The painting was the most beautiful thing Anthony Strallan had ever seen.

The artist was clearly awfully talented. He focused his attention on that, to avoid having to look at, or think about, the rest of the painting. The specifics. The… Edith.

Edith, all pale limbs and glimmering eyes.

Edith, stretched out langurously on a green velvet sofa, iterated perfectly in oil paint.

Edith, naked as the day she had been born.

Her skin, so pale, glowing against the green of the sofa. Her face, turned so boldly towards the audience, as if she were looking him directly in the face. Her breasts, soft curves that he'd only ever seen through the covering of corset and gown. Her legs stretched sinuously over the cushions, one arm tucked back behind her head, short red-gold hair just brushing her shoulders in a series of wanton curls.

Briskly, he covered the painting up again, heart thumping, mouth dry. "Stewart!"

"Sir?"

"Something for you to wrap here." Sir Anthony turned away, good hand bent behind his back. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Of course not, sir. Might I ask…?" Stewart let the end of the sentence dangle in the air.

"Just something I… picked up earlier." Hastily, his master turned back. "I'll address it."

"Very well, sir."

"What on Earth do you mean, you've sold it?"

Edith's hand clenched around the counter, eyes wide with panic. Opposite her, the art gallery owner - all smoky eyeshadow and chic art-silk dress - looked thoroughly unimpressed. "The painting was sold yesterday, madam - "

"To whom?" Edith interrupted. Her heart thumped painfully against her breastbone.

The other woman stepped back, folding her arms. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, madam."

"But I - "

The gallery's door opened, its bell jingling, and another customer entered. The gallery owner raised a cold eyebrow. "If you'll excuse me, madam…?"

Blindly, Edith nodded and turned and stumbled out onto the pavement. She felt sick. Somewhere in London, there was a nude portrait of her. Somewhere in London, someone was looking at her, like that.

What would happen if that someone recognised her? Recognised that they were in possession of a portrait of an Earl's daughter in the altogether? She could see the headlines now. She could hear her father's roar of fury, her mother's exclamation of horror. Her life wouldn't be worth living.

"Well, did you get it?" Michael's hand on her elbow made her jump, angrily.

"God, Michael!"

He stepped back a touch, ducking his head to look her in the eye. "What is it, darling?"

"The gallery sold it." She swallowed. "Your little friend wasn't so discreet as you thought him."

Michael sighed. "He's a student, living on boiled eggs and cabbage. I suppose he didn't feel he could pass up the opportunity."

Edith ran a frustrated hand through her hair. "If - if my family sees that damned portrait - ! Oh, God, I should never have sat for it in the first place - "

Coaxingly, Michael slid an arm around her waist and pressed a kiss to the side of head. "Look, darling, let's go and have lunch somewhere, hmm? What about that little Italian place in Soho? After some of Gennaro's carbonara and a couple of glasses of wine, you'll have all of this in perspective and - "

"In perspective?" Edith exclaimed, pulling away from him. "If my father gets wind of this, he'll lock me up and throw the key away. This could ruin me!"

"Darling - " Michael tried, but Edith was already walking away.

"Just go away, Michael. Just go away."

"Milady?"

Edith jumped at the soft, polite knock at her aunt's drawing room door. She'd spent most of the afternoon curled up here, chewing at her nails and fretting. Not that it had helped. After four hours, she still had no idea what she was going to do. Relying on Michael was clearly going to get her nowhere. Harassing the art gallery staff was only going to end with her in a prison cell, judging from the reception she'd had that afternoon.

Dimly, she looked up as Kate, the maid entered. "Parcel just arrived for you, milady. Delivered by hand, too." The girl smiled. "Looks like an early Christmas present."

"Oh?" Edith watched silently as the maid laid it down on the table before her - a large, rectangular parcel, wrapped in brown paper and string. A folded piece of notepaper was slotted under the string. A ball of lead sank into her stomach. Kate curtsied. "Will there be anything else, milady?"

Edith shook her head. "No, thank you, Kate."

Edith tugged out the note with hesitant fingers and opened it. The handwriting was shaky, but still perfectly recognisable.

Lady Edith - Forgive me for taking the liberty, but I believe that you would prefer to have this returned to your possession. A. P. S.

She opened the parcel with shaking fingers. Sure enough, the painting was there - what she had hoped and feared.

He had seen it.

He had seen her like this - naked and exposed for all the world to look at - and he had sent it back to her.

Angrily, she brushed away sudden tears. Why should she be sorry? It was her body, wasn't it? She had a perfect right to use it as she saw fit - whether that involved being painted in the nude or not.

But Anthony had seen it. God, what must he think of her? And… how had he found it? Had he looked at it? Of course, he must have done - at least enough to realise that it was her. A shiver - not an entirely unpleasant one - ran through her at the idea of him looking at her, seeing her naked like that, in a way that should be reserved only for a husband, or a lover.

Quickly, she pulled the brown paper over the canvas again and bore it from the room. In her own chamber, she pulled open the bottom drawer, shoved aside piles of silk and lace lingerie, shoved the painting in, recovered it and slammed the drawer shut again, her heart hammering.

Anthony Strallan's town house was in the very middle of Upper Belgrave Street, the sort of house that looked as if it would stand for centuries. Edith hovered outside for a good quarter of an hour, pacing up and down along the opposite side of the road, before she finally plucked up the courage to cross and knock at the door.

Stewart opened it. "Lady Edith!" His eyes widened with astonishment, quickly hidden. "Can I help you, my lady?"

"Y-yes, Stewart." Edith stepped forwards, into the warmth of the hallway, before Stewart could protest. Left with no choice, he closed the front door. "Is Sir Anthony at home?"

"I - that is to say - my lady, I - "

"Take Lady Edith's coat, Stewart," came a tired voice from the library door.

Stewart, relieved to have had responsibility wrested from his control, helped Edith to remove her coat, while the lady herself looked up at the man who, three and a half years' earlier, had jilted her at the altar. He'd lost weight. He'd come back from France on the lean side, of course, ravaged by illness and injury, but this was something else. He might slip through a set of railings, she thought, if the need should ever arise. His height, moderated only by the slight stoop of his shoulders (legacy of so many days spent bent over books) only accentuated that. His hair was still thick, although much greyer than it had been, and while his face was a little more lined that it had been when last they had seen each other, his eyes were still that same piercing, aching blue that haunted her dreams. The injured arm rested in its accustomed black silk sling across his tweed jacket, open today over a jumper of reddish-purple wool and a soft shirt.

"Will you come through?" Anthony asked quietly, stepping back. Hesitantly, Edith followed him. As she passed him in the doorway, he added, "Lady Edith will be joining me for tea, Stewart."

"Very good, sir."

Anthony shut the library door behind him with a quiet snap and stood watching Edith with an expression she recognised all too well - wary and awkward, trying to gauge her own feelings. "Th-this is a nice room," she offered, searching for something to distract her. Slowly, she took a circuit of the room, pretending to admire the pale green walls, the velvet drapes, the highly-polished mahogany furniture, the comfortable sofa in front of the fireplace. "Very you." Still he said nothing, moved not a jot.

Edith gave up.

"You saw the painting," she murmured quietly.

Finally a movement. Anthony bowed his head, biting his lip. "I did."

The floodgates opened. Edith came towards him, and took his good hand in both of her own, before he could protest. "Th-thank you for… for sending it back to me." Bravely, she added, "I - I suppose I ought to repay you, for whatever you had to lay out for it."

"Not at all." Politely, gently, he extracted his hands from hers. "Consider it… a gift."

A little stiffly, Edith insisted, "I'd much rather pay you for it."

"And I would much rather forget about the whole thing," he confided quietly. Behind him, the door opened and Stewart entered with a polite clearing of his throat, bearing the tea tray. "Won't you sit down?" Anthony asked, his voice much more certain now that he had the rules of polite society to guide him once again.

Hesitantly, she made her way to the sofa and perched on the edge of it. Anthony took the seat at the far end of it, and they both watched as Stewart arranged the cups and teapot and the hot water and the milk - neither of them took sugar - and a plate of sandwiches and dainty cakes. This done, he asked, "Will there be anything else, sir, my lady?"

Kindly, Anthony shook his head. "No, thank you, Stewart. We'll ring if we require anything further."

Edith was struck by the sudden absurdity of it all. Sir, my lady. We. It felt as if she had slipped, like Alice, into some sort of strange parallel universe, where Anthony had not left her, where he had stayed and married her and they lived in this lovely, sturdy house, and Stewart brought them afternoon tea every day.

Stewart left, shutting the door behind him again with a quiet snap. Anthony poured the tea and passed her her cup in silence. Somewhere, distantly - the hall? - Edith heard a clock chime the quarter-hour.

"I'm not ashamed of it, you know," she burst out suddenly.

"Why ever should you be?" His voice was calm and expressionless.

She gave him an incredulous look over the rim of her teacup. "You don't have to pretend to be all worldly and permissive, you know. I'm perfectly aware that there are some things that you're… old-fashioned about." She set the cup down with a snap and busied herself selecting a cucumber sandwich, so that she did not have to look him in the eye. "That - that sort of thing… nudity… ought to be reserved for - for marriage."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him slide closer with a sigh of soft exasperation. "But I'm perfectly accepting of the idea that a woman's body belongs, first, foremost and solely, to herself," he reminded her. "Why should it be any of my business what you do with it?"

"Well… yes." Edith straightened her shoulders. "Good. I'm - glad we understand each other." It hurt, that. Why should it be any of my business what you do with it?

She could have cried. For so long, she had wanted it to be Anthony's business, what she did with her body, who she shared it with, whose bed it slept in. And here he was, sounding as if he did not care in the least.

Gently, with a touch of humour in his tone, Anthony offered, "I don't imagine that you wanted the artist to sell the painting though."

"No. I didn't, as it happens." Edith tugged her cardigan closer around her. Feeling a sudden need to explain herself, to absolve herself, she confessed, "I… it was a stupid whim, really. Just… having a bit of… of idiotic fun. But if Papa, or Mama, or - God forbid - Granny had seen it…"

"They'd have made life unpleasant for you," Anthony finished softly.

"Yes. You know enough about them to understand that, I think." Her smile was shaky and wry. "So… thank you." She looked up at him. "Why - why didn't you keep it? You could have done, you know. The gallery wouldn't tell me to whom they'd sold it - if you hadn't brought it back, I'd never have found it, never have been any the wiser that you had it."

"Keep it?" he echoed. "My dear girl, I am at least capable of pretending to be a gentleman."

"Anthony…" she tutted.

"I didn't think I could trust myself, if you must know."

"T-trust yourself?" she blinked up at him, and Anthony ached. "With what?"

Inwardly, he shook his head. Was it really possible that she was so innocent, that she didn't understand? "With having you - with having any reminder of you - in the house." He swallowed. "I thought I would go mad, knowing that I could look upon you any time I wanted, knowing that it would make me the worst kind of lecher if I did…" He looked bleakly down at her. "I would have tortured myself and dishonoured you, and neither was acceptable."

There was silence for a moment. Edith's gorgeous chocolate eyes stared up at him, so trusting, so lovely. "So you sent it back to me," she whispered.

Anthony shrugged. "Well, it is a painting of you. To whom else should I have sent it?"

"Thank you," Edith whispered. "For getting me out of such a horrid scrape." She chanced another, stronger smile. "And there you were, worried that it would be me looking after you all the time."

"Well, perhaps I'd have stopped you from posing nude in front of unscrupulous artists, at least," he smiled grudgingly.

Edith swallowed, letting out a trembly laugh. "Yes. I'm sure you would have done." Her voice broke. "You would have done all sorts of things for me."

"Edith - "

"You would have done," she insisted. "You'd have given me children, and a happy home, and made me so very, very blessed, Anthony."

"Well. That's all in the past now, isn't it?" Gently, he touched her hand. "You've… you've a young man, isn't that right? Mr Gregson?"

"How on earth do you know about M-Michael?" she gaped, astonished.

"My sister sits at the centre of a very wide circle of gossips, and she isn't discriminating in what she tells me." His voice was soft and warm as he added, "Congratulations."

"I see." Edith drew away her hand, tears prickling at her eyes. "Did she - did she tell you he's married? Did she tell you that he's asked me to live with him, out of wedlock? That he wants me to be his mistress? Did she tell you all that, Anthony?"

"What?"

Edith exhaled unhappily. "I see that Diana isn't so well informed as she chooses to believe herself."

To her surprise, he slid from the sofa to his knees in front of her, taking both her hands tightly in his good one. "Edith… I - you - you deserve so much better than that. Sweet one - "

"I don't know any more," she whispered, tears starting to run down her cheeks. "I've just been… so very lonely, Anthony." She turned sad eyes on him. "When you w-walked out on me, I… I didn't just lose my fiancé, you know. I lost my - my best friend. Michael… fills that space a little, I suppose, or tries to. I don't have anything else left to me."

"My dear…" He released her, reaching up to brush away the tears with his thumb.

"Please don't," Edith wept, but despite her words, her right hand came up to hold his in place against her cheek. "Please don't be kind. I c-can't bear it."

"And I can't bear the idea of your becoming someone's mistress," Anthony retorted. "He can't care for you, you know. If he did… if he did, he would never ask you to take such a risk." He frowned suddenly. "Did he suggest this painting?"

Quietly, Edith nodded. Anthony hissed unhappily. "Darling girl, it's one thing to do something like this of your own accord - it's quite another to be… persuaded into it by a man like that."

"You don't even know him," Edith sniffed.

"No," Anthony agreed crisply, "and I wouldn't want to."

Edith nuzzled her face further into his warm palm. "No. I wouldn't want you to, either, really." Her voice dropped and her next words slipped out almost without conscious thought. "You're worth ten of him any day, darling Anthony." She inhaled deeply, and then straightened, standing and leaving him kneeling stupidly in front of an empty sofa. "Anyway… thank you - again - for the painting. Thank you for everything."

"Will you go back to him, then?" Anthony asked quietly. "Your Mr Gregson?"

"Why?" Edith gave him an arch look.

"Because… " He sighed. "I don't want you taking… unnecessary risks."

"Don't worry, Anthony." Edith forced a smile. "I'm a big girl, and I can take care of myself, despite appearances."

"I'll always worry about you." His expression was apologetic. "I know I've no right to, after the despicable way I behaved, but… there it is. I'll worry until you're happily married to a steady young chap whom I can trust to take care of you. I'll certainly worry while you're involved with a married man who, by all accounts, is perfectly capable of getting you into all sorts of trouble."

"'A steady chap who can take care of me.' That sounds nice," Edith murmured. "I just don't think he exists. Or if he does, he doesn't want me."

Anthony's eyes were very soft and very sad. "Maybe he just… doesn't feel that he's good for you."

"He's very good for me," Edith whispered. "He's kind and clever and sweet and generous. I've loved him since I was a silly nineteen year old and I still love him, and I will be in love with him until the day I die." Her face a mask of tears, she added, "I used to think he loved me, too, and when he was with me, I felt as if I could take on the world. And now… well, you can see the mess I've got myself into, trying to do anything and everything to make myself feel less… less sad and empty inside."

Afterwards, Edith wasn't quite sure how it had happened. All she knew was that suddenly, Anthony's arm was around her, holding her tight against him, his mouth pressed to the top of her head. "You really want me?" he breathed, as if it were the most absurd thing he could think of.

Edith nodded against his jumper. "Yes. I want you. You saved me, Anthony. And I know - I know - there is no one else in the world who could look after me as well as you, who could make me as happy as you could." She tipped her head back. "But if you're still living under this silly idea that you'd be a burden to me, or that you're too old, or too injured, then I'll go back to Michael now and try to - "

Anthony's mouth closed over hers tightly. "Absolutely not," he breathed, and there was something in his eyes, something passionate and determined, that made Edith's breath catch in her throat. "I forbid it."

"You do?" Edith whispered, dizzy with his kisses.

"Absolutely and - " (he paused for another kiss) " - categorically." He paused and stroked down her cheek with his fingers. "You will marry me, won't you, my sweet one?"

"Y-you really want to?" Edith returned, leaning up to kiss him again.

Anthony nodded. "You've really left me with no choice, my dearest. For one thing, I'm damned if I'll leave you to Michael Gregson's tender mercies." A slow smile spread across his face. "For another, I absolutely adore you…"

"What are you doing up here all alone?" Lady Strallan asked, wrapping her arms around her husband from behind. He tilted his head and peered down at her smilingly. "Oh, just looking at this."

Edith looked past him to the bed, where the painting lay across the crimson eiderdown. Her mouth twitched thoughtfully. "It is rather good, isn't it?"

Anthony's good hand came up to cover hers, still linked across his belly. "I assure you, my sweet one, it pales in comparison to the, ah, original."

She squeezed him affectionately. "Flatterer. What shall we do with it?" She smirked, emerging from behind him. "I don't suppose we can hang it in the drawing room, can we? Not if we want to remain in polite society."

Anthony chuckled softly. "'Fraid not, darling girl. And I'm not entirely sure I want anyone else having the opportunity to leer over my wife's lovely body." He raised a wry eyebrow. "I believe that as your husband, I may reserve that privilege for myself." Edith giggled and swatted half-heartedly at his arm.

"I think," Edith said, "that we should put it away somewhere private - and whenever you get maudlin, or start to think that you don't deserve me, we can get it out and remind you of the day you saved me - from ruin, from Michael, from an empty, lonely life."

"Now who's being maudlin?" Anthony asked wryly.

Carefully, Edith twitched the canvas wrappings over the painting again as he came to embrace her, his mouth nestling against that sensitive place just below her left ear. "We've got twenty minutes until tea," Edith observed, turning in his embrace and leaning up to kiss him.

"Oh?" Anthony replied against her mouth, his eyebrow quirking. "What could we possibly do to fill the time?"

Edith's hands were already working at his belt. "Private viewing, my darling?"

"Perfect, my sweet one."