Crimson Rapture (43 page)

She
dismissed the thought outright.

He
would never forgive her.

A
short time later Aggie appeared at the door, looking nervous. "The master
wants to speak to you, madam. Right off too. I'll look after the boy."

Christina
bit her lip and looked at Aggie with a question.

"
'Fraid so," she replied softly. "He's in a fit about something."

Christina
looked with apprehension toward the door and rose. Aggie placed a reassuring
hand on her arm as she passed and for a moment their eyes locked. Comfort and
understanding were transmitted and Christina decided in that instant that no
matter what she had done or didn't do to solicit his anger, she would bear it.
No tears. No matter what she would not cry.

She
quietly entered the study. Justin sat at his desk, leaning back in his
oversized easy chair and with his long legs crossed on the cluttered desktop.
He was reading some papers. He did not notice her.

"Yes?"
she beckoned softly.

He
looked up. "Sit down," he motioned as he swung his legs over the desk
to stand up. He closed the study doors and came in front of his desk, studying
her with a mixture of anger and, yes, she read perplexity in his expression as
well.

"Some
business associates of mine just left. Several minutes of my time was wasted as
they found some amusement in relating to me the latest rumors concerning you.
Needless to say I'm not normally concerned with what some man's foolish wife
prattles on about at the supper table."

"Rumors?"
she whispered, alarmed. "What rumors?"

Justin
did not bother relating the most current consensus among the gossipmongers.
Word had it that Christina was the lovely and pious daughter of a poor
reverend, that he had fallen in love at first sight, had her kidnapped and kept
on a deserted island until she got with child and was then forced to marry him.
He had almost laughed out loud when he had first heard it, for it presented
such a curious and arresting mixture of truth and fiction.

"There
are many," was all he said presently. "Apparently interest in you is
at a peak and I'm sure you'll be a smash at your presenting ball next week.
However—and to the point—the rumor that concerns me is the one currently
circulating through town, one that I'll have you deny. The rumor has it that my
wife was seen entering a common peddler's shop, where she bargained to trade a
gold band for mere pennies."

He
stopped to wait her reaction. She stared at hands that were suddenly twisting a
lace handkerchief. She couldn't speak but her expression spoke for her.

"I
see. Now, did you do this with the malicious intent to embarrass me or is there
some other motive that I cannot for my life fathom?"

"No,"
she said in a barely audible whisper. "I didn't mean to... to embarrass
you."

"No?
Surely it must have occurred to you how it would look to people seeing my wife
selling a piece of jewelry for mere pennies?"

"I
didn't think—"

"That
is obvious!" he said, causing her to jerk visibly at his tone.
"What's not obvious is, what then was your motive in entering a shop like
that?"

Christina
struggled hard for long moments to keep composed, focusing hard on Charles
Paton's painting hanging over the mantelpiece. It hardly helped. Metaphorically
she saw Justin as the sea—violent, raging, and ever so forceful and she, like
the pitifully small ship fought a desperate battle to keep from sinking.

"Well?"

"I
didn't have any money and I wanted a sketchbook. I didn't think Richard would
mind if I sold his wedding band."

Justin
listened and waited, then saw she was finished. He could only stare, that's
all, just stare at her. The explanation was so simple and yet it said so much.
He was dumfounded, confused, shocked.

Did
she think he would deny her a sketchbook?
Anything
for that matter?
After buying her all those clothes... it made no sense. Unless she
distinguished between what was necessary and what she felt frivolous.

Had
she been that desperate these last few months with him? Did she truly imagine
he would deny her a damned sketchbook?

"Christina,"
he began, wanting confirmation. "Did you honestly think I'd deny you a...
ah, sketchbook?"

"I
didn't know," she whispered. "You said not to bother you with my
affairs and I didn't want to... I don't want to ever be a bother to you. I'm
sorry. Truly."

Justin
saw how much it took from her just to say that. Any other woman and he'd swear
she had created the whole thing in some twisted ploy to manipulate his
feelings. With Christina he knew the sentiments just revealed were honest and
he felt as though a knife had pierced his heart.

God,
how did they ever reach this sorry point?

"It's
my fault," he said meaningfully. "I assumed you knew. In the future,
if ever you want to purchase something—anything—you have only to sign a note to
the shopkeeper. Mr. Richardson, my secretary, pays these notes. I won't even
see them, yet alone," he added, "be... ah 'bothered' by them."

He
paused and Christina felt his anger rising and thinking his anger was directed
at her, she braced for the lashing.

"To
assure me that you completely grasp the sad fact that I can't—even if I wanted
to—deny you anything, I want Mr. Richardson to receive notes from you amounting
to at least two hundred dollars a month."

This
shocking punishment very nearly brought the tears she tried so desperately to
stop. He couldn't mean it! Two hundred dollars a month! She could not fathom
it. Most people could live happily on that for five years. Even if she had such
an outrageous inclination, she could not see how this could be done.

"Please
don't make me do that."

The
silence had grown so deafening that her soft whisper seemed loud to him, but
still managed to bring with it her struggle to maintain some small dignity she
thought he intended to steal. This was not his intent. "Very well,"
he sighed, "but then you must promise to overcome your... ah, reluctance
to spend my money. Hmmm?"

Relief
swept through her and she nodded and started to rise.

"Oh
no. I'm not through with you yet."

She
looked at him, trying to read from his expression what this was about. There
was still anger but also... concern? She braced herself.

"You
were also seen engaged in a rather long conversation with a man."

The
statement was a demand for an explanation but she resisted. He kept mistresses
yet she could not even be seen conversing with a man. "Do you have people
watching me?" she asked nervously.

"No,
though I assure you if I ever thought it was necessary I would." Which was
not quite true. If he so much as thought she was even contemplating an affair,
he'd lock her up. He had lived too long with the nightmarish thoughts of her in
another man's arms; he'd never allow the reality. "Now, who was it?"

"Charles
Paton, the artist." She pointed to the seascape.

"Paton?
What did he want with you?" Justin did not understand his simple question
seemed to hurt her.

"Nothing
of interest," she said softly, returning her gaze to the handkerchief.

Justin
sensed something of import here. "I know the man, Christina, well enough
to know he does not engage in whimsical or idle conversation with pretty ladies
he finds on the street. I would know what he said to you."

"It
was nothing really." She shrugged. "He saw me sketching and he looked
at my book, that's all."

"Did
he offer comment?"

"Some,
but honestly, Justin, he is as you say—not a man interested in—you know, and,
truly, you have nothing to fear, for I would never... do that."

"That's
not what I asked you, is it?"

She
shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sure you're not interested in something so...
so frivolous."

"I
assure you I am," he said and was suddenly beginning to enjoy himself.
"Now what did the man say about your sketches?"

"He
said I hold my pen too lightly," she looked at her hand and finished in a
whisper, "as though I'm afraid to draw what I see."

Justin
took this in and suddenly chuckled. "I'm sorry, Christina, but what is it
they say? Art mirrors reality? Or is it the other way around?"

She
did not see what he found so amusing.

"What
else did he say to you?"

"Oh."
She waved her hand, rising in marked embarrassment to leave. "Nothing.
Really—"

"Sit"
came the sharp command that instantly stopped her motion. "Do I have to go
to Mr. Paton to find out what he said or shall you tell me?"

"No,
no—don't do that."

"Then
tell me. All of it."

She
resumed her seat and wasted several seconds toying with the folds of her pale
apricot dress, feeling nervous, so nervous. She felt her face flushing in
stages, her breathing grew labored, and her pulse took flight, and none of this
helped her frantic search for what to say. "Oh!" She suddenly found
the safe ground she sought. "He lamented for some time on the poor quality
of his art students."

"That's
interesting considering how carefully he selects them. It's my understanding
that art students from all over the country are pounding on his door and some
even from England. There's a long waiting list but apparently he won't take
just anybody on." He watched her shocked reaction to this, then saw her
look quickly away to hide it. "What else did he say? More specifically,
what did he say about you?"

Her
gaze darted around the space in front of her in search of something to rest on.
"Oh, he said he knew you, that you were one of the few people with the
wits to appreciate... his paintings."

"Yes,
and about you?" he asked yet again, becoming exasperated.

"About
me?"

"Yes!"

"He
said it was an unfortunate mistake of nature to give a woman any... any—"

"Talent?"

She
nodded but did not venture anymore.

"If
you had just bought a sketchbook, how did he know you had talent? There
couldn't have been more than one or two sketches in there."

"Two,
but they weren't very good—" She stopped, realizing her mistake. "I
mean—"

"What
you mean is that on the basis of two 'not very good sketches' he concluded that
you have talent."

"Well,"
she whispered, "I'm sure if he saw more—"

"Yes,
just imagine what he'd think if he saw some of your good sketches."

Christina
was embarrassed into silence. Justin knew only that he was discovering
something buried in her profound self-effacing manner, something he would
reveal, for it was a matter of her heart.

"Did
he say anything else?"

"He
asked if I painted."

"Yes?"

"Well,
I said no, that I'd not had the chance."

"Why
not?" He was curious.

"I...
well, my father thought I wasted too much time in my sketchbooks... that it
couldn't be serious for a girl and I suppose he was right," she finished
softly but then tried to explain. "Painting is expensive and we could ill
afford such expense."

"I
see." And Justin did see. He saw all the condescension and arrogance of
his sex to hers. Little wonder why there were no noted women artists when they
were discouraged at every turn. Little wonder, too, where Christina got her
profound self-effacing manner, the debilitating shyness she fought so hard to
overcome. She had held her father in the highest esteem, he knew, but numerous
times, like now when she spoke of him, he glimpsed a common tale. A small man
in an even smaller world; authoritarian and rigid, winning the complete
devotion and reverence of his young daughter with but small doses of affection.

"Once
again, did Mr. Paton say anything else?"

She
nodded. "That I needed instruction."

"And
by any chance did he offer his instruction?"

Her
nod came on the heels of a long painful pause.

"That's
quite a compliment." He smiled, finally at the point. "Should I send
for him. You do want to paint, don't you?"

Until
that moment Justin had only glimpsed how much it meant to her. She could not at
first speak or move and when he saw the tears filling her eyes, he was suddenly
at her side. "My God, Christina," he whispered, kneeling in front of
her chair and smiling at the tears he wiped. "If painting meant this much
to you, why didn't you just ask me for it?"

"I
didn't know... I didn't think you... I—" She stopped and reached a hand to
her mouth, looking at him and certain every emotion in her heart was plain to
see. She was a breath away from falling into his arms, just a breath and she
waited his reaction.

Justin
realized it a second later and it disarmed him. Disarmed him like nothing else
could. He stood up abruptly and moved to the mantel, keeping his back to her.