Page 30 of Redemption (Favorite Malady Duet #2)

ABIGAIL

“ I t’s so beautiful,” I gush, spinning in a circle to take in the stunning, historic city of York. “I can’t believe you grew up here. It’s magical.”

Dane is staring at me, not the imposing, centuries-old Minster. I’ve been studying the intricately carved masonry, and my fingers itch for my paintbrush. I’m not sure when I’ll have the opportunity to express this scene on my canvas, so I’m doing my best to commit it to memory.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I suppose it is a bit magical.”

“A bit?” I tease. “There are medieval buildings lining every cobbled street. It doesn’t seem real. It’s like we’ve stepped back into another time.”

His mouth tips in a lopsided smile that makes my heart flutter. “Is it?”

He gestures at the man who’s painted in purple from head-to-toe, trying his best to remain stationary on a bike.

I’ve seen better human statues, and I can’t suppress a giggle. Dane isn’t remotely impressed by the man.

I decide to include the street performer in my painting. The juxtaposition with the historic Minster is whimsical, charming. I’ll try to capture Dane’s expression of pure bafflement, too.

I loop my arm through his, steering us away from the spectacle. “You just don’t understand art.”

“That’s not art.”

“You have to open your mind,” I urge, but I’m only half-serious. Bantering with him is fun. “Anything can be art.”

He scoffs. “Now you’re just making up meaningless platitudes. There is no comparison between your work that that purple man.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” I shrug.

He pauses and urges me to face him. One dexterous hand brushes my hair back from my cheek. “There’s only one beautiful thing I see here.”

I flush with pleasure and cut my gaze away, flustered.

He cups my jaw, urging me to tip my head back so that I have no choice but to look up at him.

“You are the most stunning, remarkable woman I’ve ever met,” he says solemnly. “The way you defended me in front of my parents…” He trails off for a moment and traces the shape of my lips with his thumb. “I can never express what that means to me. How proud I am to call you mine .”

“They were being cruel to you,” I say quietly. “I would do it again a hundred times over. I won’t let them hurt you anymore.”

His eyes flash with green fire. “And I won’t let your parents hurt you,” he vows in return. “When we get back to Charleston, I’ll make sure they won’t bother you.”

My heart lifts. “We’re going back to Charleston?”

He nods. “I booked our tickets from London. We fly out in a week. I know you want to go home, but there’s something I want to show you in York first.”

“What is it?” I ask.

I don’t mind the short delay. The promise that we’re going home is enough for me. I trust Dane to keep his word.

I’m not sure what my life will look like when I return to Charleston—the small, quiet little life I built for myself after college is over now.

Dane forcibly removed me from it, but I no longer feel resentment over his decision to take me away.

I understand him now. Despite everything, I’ve chosen him.

He respects me and treats me as his equal. If anything, he reveres me and places my needs above his own.

“It’s just there,” Dane answers me, pointing at a large red building with white accents.

It looks Victorian, and it probably is. Dane said the Romans were the first to build York’s city walls. The Victorian period came nearly two millennia after, even if that era seems like a long time ago to my American sensibilities. Everything in York is frozen in its own time period.

I sigh and lean into Dane, admiring the beauty of our surroundings all over again as we walk the short distance to the red building.

When we approach the front door, I notice the sign in large gold lettering: The Howard Gallery. Dane is indulging my love of art, even though I know he doesn’t connect with it the way I do.

“Thank you.” I squeeze his hand in a pulse of gratitude as we enter the building.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

I shoot him a puzzled look, but before I can ask what he means, a tall, slender man in a waistcoat steps into our path.

He’s probably in his late twenties, with sandy blond hair and understated, round glasses with a thin wire rim. He offers me a warm smile.

“You’re Abigail Foster?” He extends a hand. “I’m Stephen Lansing.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I reply automatically, even though I’m somewhat taken aback by his familiarity.

“Dane Graham.” Dane’s voice is a touch cool when he introduces himself, and he’s eyeing Stephen’s hand grasping mine.

The younger man quickly releases me to shake Dane’s hand instead. “Yes, we spoke on the phone. It’s good to meet you in person. I’ll be your point of contact at the gallery.”

Dane doesn’t look impressed. “Shouldn’t Abigail be speaking to the owner?”

Stephen lifts his chin. “My father is very busy. He trusts me to manage the collection. I just finished my PhD at the University of York. I’m more than qualified.”

“I’m sure you are,” I say politely. “Would you mind explaining how you know who I am? I’m a little lost here.”

Stephen glances from me to Dane and back again.

“This is a surprise,” Dane explains. Then he turns to me. “Your work will be on display here starting this week. It will remain in the gallery for the summer.”

I gape at him, then manage to ask, “What work? All of my paintings are back in Charleston.”

Stephen looks confused. “You sent pictures,” he says to Dane. “The three paintings of the Yorkshire Dales and the self-portrait.”

I blink at Dane. “You didn’t.”

He grins at me. “I did.”

My heart lifts. I’ve never been featured in a gallery before. And I never would’ve submitted those pieces for consideration myself. I felt they were imperfect, nothing special.

A troubling thought occurs to me.

Dane arranged this. Not me.

I didn’t get here on merit.

“How much does it cost?” I ask Stephen, and Dane’s hand tightens in a vise around mine.

“Cost?” Stephen is completely befuddled by this entire interaction. “If you choose to sell the paintings to interested buyers, you can name your price. We take a ten percent commission.”

“No,” I correct him. “I mean, how much did it cost for you to agree to feature my work?”

“I didn’t pay him, Abigail,” Dane says, voice rough with frustration.

And maybe a touch of hurt.

Oh.

“I’m sorry.” I look at Dane when I apologize and brush my thumb over his palm. “I didn’t understand the arrangement. Thank you for submitting my work.” I turn a friendly smile on Stephen. “I’m thrilled to have my work in your gallery. What do you need from me?”

He returns my smile easily. “Come by sometime tomorrow after close, and we can discuss how you would like your paintings displayed. Is eight o’clock too late for you?”

“Not at all,” I confirm. “Eight sounds perfect.”

I truly am thrilled to have my work in a real art gallery for the first time in my life, but I’m mostly preoccupied with worry that I’ve upset Dane.

“I’ll see you then,” I promise, ending the meeting so that I can be alone with him.

I’ll prove to him just how much this means to me.

“I’m sorry.” I apologize as soon as we’re in the privacy of our rented penthouse.

The view through the floor-to-ceiling windows is stunning.

The city of York with its historic architecture is defined by the Minster and Clifford’s Tower, the remnants of a Norman castle.

We can see for miles beyond the city walls, all the way out to the rolling green hills of the Yorkshire countryside.

But for now, the scene doesn’t hold my attention like it did when we checked in several hours ago. I’m too concerned that I’ve hurt Dane.

“There’s no need to apologize,” he reassures me, but tension lingers around his jaw.

“I shouldn’t have assumed that you paid for me to be featured in the gallery. I know that bothered you.”

He caresses my cheek, and I’m easily forgiven.

“Your work speaks for itself,” he assures me. “They were all too eager to feature you. If you do choose to sell, I’m sure they’ll earn a hefty commission. Although, I would like to request that we keep the self-portrait.”

My brow furrows. “Why? Doesn’t it disturb you?”

I place my hand over his heart, securing our connection as we both think back to the painful day when I showed him the painting of my anguish.

“No,” he replies firmly. “It’s the most powerful piece of art I’ve ever seen.

You deserve to share your talent with the world.

You deserve to be seen. Celebrated. Your paintings will be in galleries in London and New York.

We can travel anywhere you need to go to establish your career.

I know you have difficulty accepting my money, but let me do this for you, at least. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of your own funds soon enough. ”

My heart soars, and my eyes sting with a swell of emotion that I fear I recognize.

It’s too soon to say it, but I’ve felt it growing in me every day since he dropped to his knees and said he can’t live without me.

It would be so easy to love Dane again.

I think I already do.

But I need to assert my independence first. I need to go back home and build a new life for myself, one that I share with him.

“All I want is to start my own gallery in Charleston,” I say instead. “I don’t need London or New York. I just want to be home.”

I want to put down roots, to feel the security of a home that I never experienced in the house where I was raised.

I think I can have that with Dane. We can share a home together. The first one either of us has ever truly known.

He curves my purple curl around his finger. “Home,” he agrees. “We’re going home. You’ll have your gallery, Abigail.”

“It’s just a loan,” I say firmly. “I’ll pay you back.”

He shakes his head. “What’s mine is yours.”

I lift my chin. “I don’t have any money to offer now, but the same goes for you. Anything I earn, I’ll share with you. We’re equals, Dane.”

He cups my nape, drawing me closer. “No, we’re not. You are so much more than I could ever be.”