The Portrait by Megan Chance

Author:Megan Chance [Chance, Megan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Historical, Romance, General
ISBN: 9781936632015
Google: IeLeYSPVJTQC
Publisher: Megan Chance
Published: 2011-01-21T08:00:00+00:00

It was the light that woke her. It streamed into her consciousness, god-beams that caressed her eyelids, the faint light of dawn.

Imogene opened her eyes, blinking in the brightness, momentarily disoriented when she saw the uncurtained windows. For a split second she had no idea where she was, and then she saw the half-empty wineglass before her, and Rico Childs sprawled, sleeping, in a nearby chair, and the memories of last night came flooding back, along with an instantaneous panic. Good Lord, it was morning. Morning, and she was still here in the studio, still with Jonas Whitaker and Childs.

She was wide awake in an instant, struggling from the clumsy arms of the chair she'd fallen asleep in. The last thing she remembered was the taste of deep red wine and an argument Childs and Whitaker had been having over Rembrandt. She didn't remember falling asleep, didn't remember even thinking that she should go.

Imogene scrambled to her feet. Her stomach twisted with anxiety when she thought of how worried Thomas and Katherine would be, what they would think when she arrived back home now. Oh, Lord, what they would think. . . .

She took a deep breath, anxiously searching the room for Whitaker. Childs was snoring softly in a chair, but Whitaker was nowhere to be seen. There was no time to look for him. She had to get home.

Imogene grabbed her mantle and hurried as quietly as she could through the studio, out the door. She nearly ran down the hallway, down the stairs, a hundred excuses flew through her mind. She felt a growing sense of panic when she stepped outside and realized how late it was—a panic that turned to guilt the moment she saw the brougham waiting. Whitaker had ordered Childs to send it away, but Thomas's carriage was still here. Waiting for her.

She winced and hurried quickly to the door, opening it to find Henry curled in what looked like a supremely uncomfortable position on the seat. He woke the moment she opened the door, sat up with a groan, blinking at her.

"Oh, pardon, miss. I—I didn't mean to fall asleep."

She felt sick. "Don't be ridiculous, Henry," she said. "I'm so sorry. I thought they'd sent you home. I didn't know you'd been here all night."

He rubbed his eyes. "I did go home," he said, frowning. "It was Mr. Thomas who sent me back this mornin'. Said I was to fetch you home an hour ago."

Imogene's heart seemed to stop. "I see," she said quietly, standing aside for the driver to climb out and then getting inside herself, sitting stiffly against the seat.

It seemed to take only minutes to reach Washington Square, and her godfather's house. The carriage jerked to a stop, and when Henry opened the door and helped her to the walk, Imogene's mouth was so dry she couldn't swallow. She struggled for calm as she went inside. In the quiet of the foyer she stopped and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, searching for strength and explanation.

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