The Nude (full-length historical romance) by Dorothy McFalls Read Free Book Online

party.” Her heart raced and a fresh rush of heat burned her cheeks.
    She may have escaped his carriage, but she feared the abduction was far from over.
    She’d barely a moment to hatch an excuse for getting out of the invitation before a light knock sounded at the door. Elsbeth jumped. “Go away, Olivia.”
    The door eased opened. Molly, Elsbeth’s rather unconventional lady’s maid, one of the very few reminders of her life with her dead husband, backed into the room with a tea tray in her arms.
    “Beg pardon, milady,” Molly drawled in her less-than-perfect English. “Tallford said you’d be needin’ a pot o’ tea?”
    “Yes, thank you Molly. I would also appreciate a hand changing into a dry gown.”
    “Gracious, milady.” Molly closed the door after her and rushed to set the tray down. She tugged at Elsbeth’s damp gown like a nervous mother hen. “We must get this off you before you catch your death. You should have r u ng for me right away.”
    Elsbeth allowed Molly to fuss over her. Soon she was dressed in a serviceable wool gown that was not only warm but also extremely comfortable.
    It was not at all the thing a fashionable woman would dare wear. Her late husband would have claimed she looked as dowdy as a washerwoman. She smoothed out the deeply creased skirt while Molly reluctantly excused herself from the chamber. Once again alone, she pressed her ear to the door, straining as she listened for evidence of her cousins lurking in the hall.
    This afternoon, she heard blessedly few sounds. A creak here and a moaning floorboard there. Alone, and after surviving such an adventure in the dreary cold, she felt as if she could finally breathe easily.
    Before she realized what she was doing, she knelt beside her bed. The day she’d moved into this chamber she had shoved a carefully wrapped package underneath it.
    Her hand quickly found the flat package wrapped in a length of pink and white fabric. She sat on the bed and brushed a layer of dust from i ts surface. A pink ribbon criss crossed the package. It was a ribbon she’d worn in her hair when she was still a young woman as silly and carefree as her cousins. She pulled one end of the ribbon. The knot loosened and the fabric slipped away.
    With a heavy heart she picked up the stiff canvas and ran her finger over the beautiful oil painting. At one time she owned many such works.
    In a fit of rage she had destroyed them all—all except this one.
    Why had this small painting survived? The work of art, not much larger than a sheet of foolscap, gave life to a simple scene. The artist must have stretched out flat on his stomach in the midst of a field of wildflowers to capture such an intimate perspective of the deep purple and bright yellow flowers waving in the soft summer breeze.
    In the forefront, a single white daisy leaned forward, almost reaching out from the canvas, so close it must have tickled the artist’s nose.
    A mist of tears clouded Elsbeth’s vision. She blinked, hoping to hold back the memories and the pain. The life, the freedom, the unbridled happiness in the painting pricked her heart like a broken promise.
    Fields of wildflowers were long gone from her life.
    She could scarcely remember the love she’d once felt toward the creator of the painting. The feeling had changed, become twisted, and transformed into something ugly.
    Even so, she still appreciated the passion in the artist’s bold brush strokes. She’d never seen any other artist work the same way, plying the paints so heavily on the canvas, but at the same time evoking a light, sometimes playful effect. Nor had she ever seen a painter reveal so much of the deep longing that must be hidden in the artist’s heart.
    She’d never again seen such a painting . . . not until Dionysus. Why was he so determined to torment her? Damn the man to Hades and back. Who was he?
    Were the years of pain and horror she’d suffered living with her husband not enough? Was the artist determined