That afternoon, Mrs. Hawthorne escorted Arabelle to the studio. It was located in a wing of the mansion she hadn't yet explored, and the moment she stepped inside, she felt a surge of awe.
The room was vast, its tall windows flooding the space with natural light. Easels, canvases, and paints were arranged neatly, as if waiting for her arrival. There was even a large fireplace in one corner, its hearth clean and ready to burn.
"This will be your space," Mrs. Hawthorne said, her tone brisk. "If you require additional supplies, let me know."
Arabelle nodded, running her fingers over a row of paintbrushes. "It's… perfect."
Mrs. Hawthorne's expression softened slightly, but only for a moment. "Dinner is at eight. Mr. Devereaux expects punctuality."
With that, she turned and left, her heels clicking against the wooden floor.
Arabelle stood alone in the studio, letting the silence settle around her. She pulled out her sketchbook and began flipping through the pages, searching for inspiration. But no matter how hard she tried to focus, her thoughts kept drifting back to Lucian.
What kind of man commissions a portrait only to keep it hidden? And why did he choose her, of all people?
She sketched absentmindedly, her pencil tracing the sharp angles of his face, the intensity in his eyes. There was something almost tragic about him, as if the scars on his skin were only the surface of his wounds.
The hours slipped by, and when the clock struck eight, she made her way to the dining room. Lucian was already seated at the head of the long table, his expression unreadable as he sipped a glass of wine.
"You're on time," he said, his tone neutral.
"I try to keep my promises," she replied, taking a seat near the middle of the table.
The meal was as elaborate as the setting, but Arabelle barely tasted it. Her mind buzzed with questions she couldn't bring herself to ask. Lucian, for his part, was quiet, his focus seemingly elsewhere.
When the meal ended, he stood and fixed her with a steady gaze.
"Tomorrow, we'll begin," he said. "I expect nothing less than your best, Miss Leclerc."
His words weren't a request - they were an order. And as he left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall, Arabelle felt a mix of determination and dread settle over her.
She would give him her best. But she couldn't shake the feeling that Lucian Devereaux wasn't just commissioning a portrait - he was testing her, in ways she didn't yet understand.
Arabelle wiped her paint-smeared hands on a rag as she stepped out of the studio, her muscles stiff from hours of sketching and roughing out the initial layers of the portrait. The light in the hallway was dim, the sun dipping below the horizon and casting long shadows across the stone walls. The quiet of the manor, once unsettling, had begun to feel almost normal - a stillness that cocooned her in her work.
But tonight, something felt different.
She heard the faint hum of voices as she passed the library. Slowing her steps, she strained to listen. Lucian's deep, measured tone carried through the heavy door, though she couldn't make out the words. Whoever he was speaking to, they were gone by the time she reached the dining room for dinner.
Lucian was already seated at the head of the long table, as always, his posture straight and commanding.
"You're making progress," he said as she took her usual seat. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," she replied cautiously. "The composition is coming together, but I'll need more time to refine the details."
Lucian nodded, his expression unreadable. "Take the time you need. I prefer excellence over haste."
She didn't respond, focusing instead on the plate of food set before her by Mrs. Hawthorne. Dinner with Lucian was always a peculiar affair - quiet, almost clinical, as if he tolerated the necessity of human interaction but didn't particularly enjoy it.
Halfway through the meal, he spoke again.
"Have you heard from anyone since you arrived?"
The question caught her off guard. "Just Sophie," she said, setting down her fork. "She wanted to know if I'd made progress on the commission."
"And Gabriel?" His tone was sharper now, laced with something she couldn't quite place.
She blinked. "Gabriel? No. Why would I?"
Lucian's gaze darkened. "I know the kind of man he is. If he comes sniffing around, I suggest you keep your distance."
The words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. Arabelle frowned, a flicker of annoyance sparking within her.
"I'm capable of handling myself, Mr. Devereaux."
Lucian held her gaze for a long moment before nodding, though his expression remained grim.