Jonas shoved his hand deep in the pocket of his overcoat. The cold air stung the cuts on his face, the tender bruise on his jaw. A quiet breeze blew his hair into his face; the strands caught on the roughness of dried blood marking his cheekbone and his eye. He shook his head, closing his eyes against the glowing gaslights and the bright reflection of the gallery windows shining on the snow.
He had wanted one day. One more day to think about her, to stare at her portrait and wish she were beside him. One day, and it had shown him more irrevocably than ever what a danger he was. He had lost control, had lunged at Samuel Carter without a thought as to who he was or where, had been mindless and aching, wanting only to punish the man for the things he'd said to her, wanting to kill him for the things he'd said. If Jonas needed any more proof that he should be locked away forever, tonight had given it to him. He'd been an animal. A madman. He was everything his father had called him that long-ago day in Cincinnati.
But the worst thing was not the fight. The worst thing was that he had been so caught up in his obsession with Genie that he hadn't stopped to think about what it would do to her. He'd painted that portrait and known it was a masterpiece, but he had not expected the crowd's reaction to it, or hers.
He had turned her into a pariah. The good people of New York City might have accepted her as his mistress, but as his model—his nude model—she was labeled no better than a whore. It was ludicrous and hypocritical, but it was the way things were, and he should have known. She would be shunned by the very circle that paid his bills, that purchased his paintings. They would buy the portrait, they would stare at her naked body hanging from their walls, but they would revile the woman who had posed for it.
It didn't matter that she hadn't posed. It didn't matter that he'd painted her from memory. He had ruined her.
Christ, he'd ruined her.
Jonas opened his eyes, staring blankly around him, hearing the rattle of carriages on Broadway, the muffled talk from those leaving the gallery. Truthfully, he had not expected her to come to the exhibition, though he knew her father was in town. He had not expected to see her ever again. He had told himself he wanted it that way. But the moment he'd seen her, he'd known he was lying to himself. She was so beautiful in that bronze gown, with the rich color accenting her hair and eyes, and the sight of her brought such a pure, all- encompassing joy, such a overwhelming gratitude, it was all he could do to keep from running toward her. He would have, he thought. He would have crushed her to him and never let her go if she hadn't looked
away from the portrait at just that moment. If he hadn't seen the stunned expression on her face and the unshed tears in her eyes. Those things had stopped him dead, had left him feeling bereft and uncertain. They were feelings he hated, and so when he heard her father's condemnation, he had gratefully turned to the safer emotion of anger, had let it overtake him.
And had ruined himself as thoughtlessly as he'd ruined her.
Jonas raked his hand through his hair, taking such a deep breath of the frigid air it burned his lungs. Ah, what a mistake he'd made. What a terrible mistake. He belonged in Bedlam, belonged with the other lunatics, the dream-crazed creatures who couldn't be trusted to not do damage to themselves or to others. He belonged in solitude, where his uncontrolled rages and rabid joys would be witnessed only by silence and darkness, where he could let his despair give in to madness and no one would care. He deserved it. He needed it.
He told himself he wanted it.
But what he really wanted was her.
In the near distance a woman's laughter sparkled over the snow, along with the clack of bootheels and an answering baritone chuckle. And for just a moment Jonas allowed himself to wonder what it would be like to have her. What it would be like to have a normal life, to do normal, everyday things. To go to an exhibition on a cold and snowy night and see the gaslights reflected in the snow and the jewels glittering on the ears and throats of every woman there. To walk arm in arm and laugh breathlessly together, whispering secrets and exchanging small flirtations. To go home with her and pull her laughing up the stairs, to take her in his arms and kiss her and know she was his forever, that together they could survive this madness, that with her he could withstand his pain and temper his joys.
It would be like living a fairy tale. Prince Charming and Sleeping Beauty. But in fairy tales the witch was always killed at the end. In fairy tales evil was banished. And Prince Charming never turned back into a frog.
Jonas sighed, leaning back against the wall. There was no point in thinking about it anymore. Genie would never be his. She would go back to Nashville. As Rico said, she would find a nice young man and settle down. She would have children. She would be happy.
Happy. Yes, that was what Jonas wanted for her. It was all he wanted.
"Ah, there you are."
Rico's voice came out of the darkness, disembodied and strange but hardly a surprise. Jonas turned to see his friend standing at the corner of the building, huddled against the cold.
"Yes," he said calmly. "I'm here."
"I finally got Carter settled down. He's decided not to press charges."
Jonas nodded. "Thank you."
Childs came toward him. Jonas heard his friend's footsteps crunching in the frost-covered snow, heard the deep tenor of his breath. Then he felt Rico's warmth beside him, a reassuring presence in the cold night.
"You had no choice," Childs said. "What that man said to her was criminal."
"She's his daughter."
"That doesn't give him leave to abuse her." Rico leaned back against the building, his shoulder close to Jonas's. "You were a brave man to attack him, mon ami —or incredibly stupid, 1 can't decide. He had the advantage, after all."
Jonas laughed bitterly, holding up his false hand. It jiggled loosely on his wrist. A broken leather strap dangled down his arm. "Next time I'll think twice before I take on an angry father one-handed."
There was a pause. Then Childs said, carefully, "I would like to think that this is the end of your father- fighting days."
"It's not as if I've made a career of it."
"That's not exactly what I meant." Rico sighed. "You realize, my love, that it would go a long way toward mending things if you simply married the girl."
Jonas said nothing. The pain that speared through him at Rico's words was too great to fight.
"You're not going to, are you?"
Jonas shook his head. "No."
"Will you tell me why?"
He'd already given Rico all the answers. There were no others. Jonas angled his head back, staring at the black sky, wishing he could see the stars tonight, needing to see the stars. A pinpoint of light in the darkness, as bright and elusive as the hope Genie had given him. The hope that was slipping away from him now, slipping through his fingers like water. He let it go, not knowing how to keep it, afraid to try.
He heard Rico sigh again beside him, heard the catch in his breath.
"You're going to do it, aren't you?" Childs asked quietly, a murmur of sound on the breeze. "You're going to let her go."
"Yes."
"And then what? What will you do then, Jonas? Commit yourself? Lock yourself away?"
He knew Rico expected a denial, that he wanted one. Deliberately Jonas kept quiet, kept looking at the black, black sky, at the ineffectual glow of the streetlights against it.
Rico exhaled in disbelief. "That's your plan, isn't it? Dammit, tell me I'm wrong. Tell me."
Slowly Jonas turned to look at him. Childs's eyes sparkled in the darkness, dark and luminous. His face was lit in planes of shadow and light.
"I'm going tomorrow," he said.
"What if I told you I wasn't leaving?" Rico demanded sharply. "What if I told you I'd stay? Would it make a difference?"
Jonas smiled. Tenderly, he touched Rico's shoulder, clasping it tightly, feeling the warmth of his friend's body through the heavy coat. "No," he said softly. "It wouldn't make a difference. Not this time."
He pulled away and started walking, away from the glittering windows of the National Academy, into the gaslit shadows of the night, leaving Rico standing stunned and silent behind.
The clock in the hallway chimed two a.m., but Imogene stood at the window of her room, watching the snowy street below. There were still people up at this hour, couples dashing home late from parties and distractions, lovers sharing illicit kisses in dark corners.
Any other night she would have liked watching them. Any other night, she would have made up stories in her head about where they'd been and who they were. But not tonight. Tonight, she could not stop thinking about Jonas, about the painting.
About herself.
Imogene shivered, drawing her arms closer about her chest, feeling the brush of the earrings against her jaw, the smooth touch of the bronze velvet against her knuckles. The trappings of beauty. Jewelry and velvet and brocade. Tonight she had put on this dress and felt that she was pretty. She had seen the way the hue heightened her color and added honey to her hair and she had thought, now he'll want me. Now he won't be so ashamed. She had wanted to impress him with fine things, and instead he had shown her how unnecessary such things were. Instead, he had created beauty with nothing.
With nothing.
She had not even posed for him. He had created a vision from memory alone, had transformed her into a woman who was beautiful and alluring. A woman she had always believed she could never be. At least she had believed that, until tonight. Until she'd looked at the painting and seen in that woman the same things she saw in the sketch hanging above her washstand. Beauty and grace. A subtle eroticism. Tranquility. And something else. Something familiar.
Herself.
Yes, she was the woman in his painting. She knew it when she thought of the way she'd been with Jonas, when she thought of how she'd lain in his arms and cried out for his touch. She had come alive beneath his hands, had felt vibrant and beautiful and sensuous. And perhaps . . . perhaps feeling those things had made them true. Perhaps she had been wrong about who she was, perhaps her father had been wrong. She had spent her life comparing herself to Chloe, and it was true that in comparison to her sister, Imogene was not as pretty, not as talented. But now she wondered if they were really the things that mattered.
She thought about the things she'd always wanted, things that had been defined by Chloe. Talent and beauty and attention. Imogene had wanted, more than anything, to be like her sister, to be the belle of the ball.
Or she had wanted that, once. But wanting those things had become a habit more than anything else. Over the years, over the last weeks, they had somehow lost their attractiveness. Instead of remembering the way Chloe had bloomed beneath the admiration, Imogene remembered the mindless flirtation and superficial talk, the attention that had smothered as much as it flattered.
Chloe had not been able to go anywhere without men falling over themselves to talk to her. She had grown to expect it, had relied on her beauty to give her whatever she wanted. Imogene had always thought her sister was defiant and rebellious, but suddenly she wondered if that wasn't it at all, if maybe Chloe hadn't been a bohemian, or a rebel.
If maybe she had simply been spoiled.
The thought was startling and disconcerting. In death, Chloe had become what she had never been in life: a perfect sister, a glowing talent. Death had given her a heroism, a sharp focus that wasn't blurred by reality or faults. Grief had turned her into a myth, a fantasy.
Imogene had been struggling to become an illusion. For years she had wanted a life that had never existed. She had wanted love—her father's love, her mother's, Nicholas's. She had wanted to be beautiful to someone. She had wanted those things so badly she had given away her own life to have them.
But still no one had given her those things. No one had ever loved her enough to believe she was beautiful or special.
No one except Jonas.
Except Jonas. She thought of how it felt to lie in his arms, to press her cheek against his chest and hear the rumble of his voice, the steady beating of his heart. And she knew that Chloe would never have fallen in love with Jonas. Chloe would have dismissed him and walked away, because she had no compassion and less understanding. She would never have wanted to try.
But Imogene was not Chloe. She was no artist, and she was no beauty. Except in the eyes of one man. A man who made her believe anything was possible. A man who made her believe she could be the woman in the portrait. A man who looked at her and saw beauty and tranquility.
A man who loved her.
She knew that too, as irrevocably as if he'd told her. And it hadn't been the pain in his eyes tonight that had told her, or the way he'd defended her against her father. It had been simply that he had painted a portrait of her from memory. That he saw her as beautiful. She'd been wrong when she thought he didn't really see her—she knew that now. He not only saw who she was, he made her more than she'd ever thought she could be. His words from the other night came rushing back to her, haunting and doubly painful now, because now she understood what he'd been saying. Now she understood.
"Look at me, Genie. Look at who I am. Surely you know you can't stay here." Not because she wasn't good enough for him. Not because he was tired of her. But because he was afraid of himself. Because he was afraid. God, how simple it was.
And yet the worst thing was that she had misunderstood and so had done what everyone did. She'd left him. Because she had undervalued herself, she had given her life away a second time, was once again surrendering what she wanted without a fight. She was giving up happiness. She was giving up love.
Thomas's words came trembling back to her. "You're not a little girl anymore. You're a grown woman. Perhaps it's time you thought about what you want for your life, instead of what your father wants."
What you want. . . .
Imogene opened her eyes, staring out again at the golden glow cast by the gaslights onto the snowy streets. She heard the muffled clatter of carriage wheels, saw a hired carriage pull up in front of the house. The door opened, and Thomas and her father came stumbling out. Samuel was hunched into his cloak, and though he shook his head when Thomas tried to help him down, he did not shrug off the steadying hand her godfather placed on his arm. She watched as the two of them climbed the stairs, watched until she heard the unlatching of the front door, until they disappeared inside and she heard them in the foyer, stumbling and talking as they went down the hall.
She let the curtain fall and stepped back from the window, then slowly she walked out her bedroom door and down the stairs. She heard their murmurs in Thomas's study. Without hesitating, she went to stand in the entry.
Her father was slumped in a chair, his head resting in his hand. At the other end of the room, Thomas was pouring brandy. He looked up and saw her. Slowly he set the brandy aside and restoppered it. He picked up two half-full glasses and walked to Samuel.
"If you don't mind," he said, handing her father a glass, "I think I'll take mine upstairs. It's getting late."
"Not that late," Samuel protested. He turned in his chair as Thomas started to the door. "For God's sake, man, I—" He caught sight of her and stopped. "Imogene. Good God, girl, why aren't you in bed?" He waved her away irritably. "Leave us be."
Thomas paused as he passed her. He smiled reassuringly. "Good night, my dear," he said softly.
She caught his gaze. "Good-bye."
She saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes, surprise that turned to sudden comprehension. His smile grew; she felt his joy in his quick squeezing of her arm. "Be happy," he whispered.
"I will be."
He nodded, and then he turned away, saying loudly, to Samuel. "Good night."
Imogene heard her father grumbling as Thomas left the room. She waited until she could no longer hear her godfather's footsteps, and then she walked over to where her father sat, staring into the fire. She stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the flames.
"I'm leaving," she said softly. "I just wanted you to know."
He looked up at her, frowning. The motion made the swelling of his cheek seem worse, accentuated the cut on his chin. "Of course we're leaving," he said, obviously annoyed. "We're catching the early train tomorrow, so be ready. I only hope Nashville hasn't already caught wind of all the trouble you've caused."
She shook her head. "I'm not going back to Nashville."
"What the hell—" He stopped short, his expression clearing, his confusion replaced by disbelief and contempt. "Ah, I see where it lies now," he said slowly. "You'd best get that thought out of your mind, girl. You think you can just run back to Whitaker, eh? Well, you can't. He won't take you back. He's got what he wanted."
Imogene shrugged. "Maybe that's true. I won't know until I ask him."
"He's a madman. He'll end up in jail one day, you mark my words."
"Then I'll be there to bail him out."
He laughed shortly. "No doubt you think you love him. That's it, isn't it? Good God, girl, you're so naive. I'd lay odds ten to one he doesn't love you."
Imogene said nothing.
Her father fingered his glass. He sat up a little straighter, his dark eyes narrowing, his lips thinning in a straight line. "You'll be sorry," he said. "The scandal will destroy you, and don't think you can come running to me for help. Even though you've shamed both me and your mother, I'm willing to take you home tomorrow. We'll do what we can to help this thing blow over. But if you go to him, you can forget about your family. If you defy me again, I won't lift another finger to help you as long as I live."
Imogene looked at him thoughtfully. "I understand," she said. "And I'm sorry."
He stared at her as if she had turned into a stranger before his very eyes. "I'm not joking," he said harshly. "I'm warning you, Imogene. If you do this, I'll never forgive you. Your mother will never forgive you."
She nodded, wondering why his words didn't hurt. Wondering why she didn't feel anything at all. "I'm sorry for that too."
He watched her steadily. She saw the anger in his eyes fade. She saw his disappointment. And suddenly she felt the sadness she'd been waiting for. This was the man whose love she had wanted so badly she changed her life to please him. The man she'd always thought of as strong and vibrant, as charismatic and refined. But his love came at too high a price, she knew, and now when she looked at him she only saw a weak, angry old man. A man who could not forget the daughter he loved, and because of it was losing his other one.
She felt sorry for him suddenly, felt sorry for herself. In a way, she would have preferred to remember him without his weaknesses, would have preferred to remember him as the man who had entertained artists and philosophers, the man who held Nashville in his hands. He had shown her a world of sophistication and brilliance, but that was not the same thing as being a father. He had never been a father, not to her, and she wished he had been, even one time, because that was the memory she wanted. It was a memory she would have never given away.
"Your sister would never have done such a thing," he said, fixing her with his gaze.
Imogene didn't look away. "I'm sorry, Papa," she said. "I'm sorry I'm not the daughter you want me to be. But I want my own life. Not Chloe's. Not yours. I hope you can understand that. I pray that you can."
Her father closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.
When he looked at her again, there was pain in his expression, something that looked like regret— whether for himself or for her, she didn't know. And she didn't care. He had abandoned her long ago. He no longer deserved her sacrifices. He never had.
"You'll regret this, daughter," he said dully. "You'll be knocking on my door in a month, I know you will."
She shook her head and smiled and leaned over him, kissing his forehead, feeling his dry skin beneath her lips. He didn't move. He didn't try to kiss her back. When she straightened, he was looking at the fire.
"Give my regards to Mama," she said softly, and then she turned away, leaving him with his brandy and his pride. Leaving him to stare into the fire—forever, if he wanted to.
In the hallway, the grandfather clock chimed three.
The night was slipping away. It was time to go.