

Their eyes remained locked as she moved forward. It was as if she floated across the distance, but as she drew closer, a third figure made their presence known. She blinked, the spell broken, the enchantment shattered. "Mr. Porter," she murmured, hoping that her voice didn't sound as reluctant as it seemed. "How lovely to see you again."

"Mrs. McGavin," he returned politely.

She winced at the sound of her title, and she was reminded that she was a woman in mourning. As if the black dress she was wearing wasn't enough of an indication. Thankfully, the ladies of the Society weren't too demanding when it came to observing her current status. If they did, she wouldn't be standing on this beach, and she certainly wouldn't be conversing with other men before her husband was in his grave. It was only a matter of time before she would be summoned back to Nottingham to put Frank into the ground and act as though she was somewhat aggrieved by his loss.

But that wasn't today.

Today, she could be happy and bask in the sunshine above, the salty scent of the ocean as it crashed against the shore, and the warmth that drifted over to her from Lord Fane. The smile he sent her was filled with sensual promise. "It's good to see you again, Vanessa."

It hadn't escaped her notice that he never called her by her proper name. Since he'd found out she was no longer Miss Carter, he'd referred to her by Vanessa. However, she wasn't inclined to mind in the least. She adored the sound of her name coming from his mouth. The velvety timbre of his voice made her more aware of him than she already was.

"I was glad to receive your invitation."

His eyes sparkled. "I was grateful you accepted it."

She wanted to tell him that she would never deny him anything, but she stopped herself before the words were uttered. Not only was it too much to reveal in front of Mr. Porter, but she wasn't completely sure it was the truth beyond any doubt. There were some things that she could not give up again, but something told her that she wouldn't have to worry about that with Easton.

They regarded each other in silence until a slight clearing of a masculine throat spurned Vanessa into action. She dropped her gaze and tried to regulate her unsteady breathing. "Shall we paint?"