He’d told her as much only minutes earlier.
And when it did take London by storm, the women behind her would eat their words.
Derek had reached the center of the dais, made a show of peeking behind the curtain before turning toward the assembled crowd as Sir Martin Archer Shee, the president of the Royal Academy, welcomed London to the exhibition. The speech was impressive, delivered in the distinguished man’s booming Irish brogue, noting the venerable history of the academy and its exhibitions.
Indeed, the art on the walls was very good indeed. It was not the quality of Derek’s, of course, but it was fine art. There were several very nice landscapes.
And then it was time.
“Each year, the academy prides itself on a special piece—a first exhibition from one of Britain’s most skilled contemporary artists. In the past, we’ve revealed unparalleled works from Thomas Gainsborough and Joseph Turner and John Constable, each to more acclaim than the last. This year, we are most proud to showcase renowned artist of stage and canvas, Derek Hawkins.”
Derek’s chest puffed with pride. “It is my masterwork.”
Sir Martin turned toward the unexpected interjection. “Would you like to speak to it now?”
Derek stepped forward. “I shall say more once it is revealed, but for now I shall offer only this. It is the greatest nude of our time.” He paused. “The greatest nude of all time.”
A hush went over the room. Not that Lily could hear it over the loud rushing in her ears.
Nude.
To her knowledge, Derek had only ever painted one nude.
It bests Rubens, he’d said as she’d lain in repose on the cobalt settee in his studio, surrounded by satin pillows and lush fabrics. It is more glorious than Titian.
The words were not a memory, however. He was speaking them again, now, casting his arrogant gaze across the crowd. “It makes Ingres look like he should return to school.” He turned to the president of the academy. “The Royal Academy, of course.”
The boast—an insult to one of the greatest artists of the day—unlocked the assembly, and the collective whispers rose in a cacophony, adding sound to the wild heat that consumed Lily.
“Outrageous,” someone said nearby.
He’d sworn it was for his eyes alone.
“I’ve never heard such conceit.”
He’d promised her no one would ever see it.
The women behind her spoke again, snide and unpleasant. “Of course. That’s why he brought her.”
It couldn’t be she.
It couldn’t be.
“No doubt,” came the agreement. “She’s low enough to be the model.”
“Model is too kind. It implies value. She is too cheap for such a word. Only allowed inside the door because of the goodwill of—”
She turned to stare at them, halting the words in the speaker’s throat, the truth of the moment bringing unwanted tears to her eyes. They didn’t care. The two women stared right at her. As though she were a roach in the gutter.
“Her guardian clearly understands that beauty has no bearing on worth.”
Lily turned away, the cruel words setting her in motion. At first, simply to escape the horrid women, and then, to escape her own fear.
And then, to stop Derek from baring her to the world.
She pushed her way through the crowd, which was already crushing closer and closer to the stage and the painting, still hidden. Thankfully. Sir Martin had resumed speaking, but Lily did not hear the words, too focused on getting to the dais.
On getting to the painting.
She climbed the stairs, driven by something far more powerful than embarrassment.
Shame.
Shame for what she had done. For trusting him. For believing him.
For believing she’d ever be more than herself. Alone.
For believing in the promise of us.
And then she was on the stage, and he was turning toward her, the room going silent once more, in utter shock at her presence. At her intrusion. The president of the academy turned wide eyes on her.
Derek moved with perfect ease, however, waving one arm toward her. “Ah! My muse arrives.”
It was time for Lily’s eyes to go wide. He’d ruined her. As though she’d removed her clothes in front of all of London. And still, he smiled at her, as though he didn’t see it. “My lovely Lily! The conduit of my genius. Smile, darling.”
She would never have imagined that the words would have made her so very furious. She didn’t stop moving. And she did not smile. “You swore no one would see it.”
The room gasped. As though the walls themselves could draw breath.
He blinked. “I did no such thing.”
Liar.
“You said it was for you alone.”
He smiled, as though it would explain everything. “Darling. My genius is too vast for me not to share it. It is for the world. For all time.”
She looked to the crowd, to the hundreds of eyes assembled, the force of their combined gaze setting her back on her feet. Making her knees weak. Making her heart pound.
Making her furious.
She turned back to him. “You said you loved me.”
He tilted his head. “Did I?”
She was out of space. Of time. Her body no longer hers. The moment no longer hers. She shook her head. “You did. You said it. We said it. We were to be married.”
He laughed. Laughed. The sound echoed in the gasps and whispers of the crowd beyond, but Lily didn’t care. His laugh was enough to slay on its own. “Dear girl,” he mocked. “A man of my caliber does not marry a woman of yours.”
He said it in front of all London.
Before these people, whom she’d always dreamed of becoming. Before this world, in which she’d always dreamed of living. Before this man, whom she’d always dreamed of loving.
But who had never loved her.
Who, instead, had shamed her.
She turned to the curtain, her purpose singular. To destroy his masterwork the way he’d destroyed her. Without care that those assembled would see the painting.
She tore at the curtain, the thick red velour coming from its moorings with virtually no pressure—or perhaps with the strength of her fury—revealing . . .
Bare wall.
There was nothing there.
She turned back to the room, surprised laughter and scandalized gasps and whispers as loud as cannon fire rioting through her.
The painting wasn’t there.