Regency Surrender: Passion And Rebellion. Louise Allen

a single word that comes out of his mouth.’

      She’d taken great care not to let Nathan touch her heart. Her body, yes, and her mind. She’d found it liberating to be free with both. But she’d kept her heart safely encased in a block of ice which no amount of passion, no matter how hot, could melt.

      ‘Oh, dear,’ Fenella said again. ‘That sounds so very...’ She shook her head. ‘So very sad. To have no hope that things might develop...’

      ‘It is not the least bit sad. It is practical. I am not going to marry some man and let him wrest control of my life from me.’

      ‘Marriage is not like that. I’m sure Gaston will never attempt to control me.’

      ‘And has he informed you yet where he plans to set up home, once you are married?’

      Fenella flushed and her face fell. ‘Actually, he has. He has a little property near Southampton which he says will suit me and Sophie very nicely.’

      ‘Southampton! The opposite end of the country from Stanton Basset. About as far away from me as he can take you.’

      ‘It isn’t deliberate. It isn’t as if he bought the place on purpose to keep us apart. He knew nothing about either of us when he bought it.’

      Amethyst drew a deep breath. ‘I will make quite certain he does not keep us apart,’ she said grimly. ‘I had already toyed with the idea of moving away from Stanton Basset. After this trip, going back there would feel like going back to a cage. So I had thought about taking a place by the seaside. Southampton will be as good a location as anywhere.’

      It eased all the hurt of hearing Fenella was going to live on the south coast when her face lit up.

      ‘Oh, that will be wonderful. I was a little worried,’ she admitted, ‘about how I would cope in a new town, all on my own. Because Gaston is going to be away quite a lot.’

      ‘Is he?’

      ‘Well, yes. He’s...he’s hoping to continue working as a courier for English tourists. So he can return to France again and again, until the matter of his estates is settled. You will give him a good reference, won’t you?’

      ‘Is that why he sent you to speak to me this morning?’ A cold sliver of uncertainty snaked through her middle.

      ‘Oh, no! He is convinced that you hate him. He is even a bit worried you might try to take some form of revenge on him for stealing me away from you.’

      ‘But you don’t?’

      Fenella laughed. ‘Of course not! I know you better than that. You haven’t a vengeful bone in your body. You are all that is good,’ she said, pressing Amethyst’s hand affectionately. ‘Otherwise you couldn’t have let that man...Mr Harcourt...back into your life, could you?’

      All of a sudden Amethyst felt like crying. Fenella’s faith in her was so touching. She was the one person who always chose to see some good in her, even when everyone else chose to think the worst.

      She delved into her reticule for a handkerchief and blew her nose.

      ‘I suppose I shouldn’t mention him, should I?’ said Fenella. ‘It must be so difficult for you, having to bid him farewell and never be able to hope you will see him again.’

      It was going to be a wrench, she couldn’t deny it. Nathan had made her feel...so alive.

      ‘I will always have the portrait to remind me of this time, though,’ she said, putting her hanky away.

      ‘You mean there really is a portrait?’

      ‘Yes. I’m going to view it today. And I’m going to buy it,’ she said decisively, ‘even if it is a bit of a daub.’

      ‘That is so like you,’ said Fenella, almost worshipfully.

      ‘Fustian! I won’t be doing it for him.’ Though she’d already decided she would find something complimentary to say about it, because he cared so greatly about his art. More than he cared about anything else in his life, if she’d read him aright. He’d told her, rather wistfully, when they’d first known each other, that he wished being a painter was an acceptable profession for a gentleman. But it wasn’t until these last few weeks that she’d realised that it was all he’d ever really wanted to do with his life. And now that his brief career as a politician had ensured nobody could possibly think of him as a gentleman any more, he was finally free to live the life he’d always dreamed of.

      No, after all he’d done for her these past weeks, the way he’d made her feel, she wasn’t going to be the one to tell him he didn’t have the talent, if that was the case.

      ‘It is just that the painting is a bit, shall we say, risqué. I have to ensure that it cannot fall into the wrong hands.’

      ‘Oh, my word. Did he paint you...?’

      ‘Without benefit of clothing, yes,’ she said, checking her appearance in the mirror one last time. ‘I shall most probably have to shroud it in holland covers and hide it away in the attics.’

      She walked briskly to the door. ‘I hope you and Sophie enjoy your day. I shall see you...later.’ And with that, she left.

      * * *

      She was glad she’d gone prepared to speak with tact, rather than total honesty, when she saw how on edge Nathan appeared the moment he opened the door to her.

      As she followed him through to the studio, she wondered at her decision to keep the painting, rather than simply burn it the moment she had the freedom to do so. She wasn’t normally prone to making decisions based on sentiment.

      Although...it would be pleasant to have a tangible reminder of this heady month, spent in a foreign country, in a handsome man’s arms. When she was old and grey, she could creep up to the attic, pull off the covers and warm herself at the memory of having, for one month of her life at least, had a man who found everything about her utterly feminine, and deliciously desirable, to boot. Or even before then. Whenever her father made one of his sporadic attempts to assert his will, she could remind herself that she’d been right and he’d been wrong about Nathan’s intentions. And by extension, everything else about her.

      That wasn’t being sentimental. It was...providing herself with armour against the life she was going to have to live once Fenella left and she stood alone against a harsh, judgemental world.

      Nathan paused in the doorway to the studio for a moment or two, before stepping aside and letting her enter. Before he let her see the finished portrait, which he’d turned on its easel to face the door.

      ‘Oh,’ she said, coming to an abrupt halt as the full impact of it hit her squarely in the chest.

      Not that it was dreadful. She didn’t know why she’d ever thought it might be, given the skill he’d demonstrated when producing those swift pencil sketches. There was no problem with perspective, or the way the light shone on the drapery which made it look as though it flowed over her body, or anything like that. There was no mistaking that the woman in the picture was her, either.

      Nevertheless, this painting was most definitely going to be consigned to the attics. She couldn’t possibly risk letting anyone see her portrayed like this. And it wasn’t just because he’d depicted her reclining on a couch, strategic folds of linen preserving her modesty, whilst advertising the fact that she was naked beneath it. It was the expression on her face that she daren’t let anyone ever see. He’d made her look like...like a woman in love. She was gazing out of the canvas as though she adored the man who was painting her. He’d made her look... She swallowed back something that felt very like tears. Younger. Less cynical. Vulnerable, even.

      Yes, that was what she objected to. She didn’t mind a reminder that she was capable of being feminine, but he’d gone too far. There was not a trace of the hardheaded businesswoman she’d become. Let alone the rebellious daughter, who was the despair of her father, or the shrew from whom Monsieur Le Brun had thought he needed to