A Lasting Impression

but thick draperies—all drawn shut, she’d discovered earlier that week—blocked out the natural light. For the protection of the paintings, she knew. But the curtains also served double duty in stifling the curiosity of nosy onlookers. Like her.
    “Wait here.” He touched her arm. “I’ll get a lamp.”
    Sutton stepped beyond her line of sight, the echo of his footsteps lending the room a vast feel. “It’s late, so I’ll just give you a brief tour tonight, but you’re welcome to come back some other time. I think you’ll enjoy looking around. Especially since you’re so . . . well-informed about the world of art.”
    His comment hung in the silence, and though she recognized it as something Mrs. Acklen had said, she sensed meaning in Sutton’s tone she couldn’t interpret, not without seeing his face. “Mrs. Acklen was being overly generous when she said that, Sutton. I’m not that knowledgeable, I assure you.”
    “And I can assure you, Claire . . .” He struck a match and fed the flame to the oil lamp. The halo of light arced back and forth on the walls as he retraced his steps. “Mrs. Acklen is never overly generous.”
    Something was on his mind. She could tell by his earnest expression. And whatever it was, she sensed he’d been waiting for the right time to broach the subject. Her first inclination was to feel baited—until she recalled having used the same ploy on him earlier that evening. However unsuccessfully.
    “Mrs. Acklen was completely enamored with your contributions at dinner that night with the Worthingtons. I understand you made quite an impression.”
    Something in his voice seemed slightly off, but she couldn’t place what it was. “I’d scarcely say that. I merely attempted to join the conversation when appropriate. Which was no small feat. In fact”—she tried for a conspiratorial tone, hoping to nudge the conversation back toward lighter banter—“Mrs. Worthington is quite the conversationalist, especially following a third glass of wine.”
    Giving her a less-than-convinced look, he indicated a hallway, and she fell into step beside him. The lamplight formed a golden glow between them as they walked.
    “You’re underestimating the weight of your comments that evening, Claire. Mrs. Acklen praised your knowledge of paintings. And she’s not a woman whose praise is easily earned, as we both know. So I’m curious . . . What exactly did you say?”
    Claire glanced over at him, wondering why he was so interested. “During the course of dinner, Mrs. Worthington was discussing a number of paintings, and she attributed two of them to a certain artist. I happened to be familiar with that artist’s work and knew he hadn’t painted them, so—” she lifted a shoulder and let it fall—“I gently corrected the error and gave credit where it was due.”
    “I see . . .”
    The clickity-clack of their footsteps echoed off the walls.
    He paused by a doorway and gently took hold of her arm. “May I? It’s rather dark inside, and I don’t want you tripping over a Michelangelo.”
    Claire felt her mouth slip open. “Are you saying—”
    “No.” He smiled. “I’m playing with you. Mrs. Acklen hasn’t purchased one of his pieces. Not yet, anyway.”
    They paused by a painting, and he raised the lamp. “ Marriage of Jacob and Rachel . It’s seventeenth century, by an Italian artist. I’m afraid I don’t remember the name.”
    Still smiling over his Michelangelo comment, Claire didn’t recognize the painting, and the scrawled signature didn’t help to reveal the artist’s identity. But the oil on canvas was stunning. “The colors are so rich, even in this light.”
    “This one here”—they moved a few steps—“is Venus at the Forge of Vulcan by . . .” Sutton hesitated, as though trying to remember.
    Jan Brueghel, the younger. Claire recognized the artist’s work, but she wasn’t about to say anything, not in light of his earlier mention of her knowledge of art. “It’s lovely.” But lovely didn’t begin to describe it. The detail in the brushstrokes, the movement. Flawless. She could have sat and studied it for hours.
    Sutton looked over at her then, and for reasons she couldn’t define, she got the feeling that his hesitation seconds earlier had been intentional, to see if she would fill in the blank. She quickly looked away, the loathsome weight inside her growing denser, heavier.
    He led her into the next room. “Careful, there are some