Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
It’s Josephine. I’m sure of it. But not quite the same Josephine from the Dyce portrait. That one was distracted, sad almost. This girl in the staff photo has a lot more life in her.
I flip over the photograph and glimpse the date. It was taken a little more than a year before the Victoria sinking. Had Josephine fallen for either lord at this point? Maybe just one, and that’s why she’s so happy? New love and all. And then, by the time she posed for Dyce, she was entangled in a full-blown love triangle and riddled with turmoil?
So many questions.
Hugh paws at me from the bed while I sit on the floor. He starts tugging strands of my hair with his claws, tapping at my shoulder. I absently rub his ear while perusing pages until I find an invoice signed by William Tulley.
In the matter of a portrait commission, he agrees to pay Franklin Astor Dyce three hundred pounds.
Finally, proof.
This has to be Josephine’s portrait. It would be way too big a coincidence to believe Robert had fallen in love with some other maid at the same time William commissioned a portrait that wasn’t my painting.
I am now fairly confident in saying that Robert and William both had the hots for Josephine.
“So which one did she choose?” I ask Hugh.
The cat blinks at me, bored.
Damn it. This mystery is maddening.
Would William have hidden Josephine’s rejection letter in the painting after she eloped to Ireland with Robert?
Or was she lost at sea among the victims of the Victoria, leaving Robert with nothing but a brief parting note and the forgotten portrait?
I don’t get the chance to let my mind muse over the possibilities, because the doorbell rings. Twice. Then a third time. A couple hours ago, I heard the stampede that was the boys going out for the night, so I haul myself up and head downstairs.
I open the front door to find Nate standing under the porch light.
30
“YOU KNOW, THERE’S A FINE LINE BETWEEN PERSISTENCE AND desperation,” I tell Nate, who sits on the corner of my desk.
I keep a safe distance by leaning against my bedroom door. Just in case I decide this whole conversation is a bad idea and need to make a quick getaway.
Still, no amount of distance can stop me from noticing how stupidly good he looks. And he doesn’t even try that hard. Showing up in a dark hooded sweatshirt and ripped jeans, his hair tousled from the ride here on his motorcycle. Slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. It’s like the less men care, the sexier they look.
He nods wryly. “I’ll be mindful of that.”
“I meant what I said. We don’t have anything to talk about. Nothing’s changed.”
“I broke up with Yvonne.”
I meet his eyes, startled. “Okay, well, that’s new.”
A hint of a smile curves his lips.
“Why?” I ask, trying to play it cool.
“I wasn’t in love with her.”
“I’m not in love with crepes, but I’ve eaten more of them in the last week than I have in my entire life.”
“I’m sorry?”
I have no idea why I said that. “Why now? I mean, you waited this long. What changed your mind?”
“You did.”
And just like that, my heartbeat is dangerously out of control.
Nate runs a hand through his hair. “Couldn’t keep seeing her while I was thinking about you. I was waiting for that feeling to go away. It didn’t.”
“Did you tell her why?”
Anxiety tickles my stomach. Yvonne and I are barely acquaintances, but she is Celeste’s friend, and that complicates things.
“You mean did your name come up? No. I don’t need to give her someone to blame. It isn’t about that.”
I take a breath. “Then maybe you can tell me what it is about. Because I’m having a hard time understanding.”
He smiles faintly. “Why do I fancy you, you mean?”
“Yes. Feel free to be specific.”
“You’re making this rather difficult.”
“Good. You kind of deserve it.”
He does this smirking head tilt that I hate and adore in equal measure because I want to know what’s happening inside his head when he does it. Desperately.
Nate goes quiet as he considers my request, eyeing me with that penetrating gaze that’s excited and unnerved me since the night we first met. I half expect him to wriggle his way free of the topic. But then he surprises me.
“Because you’re funny in a completely unpretentious way. You aren’t impressed with yourself at all.”
My teeth grab at the inside of my cheek to hide a shy smile. “That’s a good start.”
He begins a circuitous approach toward me. First stopping at my dresser to appraise the debris from my pockets and other knickknacks. Then my nightstand, with my headphones and books. He inspects the contents of the document box spread on the floor.
“You’re curious,” he continues.
“As in strange?”
“As in inquisitive. I despise the uninterested.”