subterfuge. It was without a doubt the single most exciting conversation of her life.
He leaned forward even more. “John Edwards.”
A long, lingering, and delightfully sensuous gaze passed between them. Their faces were scandalously close.
“So tell me, Miss Lawson, what do you like to do when you’re not talking to strangers on trains?”
Annabelle smirked at him. “I paint.”
“Do you indeed? You’re an artist. I should have guessed.”
“How would you guess such a thing?”
“Don’t all artists have deeply tortured souls?”
Annabelle laughed out loud, and Aunt Millicent stirred beside her. Both Annabelle and Mr. Edwards quickly sat back as Millicent opened her eyes, stared dazedly up at the ceiling, then closed them again and drifted back to sleep.
Mr. Edwards swiped a hand over his brow, as if to say, That was close.
Annabelle shook her head with mock disapproval, then leaned forward again. Mr. Edwards did the same.
“Let me assure you,” she said, “I am not tortured.”
“Are you certain?” he asked with a teasing glint in his eyes. “You don’t feel wretchedly miserable or trapped? As if the life you are supposed to lead is beyond your reach and nothing has meaning?”
He was toying with her, of course, but she could not deny her astonishment that he had hit the mark exactly, because yes, sometimes she did indeed feel trapped. Especially when her aunt dressed her up like all the other London girls and paraded her around at balls—because she was not like other girls. She hated the Season, she had no interest in fancy gowns and heeled shoes, she had a strange fascination with Egyptian mummies, and she had a cow for a pet.
To be honest, there were times when she was truly screaming inside her head, trying to fit into this polished, patrician world, and not be a disappointment to her family, who had taken her in and loved her like one of their own. She felt she owed so much to them.
But she could not possibly express such an unconventional sentiment to Mr. Edwards.
“I paint landscapes,” she told him. “And I would describe my experience of painting in the same way you describe fishing. Nothing compares to the bliss of standing before a view of an autumn forest, setting up my easel and contemplating the first brushstroke. Though my favorite thing to paint is the coastline. Unfortunately, we don’t live on the coast—though I wish desperately that we did—so I must content myself with the countryside most of the time.”
He pointed a finger at her. “See? You are tortured after all. Frustrated by the geography of your existence.”
She laughed. “Yes, I suppose so. You win.”
He watched her laugh, and she could see as plain as day a gleam of desire in his eyes.
Oh, how he flattered her, just by the way he looked at her. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so beautiful before.
“I wish you could paint me fishing,” he said. “I would hang the painting over my mantel, and every time I looked at it, I would feel content.”
Content because it would make him think of fishing? Or because it would make him think of her?
She supposed she would never know the answer to that.
“I’d enjoy painting you,” she said openly. “I’ve never painted a fisherman before.”
“Perhaps one day we’ll make it happen. We’ll take your paints and a blank canvas out to my favorite fishing hole.”
Annabelle gazed out the window, feeling dreamy. “Wouldn’t that be splendid,” she replied as she imagined such a wonderful day.
It wasn’t long, however, before reality settled in and she had to accept that it would not happen. Ever. He was not the kind of man her aunt would approve of. He was a stranger on a train, after all, and he worked as a bank clerk.
As she watched the trees fly by outside the window—so fast she could barely focus on them—she was distressed by the extent of her disappointment. She was not free to do as she wished, for she was a London debutante.
Oh,
BWWM Club, Shifter Club, Lionel Law