The same. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
“No,” she said, nearly shouting. “Please don’t, Alexander. Don’t say another word. I can’t bear it.”
Alexander stepped back, his breathing hard, his stance angry.
“Oh, please don’t be angry. One of us must be strong, must face reality.”
“Then it is I who must be strong, for I am not the one who led us beneath a large growth of mistletoe,” he nearly shouted, all the anger and frustration he felt coming out. “It was not well done of you, Miss Elsie, not well done at all. You cannot play the coquette, then back away angry that your own actions have resulted in unwanted consequences.”
“I know,” she said softly. “You must think me a terrible sort of girl.”
“Not terrible. Just very, very young.”
“I don’t much care for reality and I suppose, for just a little while, I wanted to pretend I was simply a girl kissing a boy. It seems I am forever apologizing and I fear I must do so again. Please don’t be angry.”
He let out a harsh breath, ashamed that he was making her feel distressed. He knew better, but it was so excruciatingly maddening to know, to know she wanted him and to be able to do nothing about it. And yet, that was not entirely true. He could do something. He simply chose not to, he realized, as a wave of self-loathing nearly knocked him to his knees.
“I am not angry with you,” he said harshly, then softened his tone when he realized he did, indeed, sound angry. “I am angry with myself. You are such an innocent and I have no right to touch you.”
Elsie bowed her head. The night had become so quiet, he imagined he heard her tears hitting her dress, soft little taps of misery.
“Let me walk you back to the house.”
She dashed away the tears and nodded. “I’ve ruined everything,” she said. “Stupid, silly mistletoe.”
“No,” he said quietly. “We were the silly stupid things. You and I both.”
At the ballroom door she turned to him and bravely lifted her chin. “Good night, Alexander,” she said, holding out her hand.
“I can’t, Elsie,” he said, staring at her hand, as if she were saying a casual good night to an acquaintance of little consequence. He felt his heart wrench at the look of sadness in her eyes. And then her face crumpled.
“I don’t want to lose you. You are my best friend. Can’t we simply pretend tonight didn’t happen? Please?”
A stronger man would have walked away, but Alexander was not a strong man, not when it came to matters of the heart. “As you wish.”
She gave him a tremulous, watery smile. “See you tomorrow night, then?”
“Until tomorrow.”
Chapter 10
Monsieur Desmarais was a man of great pride, which was why it was so difficult to rely more and more on Alexander with each passing day. He was also a man of compassion, who worried that one day he would no longer be able to paint, leaving his fostered son with no way to make a living.
For years now, ever since it became clear that Alexander was fast becoming a master, guilt had gnawed at the Frenchman. The young man was a prodigy and deserved a far better education than he was able to give him. He should be in Paris displaying his work at the Salon; his work was that good. An artist such as Alexander was wasting his talent on these bourgeois English, who didn’t know a master painting when they saw it.
And, of course, he himself was a fraud, claiming credit for work he hadn’t done. It had started with Alexander helping him to paint when his hands grew too painful to hold a brush. Then, Alexander began to paint entire sections of the murals. Now, Desmarais was nothing more than the assistant, the companion of one of the greatest painters he had ever had the privilege to know. And no one even knew.
It gave Desmarais no pleasure to propagate this deception. But he was a pragmatic man who knew his livelihood and his reputation rested on the broad shoulders of the man he’d thought of as
“No,” she said, nearly shouting. “Please don’t, Alexander. Don’t say another word. I can’t bear it.”
Alexander stepped back, his breathing hard, his stance angry.
“Oh, please don’t be angry. One of us must be strong, must face reality.”
“Then it is I who must be strong, for I am not the one who led us beneath a large growth of mistletoe,” he nearly shouted, all the anger and frustration he felt coming out. “It was not well done of you, Miss Elsie, not well done at all. You cannot play the coquette, then back away angry that your own actions have resulted in unwanted consequences.”
“I know,” she said softly. “You must think me a terrible sort of girl.”
“Not terrible. Just very, very young.”
“I don’t much care for reality and I suppose, for just a little while, I wanted to pretend I was simply a girl kissing a boy. It seems I am forever apologizing and I fear I must do so again. Please don’t be angry.”
He let out a harsh breath, ashamed that he was making her feel distressed. He knew better, but it was so excruciatingly maddening to know, to know she wanted him and to be able to do nothing about it. And yet, that was not entirely true. He could do something. He simply chose not to, he realized, as a wave of self-loathing nearly knocked him to his knees.
“I am not angry with you,” he said harshly, then softened his tone when he realized he did, indeed, sound angry. “I am angry with myself. You are such an innocent and I have no right to touch you.”
Elsie bowed her head. The night had become so quiet, he imagined he heard her tears hitting her dress, soft little taps of misery.
“Let me walk you back to the house.”
She dashed away the tears and nodded. “I’ve ruined everything,” she said. “Stupid, silly mistletoe.”
“No,” he said quietly. “We were the silly stupid things. You and I both.”
At the ballroom door she turned to him and bravely lifted her chin. “Good night, Alexander,” she said, holding out her hand.
“I can’t, Elsie,” he said, staring at her hand, as if she were saying a casual good night to an acquaintance of little consequence. He felt his heart wrench at the look of sadness in her eyes. And then her face crumpled.
“I don’t want to lose you. You are my best friend. Can’t we simply pretend tonight didn’t happen? Please?”
A stronger man would have walked away, but Alexander was not a strong man, not when it came to matters of the heart. “As you wish.”
She gave him a tremulous, watery smile. “See you tomorrow night, then?”
“Until tomorrow.”
Chapter 10
Monsieur Desmarais was a man of great pride, which was why it was so difficult to rely more and more on Alexander with each passing day. He was also a man of compassion, who worried that one day he would no longer be able to paint, leaving his fostered son with no way to make a living.
For years now, ever since it became clear that Alexander was fast becoming a master, guilt had gnawed at the Frenchman. The young man was a prodigy and deserved a far better education than he was able to give him. He should be in Paris displaying his work at the Salon; his work was that good. An artist such as Alexander was wasting his talent on these bourgeois English, who didn’t know a master painting when they saw it.
And, of course, he himself was a fraud, claiming credit for work he hadn’t done. It had started with Alexander helping him to paint when his hands grew too painful to hold a brush. Then, Alexander began to paint entire sections of the murals. Now, Desmarais was nothing more than the assistant, the companion of one of the greatest painters he had ever had the privilege to know. And no one even knew.
It gave Desmarais no pleasure to propagate this deception. But he was a pragmatic man who knew his livelihood and his reputation rested on the broad shoulders of the man he’d thought of as
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