his eyes.
As Lady Laura embarked on the necessary introductions, Adam set himself to refining his initial impression, going beyond mere physical appearance. What he saw at a second, more searching glance lent substance to the fears the countess had expressed on Lovat’s behalf. Everything about the younger man suggested a state of acute emotional repression. The thick, bronze-pale hair had been barbered to the point of ruthlessness at sides and back, and the chilly monochrome of his attire only served to leach any remaining color from a face already pale and drawn, thinner than it should have been. The line of the tight-lipped mouth was strained and unsmiling.
Lady Laura’s voice recalled Adam from his impromptu assessment. She was speaking, he realized, to the artist.
“Adam’s a psychiatrist, Peregrine, but don’t let that put you off,” she was saying. “He’s also an old and dear friend—and an admirer of your work.”
“I am, indeed, Mr. Lovat,” Adam said, smoothly picking up his cue. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
He smiled and offered a handshake, but he was not surprised when Peregrine found a way to avoid it.
“Forgive me, Sir Adam,” the younger man murmured, nervously displaying a set of paint-smudged fingers. “I’m afraid I’m in no fit state to return your courtesy.”
With this tight-lipped apology, lie retreated to the worktable next to the easel and began wiping his hands on a linen paint-rag. His fingers were not entirely steady. When Adam moved a step closer, as though to view the work in progress on the easel, Peregrine reached out and hastily flicked a flap of cream-colored hessian over the partly-finished canvas.
“No matter, Mr. Lovat,” Adam said, affecting not to notice. “I apologize if I’ve interrupted your work. Judging by what I’ve been privileged to see in the past, you have a rare talent for portraiture. I was particularly taken by your study of Lady Douglas-McKay and her two children. In my opinion, it was one of the finest pieces in this year’s RSA exhibition.”
Peregrine shot Adam a fleeting, almost furtive glance from under lowered lids, then pointedly returned his attention to the brush he had started cleaning.
“I’m obliged to you for the compliment, sir,” he mumbled stiffly.
“Your handling of children as subjects is particularly masterful,” Adam continued calmly. “I was visiting the Gordon-Scotts only last week, and couldn’t help but notice your recent portrait of their son and daughter. I knew it for your work even without seeing the signature. Your gift for capturing the spirit behind each face you paint is really quite distinctive.”
The younger man murmured an incoherent phrase that might have been self-deprecation and put aside his paint rag. He glanced at Adam again, then abruptly took off his glasses and scowled at them as though dissatisfied. Out from behind the glasses, his eyes were a dull shade of hazel, with dark hollows underscoring them.
“Now, Adam,” Lady Laura said abruptly, from behind them, “if you and Peregrine are going to debate the relative merits of artistic technique, I’m sure we can do it far more comfortably somewhere other than this draughty hall. If the pair of you will excuse me, I’ll go tell Anna to have coffee sent up to the morning room.”
She was gone before Peregrine could raise an objection—and Adam was not about to lose the opportunity she had created. The artist hastily put his glasses back on and followed the countess’ departure with eyes that held an expression akin to numb desperation. Adam wondered why.
“Well, as ever, Lady Laura is a very perceptive and practical woman,” Adam said amiably, affecting to rub his hands together against the chill, “Coffee would be most welcome, just about now. I’m surprised your fingers aren’t too stiff to paint. May I?”
Before Peregrine could prevent him, Adam crossed to the easel in two easy strides and was reaching for the
As Lady Laura embarked on the necessary introductions, Adam set himself to refining his initial impression, going beyond mere physical appearance. What he saw at a second, more searching glance lent substance to the fears the countess had expressed on Lovat’s behalf. Everything about the younger man suggested a state of acute emotional repression. The thick, bronze-pale hair had been barbered to the point of ruthlessness at sides and back, and the chilly monochrome of his attire only served to leach any remaining color from a face already pale and drawn, thinner than it should have been. The line of the tight-lipped mouth was strained and unsmiling.
Lady Laura’s voice recalled Adam from his impromptu assessment. She was speaking, he realized, to the artist.
“Adam’s a psychiatrist, Peregrine, but don’t let that put you off,” she was saying. “He’s also an old and dear friend—and an admirer of your work.”
“I am, indeed, Mr. Lovat,” Adam said, smoothly picking up his cue. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
He smiled and offered a handshake, but he was not surprised when Peregrine found a way to avoid it.
“Forgive me, Sir Adam,” the younger man murmured, nervously displaying a set of paint-smudged fingers. “I’m afraid I’m in no fit state to return your courtesy.”
With this tight-lipped apology, lie retreated to the worktable next to the easel and began wiping his hands on a linen paint-rag. His fingers were not entirely steady. When Adam moved a step closer, as though to view the work in progress on the easel, Peregrine reached out and hastily flicked a flap of cream-colored hessian over the partly-finished canvas.
“No matter, Mr. Lovat,” Adam said, affecting not to notice. “I apologize if I’ve interrupted your work. Judging by what I’ve been privileged to see in the past, you have a rare talent for portraiture. I was particularly taken by your study of Lady Douglas-McKay and her two children. In my opinion, it was one of the finest pieces in this year’s RSA exhibition.”
Peregrine shot Adam a fleeting, almost furtive glance from under lowered lids, then pointedly returned his attention to the brush he had started cleaning.
“I’m obliged to you for the compliment, sir,” he mumbled stiffly.
“Your handling of children as subjects is particularly masterful,” Adam continued calmly. “I was visiting the Gordon-Scotts only last week, and couldn’t help but notice your recent portrait of their son and daughter. I knew it for your work even without seeing the signature. Your gift for capturing the spirit behind each face you paint is really quite distinctive.”
The younger man murmured an incoherent phrase that might have been self-deprecation and put aside his paint rag. He glanced at Adam again, then abruptly took off his glasses and scowled at them as though dissatisfied. Out from behind the glasses, his eyes were a dull shade of hazel, with dark hollows underscoring them.
“Now, Adam,” Lady Laura said abruptly, from behind them, “if you and Peregrine are going to debate the relative merits of artistic technique, I’m sure we can do it far more comfortably somewhere other than this draughty hall. If the pair of you will excuse me, I’ll go tell Anna to have coffee sent up to the morning room.”
She was gone before Peregrine could raise an objection—and Adam was not about to lose the opportunity she had created. The artist hastily put his glasses back on and followed the countess’ departure with eyes that held an expression akin to numb desperation. Adam wondered why.
“Well, as ever, Lady Laura is a very perceptive and practical woman,” Adam said amiably, affecting to rub his hands together against the chill, “Coffee would be most welcome, just about now. I’m surprised your fingers aren’t too stiff to paint. May I?”
Before Peregrine could prevent him, Adam crossed to the easel in two easy strides and was reaching for the
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