The Nude (full-length historical romance) by Dorothy McFalls

precision. Head held high, she marched into the drawing room. Alone. The laughter and giddy chatter abruptly came to a halt. All eyes turned to her.
    She did need his support, damn his teasing ways.
    She didn’t want to face his guests alone. She didn’t want to face them at all. They knew . Because of that horrid painting, they now knew . She could read it in their disapproving gazes. They knew she’d been unfaithful to her husband, the royal hero who’d bravely given his life in battle. Though she hadn’t taken comfort in another man’s arms in his absence—as some now believed—she had broken her marriage vows.
    She’d denied the truth to her uncle. Denied it to herself, too. She hadn’t been a faithful wife. She’d withheld herself from him in the worst possible ways. A wife was bound by duty to love and honor her husband, no matter the hardships. And she’d done neither. The day word of his death reached her ears, she’d breathed a sigh of relief for being released from him, a man she despised.
    Somehow Dionysus had seen through her stiff upper lip and silent nods. Somehow he knew of the dishonor lurking in her heart and was determined to reveal her secret to the world.
    She had to stop him before he dealt another blow to her and her family’s reputation. There were too many secrets hidden beneath the pain. Society would forever shun her if they ever learned the full truth of her marriage.
    With a brave smile that was anything but real, she stepped toward her cousins, who were, unfortunately, sitting on a sofa next to Lady Dashborough’s two daughters. Just as she was about to politely greet the lovely quartette of ladies, her gaze landed on a large painting hanging above her cousins’ heads.
    And she froze.
    Varying shades of purples and crimson had been blended to create a stunning sunset. The paint nearly glowed. The artist’s short bush strokes and heavy use of paint struck Elsbeth immediately.
    Dionysus had painted the scene.
    Even here, far away from the frivolities of London, he plagued her, underscoring the urgency of her task. Naturally, she’d expected it to be the case since Edgeware had baldly admitted to being Dionysus’s keeper. But even so, her heart wasn’t prepared to soak in the heartrending landscape.
    A man, alone, with only his back visible stood on a rocky outcropping, a cape fluttering in the harsh wind. Other than the rocks and the vast expanse of the sunset, the landscape was barren. Utterly barren.
    The raw despair bared in that scene threatened to rip open her heart. How could this be the same artist who wished to ruin her? How could he display such depths of feeling while being cold enough to seek to destroy her bruised and broken heart?
    “Elly,” Olivia said loudly, saving Elsbeth from being completely absorbed into Dionysus’s painting. “I was afraid that you were determined to hide upstairs for the entire week.”
    The younger of Lady Dashborough’s two daughters, a creamy-skinned beauty with soft auburn hair, sniffed haughtily. “One could only have hoped.”
    “That new gown looks lovely on you, Elsbeth,” Lauretta said on the heels of the snide comment.
    “Yes,” Lady Dashborough’s elder daughter said. “The silver threads are simply stunning.”
    Elsbeth held her breath, waiting for the young woman to follow up the compliment with a snide remark of her own. The woman merely batted her pretty long eyelashes and stared up at Elsbeth with a look akin to reverence.
    “Thank you,” Elsbeth said finally. Shock kept her from saying anything more.
    Besides, her attention was drawn back to the painting. It was a self-portrait of course, a man utterly alone in a harsh environment. His shoulders sagged, drawn down with exhaustion from bearing too great a weight for far too long. She recognized his anguish, knew such pain only too well. Here, in the middle of this drawing room, she felt just as alone.
    “Lady Sara, Lady Constance, please permit me to introduce