Belle did not believe she could walk out of her chamber in the attire her husband had made her wear for him to paint her.
Yesterday, after their kiss in the art chamber, he'd caught sight of something just behind her that made his eyes narrow in displeasure, followed by a low, muttered curse. Belle had frowned and turned to see what he was looking at—and then she had sucked in a sharp breath, clasping a hand over her slackened mouth upon noticing what had caused him to stop mid-sentence with that look on his face.
The inappropriate, crude painting of her, the one that had shocked her into knocking it off the easel, now lay on the floor. Not just that, it was ruined. Her heart had sunk at the sight.
Belle hadn't noticed it earlier because Kuhn had drawn her attention to the dark painting just a few seconds after it had fallen back—unaware that it had landed in a bowl of paint, splashing smug streaks across the canvas and ruining it.
