Rivals and Revels (A Regency Romance)

13. The Lord and Lady of the Lake (1 of 2)

If Radcliffe wanted to build a bridge between Everett and her with his gift, he was successful. Every time Mabel put a brush to paper, she thought of Everett.

His portrait, however, didn't turn out. No, it wasn't precisely bad, and her mother had praised it. The likeness was there. It was just... inconclusive, as if some evil doctor set leeches to him and they bled his life to a trickle. Meanwhile, in her memory, even when he was malicious, Everett stood vibrant. Perhaps watercolour wasn't a media that could capture his quality. He should have been a fresco in gold and azure pigments, viewed under the noon sun.

Days passed, and Everett didn't visit to apologize if it ever was his intent.

Stop peeking out of the accursed window. Stop, stop, stop! Mabel thought with vehemence. The window in question was the one that looked out in the direction of the Border Lake. She obeyed the drill sergeant in her mind and turned back to her pulpit, where roses replaced Everett's face. She must only think of roses, these roses in a blue-and-white Chinese vase in front of her. A generous drop of crimson sat on her brush, poised to colour another petal.

The real ones teased her senses raw. The last autumnal blooms fed lustfully on the juices of the Earth, growing into the largest and most intensely coloured roses she had ever seen. Touch their petals—and they would bleed.

On paper, while the layer was freshly painted, still full of moisture, the colour looked almost vibrant enough, but once it dried... Mabel sighed. Once it dried, the marvelous colour would always diminish. It would take another layer of colour at least to capture how red that red was, and it had to dry now.

The rose scent filled half of the room easily, intoxicating her, even without the vexatious memories. She glanced out of that window again.

Just stop already!

The brush rolled out of her fingers leaving a blood-red trail on the floor. She leaned on the windowsill with her elbows, propping her chin on her hand. Whyever else did she choose this particular spot to paint, if not to torment herself with fruitless hope? She might as well drink the cup of bitter medicine to the bottom.

Everett's damning flaws and arrogance should have eviscerated her affection for him, yet she still longed to see him. It was beyond comprehension how he could disgrace himself so in her eyes, and yet if his shadow darkened their threshold she would be overjoyed.

If she could but glean him, see the twist on his lips, read the arrogance in his startling eyes, surely the tightening around her heart would ease. She would be free to hate him as he so richly deserved. She would be set free of the shameful obsession.

***

Mabel didn't have a particular idea in mind when she went to the stables. Certainly it wasn't her intention to gallop to Chesterton's manor and creep under his windows like a floozy. On a crisp day in early October, a horse-ride would be a pleasant diversion, that's all. And truly, who wouldn't want to ride on a day like this? Breathing in the bracing air and enjoying the last vestiges of colour before the winter's gloom descended upon the countryside? A perfect day for it.

Edward and Hugh were of the same opinion, because they skulked in the stables, brushing a snorting horse instead of cramming their lessons. The beast towered over their still fragile bodies, but it seemed to cause not a yote of concern to the boys. Their blonde heads bobbed to make points in an insipid argument about who could beat the other in a race.

Mabel covered her nose against the smell of manure and hay. "Do you have Papa's permission to be here, my dears?"

The twins startled in unison, the panicked expressions identical on mirror-image faces. For a heart-stopping moment, she didn't even know Edward from Hugh. The explanations skipped out like spilled beans, overtaking one another at a dazzling speed.