A Lasting Impression

Claire. “The world of art, with which you’re somewhat familiar, Miss Laurent, is fickle and subjective, and oftentimes cruel. One need only listen to my guests’ overloud whispers tonight to realize that. And while you do have talent, I would loathe to see you set your sights on so high an ambition, only to have your dreams dashed.”
    Claire didn’t know how the woman did it. In the same breath, she built up and tore down. “I assure you, M—”
    Mrs. Acklen held up a hand. “I’ll take everything into consideration and will let you know my decision by Christmas.”
    From habit, Claire curtsied. “Thank you, Mrs. Acklen.”
    Sutton bowed, a smile ghosting his lips. “Thank you, ma’am.”
    Mrs. Acklen strode down the hallway.
    “Thank you, Sutton,” Claire whispered. “She always heeds your advice.”
    “Not always.”
    “She would have said no to me outright.”
    He looked down. “That’s because she doesn’t want you to get hurt.” Tenderness filled his eyes. “Something I don’t relish happening either.”

    Claire shook the box. “Do you want to go first, or should I?”
    Sutton eyed her over the rim of the café au lait she’d made him. “Ladies first. As always.”
    Grinning, she gave the beribboned package a shake, then tore into the wrapping. He was glad they’d waited to exchange Christmas presents until after everyone else had retired for the evening. They’d moved into the small study, where a fragrant evergreen swag hung from the mantel, and a fire burning in the hearth gave the room a cozy feel.
    Kris Kringle, as Acklen family tradition called him, had visited the children that morning, and while Adelicia had been all smiles through the presents, then the dinner of fresh oysters, fish, and fruits shipped from New Orleans, he knew she was eager for the day to be over. As was he. For some reason, memories of departed loved ones always pressed closer on Christmas Day.
    The holiday itself had been enjoyable and the house quiet, but it was nice to finally be alone with Claire. Especially since their days together were numbered.
    Adelicia had said yes that morning to Claire staying behind, much to Claire’s delight. And while he was happy for her, he wasn’t for himself. He’d planned on going down to New Orleans for two weeks on business anyway, but he’d come to the decision that it would be best if he stayed there for a while. To give Claire time to paint, to document the art, to accomplish the growing list of projects Adelicia was continually dreaming up . . .
    And also to give her the time and the freedom she needed . . . to choose.
    Since the reception a week ago, a deluge of gentleman admirers had sent her flowers, confections, and notes. Just as he’d known they would. Almost daily something new arrived. He merely had to look over his shoulder—which he refused to do—to see the flowers Mr. Stanton had sent that morning.
    Stanton had pulled him aside the night of the reception and inquired, most confidentially, whether he knew if any gentleman had previous designs on Miss Laurent’s affections. Andrew Stanton was a gentleman and a senior officer he’d served with in the war, and Sutton knew him well enough to know that Stanton would never have pursued Claire if he’d simply answered, “Why, yes, sir. I happen to love the young woman myself. More than I care to admit. So if you don’t mind, would you take your stellar reputation, fine estate, all your money, and your family’s good name and just trot on along. . . .”
    But of course he hadn’t said that. He couldn’t. He didn’t feel at liberty to close such a door for Claire. That door was hers to close, not his.
    And no matter how he tried, he couldn’t stop comparing Andrew Stanton and Claire . . . to Isaac Franklin and Adelicia. A similar age difference, both men successful and wealthy. And from what little Adelicia had said of Isaac Franklin through the years—and the picture she kept of him in her bedroom, even after all this time—theirs had been a marriage of the heart.
    “Oh, Sutton!” Claire stood and held up the painting smock against her. “It’s perfect! Thank you!” She leaned down and kissed his cheek—lingering long enough for him to get other ideas—then she slipped the smock on. He’d had it made especially for her. Mrs. Perry at the dress shop had helped him with the sizing. “I’ll wear it every time I paint.” She sashayed to the center of the small study and struck a