A Perfect Secret by Donna Hatch Page A

worn and raw. Since he couldn’t work off his frustration by boxing or fencing or racing, he’d paint to rein in his roiling emotions.
    Christian went into his studio upstairs and lit every lamp in the room. He preferred natural sunlight, which is why he used a room with windows all along the east wall. However, when seized by the need to paint this time of night, he needed to make concessions. Christian removed his frockcoat, waistcoat and cravat, rolled up his sleeves and donned a large smock. Then he uncovered his easel and eyed his unfinished landscape.
    After losing so many members of his family, Christian understood all too well the tenuous hold men have upon life. What would drive a person to such drastic measures as to purposely try to end her life? Not even Father, in his bleak and inconsolable grief after Mama died, had resorted to self-murder. No, he’d died slowly, a little more each day, of a broken heart.
    He shouldn’t be so affected by Genevieve. He lost her a year ago. No, he hadn’t really lost her; she had never been his in the first place. He didn’t need her. He was better off without her.
    Drawing a deep breath, he blew away his scattered thoughts like so many dried leaves. After crushing the pigments with a pestle, he mixed his colors, then picked up a brush and focused on the painting. With his brush, he outlined a landscape he’d viewed during his recent trip to the lake country.
    Normally painting provided a reprieve from whatever thoughts haunted him, but tonight, they spiraled back to Genevieve. If she’d married him, they would have been happy. His whole existence would have been to make her smile. But she’d proven how unfaithful her heart was. And now she wanted to flee her husband. Which just proved—again—that she wasn’t capable of constancy. Was she even capable of love or did she view love as a game?
    Refocusing on his painting, he finished shading in a tree before he began on the patterns of the lake. Creating life-like water had always proved a challenge that required his full focus, but tonight, instead of a clear lake, the muddy river that had nearly claimed both his and Genevieve’s life tainted the painting.
    It would have been so much simpler if he’d let her drown. He clenched his fist and put down his brush before he snapped it in half.
    The clock revealed three o’clock in the morning. With a sigh, he washed his brushes and his hands. After removing his smock, he draped it over a stool and banked the fire. With a frown at the painting with the greenish-brown lake, he blew out the lamps.
    Shadows lurked in the corners along his path downstairs to the family quarters. He nodded to a sleepy-eyed footman at the bottom of the stairs, and then paused, casting a long look to the wing where Genevieve slept.
    She’d been desperate for her husband not to know of her existence. If they were simply estranged, they could live out their lives in separate houses and ignore one another. No, it was more than that.
    Very well. He’d help her if only to get her out of his life as soon as possible. Besides, anything that would cause difficulty for Wickburgh was sure to be a worthwhile endeavor.
    A muffled scream sent Christian’s heart racing. He bolted down the corridor, following the screams. They led him to Genevieve’s room. A footman was already on his way. Christian passed the footman and burst inside.
    Fully expecting to see an attacker over Genevieve, Christian raced in and flung back the bed curtains.
    Alone and unharmed, Genevieve writhed in bed. Christian glared at her. What theatrics was this? And what did she hope to gain?
    A maid appeared at the bedside and caught one of her flailing hands. “It’s all right, Miss, yer safe ’ere.”
    Her face pale and the muscles in her neck standing out, Genevieve fought against an imaginary assailant while cries of distress wrenched from her. The terror in her voice pierced his soul. Absolute primal fear rolled off her in