What You Promised (Anything for Love 4)

“Shall I bring a candle?” Priscilla’s soft voice disturbed his reverie.

Matthew glanced up, noted she was already tying the belt on her wrapper and inwardly groaned for missing the pleasure of watching her dress.

“I’ll carry the candle.” The one in the lamp on the night stand nearest still had another hour or two before burning out. He took the lamp, opened the door and held out his hand to her. “It will be dark and dusty up there. We may even find a mouse or two.”

They wouldn’t find anything untoward. Mrs Jacobs inspected the room daily. But he liked the way Priscilla's small hand gripped his when nervous. Being master and protector gave him purpose. A job far more worthwhile than playing entertainer.

After entering his bedchamber to get the key, they worked their

way up the stairs, mounting the narrow flight leading up to the fourth floor.

“Have you not thought to let the maids have their rooms up here?” she said. “It would be far warmer than the basement.”

“When one hosts events for men with no morals, it is best that the servants remain together. Should there ever be a problem, a burly footman is never far away. Besides, where would I keep my work?”

“Your work?”

“My paintings.” Matthew used the iron key to unlock the door at the top of the stairs. “It’s dry up here, and the lack of light is an advantage.” A studio would be preferable, somewhere to display his art. To exhibit at the Royal Academy would be better, but he was a practical man, not a dreamer.

“I didn’t realise you kept your paintings in the attic.” She entered the room, her narrow gaze flitting left and right in the darkness. “It’s hard to see anything.”

“Hold the lamp for a moment.”

No sooner had she took the lamp than he ripped the sheets from the easels dotted about the room. Excitement, mixed with apprehension, made his heart beat faster.

Priscilla stepped closer and raised the lamp to study one landscape. Matthew watched her facial expressions intently. Surprise was the first emotion he noticed. The upward curl of her lips suggested she found the scene pleasant.

“I … I don’t know what to say.” Hesitant fingers reached out stopping but an inch from the canvas. Wide eyes scanned the mountain range, the lake, the lush green trees in the foreground. “If heaven were on earth, it is how I imagine it would look. Is that a tower?” She pointed to the stone structure without doors or windows.

“It is,” he said curtly for he had no desire to speak of the symbolic meaning behind his work. “Well?” His confidence faltered. Other than Priscilla, his work was the only thing he cared about. “Would you be happy to hang them on the wall in the drawing room?”

“Happy? I’d be ecstatic.”

“Does that mean you approve?” If she thought he lacked skill, she would say so.

“Your talent leaves me speechless.” She moved to the moonlit scene of a solitary man walking through a dark forest. “The figure looks so insignificant amidst the vast landscape, so alone, so sad.” The sidelong glance she cast his way reflected the melancholic mood of his art. “Creative work often reflects a person’s inner thoughts. Is that true in this case?”

A lump formed in Matthew’s throat. “To an extent.” The pictures were a gateway to his soul. He gestured to the lake painting. “Sometimes it is easy to lock oneself away in a tower and pretend that nothing beautiful exists beyond.”

“Many people hide from their emotions. The darkness is their sanctuary.” She nodded to the other canvas. “And what of the man in the forest?”

“Perhaps he is searching for a way out of the dark.”

Now was not the time to discuss the past. To his mind, there was never a right time. Dragging the sheets off the floor, he draped them over the paintings, aware of her intense gaze boring into his back. But she said nothing.

When he’d finished the task, she came to stand at his side and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “Do you paint anything other than landscapes?”

The question was a means to distract him; he knew that. Was she so attuned to his moods that she knew what he was thinking?

“I paint the things that rouse passion in my chest.”

“Would you paint me?”

Sinful thoughts returned upon hearing the lascivious edge to her tone. “While you would be a subject I long to see staring back at me, any likeness of you would be for my own personal pleasure.”

She sniggered. “You mean I would be stretched out naked on a bed of red silk, dangling a bunch of grapes over my mouth.”

“Something like that.” She knew him so well.