Lady Wild by Máire Claremont Page A

evenly, without guile, “but I do find Millais’ work miraculous.”
    A long, echoing, awkward moment followed her proclamation as Rossetti took in her words.
    A pleased smile pulled at Andrew’s lips. He couldn’t help it. Few ever told artists what they truly thought, and Ophelia had just told Rossetti, who she hoped would hire her, that she thought he was the inferior painter.
    Brave, foolish woman. How on earth was she going to survive in this world being so entirely honest?
    She wasn’t.
    Andrew’s gut clenched as he contemplated the hell that awaited a young woman so friendless, so honest, so pure of soul in the spirit-eating abyss that was London.
    Rossetti tossed his curled locks back over his shoulder, a moment of sheer anger flashing through his dark blue eyes before he laughed. “You are a treasure, and that rare thing, a challenge. And with you as my model, I shall reach new heights. You shall never disparage me thus again.”
    Ophelia blinked. “I didn’t mean to insult you, sir. I am truly a great admirer of your work and believe you are on the brink of genius.”
    Rossetti melted. Positively melted, like a cat with a tummy rub and a bit of cream.
    That hard hold on Andrew’s gut tightened as he stared at his seraphim. Perhaps he had been mistaken. He’d made judgment too soon, for on the heels of her blatant honesty, this compliment now seemed more precious than gold.
    He peered down at her earnest, soulful face. Was she putting Rossetti on? A niggling suspicion caused him to wonder if he’d been wrong all along.
    Perhaps his Ophelia was far more mercenary than he had considered. Perhaps she knew exactly what she was doing with her blushes, her bold comments, and determination to succeed.
    Perhaps. . .she did not need him at all.

CHAPTER NINE
    Men are mystifying creatures.
    -Ophelia’s Notebook
     
    “Did you conquer London, my dear?” Lady Darlington asked as Ophelia entered the room.
    Ophelia flung her bonnet onto an empty chair and raced across the chamber, her gaze firmly fixed on her mama’s face. “I did.”
    Her mother let out a free and infectious laugh. Delight gave her face a youth and health that she no longer had, and it was glorious to see. “I knew you would, my love.”
    Ophelia set herself carefully on the edge of the bed, not wishing to jostle her mother. Despite her care, a subtle wince crossed her mother’s face, and a bit of the joy that had flooded Ophelia earlier diminished. It would always be there now. That deathly shadow, threatening to encompass them all.
    Ophelia swallowed, determined not to borrow trouble, determined not to live in a future where her mother was not there, not when her mother was here before her, full of joy. “Rossetti, Mama. He wishes to paint me.”
    Her mother clapped her hands together, her blue-gray eyes lighting up. “I am so proud of you. And tonight. . .”
    Ophelia reached out and placed her hand over her mother’s thin ones. “Tonight?”
    “Lord Stark is taking you to a ball. You shall see Ruskin. Andrew assured me the famous patron will be there.”
    “Mama, I am not leaving you. I have spent far too much time away today and—”
    Her mother gave her a remonstrating look reminiscent of the ones she’d given when Ophelia was a child. “Did we not come to London for just this purpose?”
    “But—”
    A slight cough filled the room, and Ophelia tensed. She glanced back over her shoulder and spotted a slightly plump woman with silvery hair. The woman’s face seemed to hold an infinite kindness. For a moment, Ophelia was captivated by the sheer serenity radiating from the woman.
    Resentment at the interruption was impossible given the woman had such a lovely countenance.
    Her mother reached up and rested her hand over Ophelia’s. “This is Mrs. Rourke. Andrew has obtained her services. She will look after me so that you might continue in your work.”
    Ophelia’s throat tightened. She didn’t want to work. She didn’t wish