Temptation and the Artist, page 3
*
To be dining with Mr. Dornan felt curiously like stepping into a scene of unknown danger. Which she had done on many occasions.
As she played a spirited game of jackstraws with Basil, part of her rejoiced in Dornan’s invitation, in the fact that he was finally seeing her and the possibilities that could arise.
Another part, that which had kept her alive through too many hair-raising adventures, was sounding alarms and warnings because she knew in her heart, he would disappoint her. He might have challenged her view of him as puritanical, almost chaste, but she was in danger of wanting too much from him.
By the time she left Basil to change for dinner, she had resolved simply to enjoy the evening. Her heart, after all, had always taken care of itself.
In the passage, a faint, curiously familiar scent, caused her to pause and turn. Slight as it was, it drew her, searching for the root of its memory. She followed it to the staff staircase. Opening the doors, she found the smell grew a little stronger. It drifted down from upstairs.
The memory jolted into place. A similar bare staircase in Paris, an unknown, never seen man, whom she had betrayed.
She whisked herself away, letting the doors fall back behind her as she swept along the passage to her own rooms. She shoved aside the guilt she had learned to live with. It had been many years ago, after all, and the unmistakable smell of oil paints and turpentine came not from a rickety Paris tenement, but the comfortable hotel room of Stephen Dornan on the edges of London.
She had not brought a huge variety of evening gowns with her, so the choice was hardly taxing. She refused to spend too much effort on her toilette, for she was no young girl seeking to impress her chevalier. Still, Burton, her maid, announced her approval, and so did Basil when she swept back along the passage to say goodnight to him before dinner.
“I’ll look in on you on my way back,” she promised as she left him with the nursemaid, Ellen. She walked unhurriedly downstairs to the dining room, aware her heart was beating too fast for the occasion. Looking neither to right nor left, she crossed the foyer. From the sofa nearest the dining room, a male figure arose, and her heart turned over.
In evening dress, Stephen Dornan was stunning. She had known that, of course, from their stay at Dearham Abbey at Christmas. But now she noticed smaller, endearing qualities, like the speck of paint on his wrist and the unruly curl of hair to the left of his temple. His melting dark eyes focused on her entirely as he advanced, and, defeating her utterly, he smiled, deluging her with sunshine.
Chapter Three
Sir Oliphant Dornan was swaggering across the grand foyer toward his youngest son, his elder two on either side of him when a dazzling woman swept past them from the direction of the staircase.
Stephen, of course, being a perfect little gentleman, rose and bowed, though he was well beneath the notice of such a diamond. However, shockingly, the diamond stopped and gave the boy her hand. He smiled at her, placing her hand on his arm.
Sir Oliphant stopped in his tracks, throwing out both hands to force his sons to a halt, too. Before their eyes, Stephen and the beauty walked together into the dining room.
“Good Lord, has little Stephen made a conquest?” Clive, Sir Oliphant’s eldest, said in amusement.
“She’d eat him whole for breakfast,” Gordon, the younger, said contemptuously. “For some reason, she’s taken pity on him.”
“You’re missing the point,” Sir Oliphant growled, tugging their arms to haul them back the way they had come. As one, they retreated to the group of chairs near the front door and sat down in a huddle.
Sir Oliphant glared from one large, handsome son to the other. “I know he’s not a normal Dornan, but he is a man. And hardly as used to female attention as you two. Would you give up a woman like that to immure yourself in the country?”
“God, no,” Clive said fervently.
“Then is Stephen likely to abandon the chance?”
They regarded him with consternation.
Gordon said, “We’ll beat him into it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sir Oliphant scowled. “You are not children anymore. Neither is he, despite his namby-pamby hobbies. You won’t get his cooperation by beating him. You can’t even frighten him anymore, judging by the last time we all met.”
“What, then?” Gordon asked sulkily.
“Well,” Sir Oliphant mused, “he’s not going to walk away from her, is he? So, she must be induced to walk away from him.”
Clive snorted. “That shouldn’t be difficult. She’ll be off after dinner.”
“You always underestimate your brother,” Sir Oliphant observed, although he had been guilty of that same mistake. “She is the one who needs to be scared away.”
*
Dining with Stephen Dornan took her some time to get used to. Being the focus of such intense attention, without the relief of his sketch pad and pencil, almost overwhelmed her. Her heart fluttered continuously, as though trying to play with the butterflies in her stomach. She had never in her life felt so unsure, so…unanchored.
Only gradually, exchanging impersonal remarks about the food and the decoration of the dining room, did she begin to relax, recalling other residences, other dining rooms in her considerable travels. By the end of the fish course, they were exchanging amusing stories, and she was almost growing used to seeing him smile, even laugh.
Not that he was one of life’s chatterers. He had talked more while sketching her, which she guessed now had been to make her talk. That had been to do with his art, his profession. This was different. And she liked it even more. To have his entire attention was…intoxicating.
It was also a voyage of discovery. The man she had imagined living his life in quiet artistry in England, never journeying further afield than Scotland, turned out to be exceedingly well-traveled. He knew many of the same places as she in France, Spain, Italy, and central Europe. They had heard the same musicians in different cities at different times and admired the same art and architecture.
“You were studying your art?” she said once.
“Always.”
“What did your family think of that?” she asked curiously. “Because you are a gentleman, are you not?”
“What makes you think so?”
“You move too easily among the aristocracy to be anything else.”
He didn’t deny it. “And gentlemen do not follow such girlish hobbies as painting,” he said sardonically. “Or any profession that is not the army, the church, the diplomatic service, or, at a pinch, the law.”
“Which you did not consider. Then did your family not support you? How did you live? Off the sale of your paintings?”
“Sometimes. I also inherited some land in Sussex through my mother, which supports me adequately and is, besides, a pleasant place to call home.” He leaned across the table to refill her wine glass. “What of you, madam? Where is your family?”
“Apart from Basil, in a better place.”
He regarded her. “Your natural reticence?” he wondered. “Or am I rudely inquisitive?”
“Which do you think?”
“I think you have grown so used to keeping secrets that you have forgotten how to trust.”
Devastatingly shrewd. “You wish to know my origins? My father owned a farm in the north of Spain, close to the French border. I married a landowner on the French side of that border. Basil’s father.”
“What happened to him?”
“War happened to him, mostly.”
“And to you?”
“I discovered I supported my own people in their struggle to throw off the French yoke.” She swirled the wine in her glass and glanced up to meet his gaze. “I have a talent for dissembling.”
If she had hoped to shock him, she was again disappointed. He merely nodded. “I know.”
She blinked, then laughed with genuine amusement. “Apparently less of a talent than I thought.”
“I am observant,” he said apologetically.
“I thought I was, too. But there is a great deal more to you than meets the eye, is there not, Mr. Dornan?”
His dark eyebrows flew up. “Oh, no. I’m an open sort of fellow. A bit dull and single-minded.”
“Single-minded, perhaps,” she allowed.
The waiter interrupted to clear their dishes away and bring dessert—an extravagant creation of wafer-thin sugared pastry, raspberries, and vanilla cream. Although it was delicious, Mr. Dornan did not eat his, merely sat back and watched her, the faintest smile playing around his lips.
Disconcerted, she concentrated on the bliss of the sweet before her, and when she looked again, he had his damned sketchbook out, his pencil busy about the page.
“What the devil is there to draw in a woman eating?” she demanded.
“Pure, sensual pleasure.”
And she, who had been trying to shock him for most of their short acquaintance, was the one who found herself blushing. The words pure, sensual pleasure were like a jolt of lightning in her veins, because he had said them, because he sat opposite her with his busy, graceful fingers, and she could not help but wonder about the very impure, sensual pleasures those clever hands could create.
Her entire body still tingled even after the sketchbook vanished, even as they drank coffee and spoke of unthreatening things. It came to her with another, lesser jolt, that he was an interesting man, alternately comfortable and challenging. And that, combined with the background buzz of physical attraction, was fascinating. She felt more alive than she had in years.
“More coffee?” he asked. “Or shall I order another bottle of wine?”
She regarded him, heat curling deep in her belly. His expression was polite, but his soft, brown eyes could melt a lady’s bones. She could swear desire simmered there in the darkness, just waiting for her to say the word. And once, she might have.
She set her napkin on the table. “Thank you, but no. I promised to look in on Basil, and if you must begin painting so fiendishly early, I shall need my beauty sleep.” Was she making too many excuses? Babbling?
If so, he didn’t appear to notice, merely stood and held her chair for her to rise. She took his arm and they left the dining room, crossing the foyer to the stairs. Conversation had dried up once more. The silence was charged, yet not unpleasantly so, which was curious. There was a great deal of the curious about Stephen Dornan.
They walked along the passage, and she stopped outside the door of her rooms. “Thank you for a wonderful dinner and a delightful evening, Mr. Dornan. I shall wish you goodnight and see you bleary-eyed in the rose garden at first light.”
“These are your rooms?” he asked in surprise. “I thought you would be at the end of the corridor, with Basil.”
“I came to hold a card party. I couldn’t have him disturbed by the noise, could I?”
Mr. Dornan’s lips curved. “Of course, you could not.”
She offered him her hand, though she had meant not to, just to keep the parting light. He took it and bowed, though to her surprise, he raised her hand to his lips in the European style and kissed her fingers. The touch of his mouth was light yet thrilled every nerve in her body.
“Good night, Princess. Sleep well.”
Her hand was free, and he strode back toward the staircase. Blinking, she took the key from her reticule with her tingling hand and opened the door. And walked into carnage.
Dornan had already walked away, but from old habit, she closed the door to prevent anyone from seeing. Only when it vanished into a sea of calm, accepting despair, did she recognize her main emotion of the evening had been a strange, unjustified hope.
But here it was again, the intrusion of her old life, some part of it at least. It seemed that would never be over.
“Burton?” she called to her maid. If whoever had done this had hurt Burton… She could not even think of Basil yet or she would go to pieces. The rooms were silent, but she had to know what she faced before she sought her son.
Going through the motions, she turned up the lamp and replaced the key in her reticule. At the same time, she took out a slim, efficient little dagger, more than half-hidden in her hand. Picking up the lamp, she took stock as she moved through the sitting room, stepping over a fallen chair, books and clothing, and packs of cards pulled from drawers. The doorway to her bedchamber beyond was strewn with clothing, hairbrushes, and even pins glistening among it. But she could feel or smell no other presence, not even Burton’s. She could hear no breathing other than her own.
Still, she kicked the clothes away from the doorway and shoved the door hard with her elbow. No one cried out or slid down the wall. The bedchamber was empty.
Nevertheless, she checked beneath the bed and inside the wardrobe before drawing the curtains and leaving in a swirl of skirts. Since the corridors were always dimly lit from the occasional wall sconce, she abandoned the lamp in her own room. But she held the little dagger firmly behind her reticule as she swept down the passage to Basil’s room.
That it was locked was some comfort. She knocked once, and the door was opened almost at once by Ellen. Here, everything was tidy and normal.
“Good evening, madam,” Ellen said. “He’s in his bed, but not asleep. I think he was waiting for you.”
Aline slid the dagger subtly back into her reticule and breathed again. She was able to smile quite genuinely at her son as she hugged him and kissed him good night. For whoever was responsible for ransacking her rooms had been attacking her, not Basil.
“Shall I send Miss Burton to you, madam?” the nursemaid asked.
“No, that won’t be necessary. You may tell her I won’t need her until morning. Good night, Ellen.”
With the worst of her fear relieved, there was nothing to do but return to her own rooms and start clearing up.
*
“You look tired.”
Not the words one most wants to hear from the man who thrills one with a single look.
“What am I to say to that?” she retorted. “I could not sleep for thinking of you?”
In the early morning light, he had already set up two easels and a little trestle table covered in paints, brushes, palettes, and small bottles. He wore not a smock but a larger shirt that hung over a pair of old breeches. He looked clean and fresh, though, endearingly, he seemed to have forgotten to comb his hair, which was a trifle unruly and flopped forward over his forehead.
“I would be flattered if you did,” he replied mildly, “but only if you meant it. Would you sit here?”
He picked up a folding chair that had been propped against a massive rose bush, unfolded it, and placed it for her on the grass. She sat since it was what she had come for. Then he touched her, adjusting the position of her head, and her breath caught.
His lips quirked. “Sorry. Bad habit.”
“Don’t apologize, I have never been stage scenery before.”
He let that one pass, more concerned, no doubt, with reproducing the colors of the sunrise, which she could no longer see.
His hands worked differently with the paintbrush than with the pencil, first in the quick mixing of his paints and then in broad, sweeping strokes that fascinated her as much as his gliding pencil work. He worked on both easels. Then he seized another brush, more colors, more delicate strokes. She lost track, simply enjoyed watching his hands, and then, more daringly, his face.
“They will bring coffee soon,” he observed. “Unless you would prefer tea.”
“Coffee would be welcome,” she allowed. “When may I join Basil for breakfast?”
“When would you like to?”
“Before nine.”
“The gardens open to the public then, and the light will have changed, so by all means. Are you cold?”
“What would you do if I was?” she asked curiously.
“Find you a blanket. I should have brought one.”
“Would that not interfere with your composition?”
“Not at this stage…ah, coffee. No, don’t move, I’ll bring it to you.”
Since he didn’t seem to mind her raising the cup to and from her lips, she drank while she watched him and thought. She lost track of time until he said suddenly, “What has happened to upset you?”
She blinked. “Nothing. I am not at my best in the morning.”
He snatched up another brush, made two small dabs with it, then threw it back. “If you need help, I am at your disposal.”
“Why should you imagine I need help?”
“You are…not balanced.”
“Is that not polite English for mad?”
He smiled faintly. “Unbalanced. It can be. You are not mad. You are wary.”
“I am always wary.”
“Warier,” he amended.
“Not at all. I am thinking over my arrangements at the hotel and if Basil and I are to stay for another few days, we shall change rooms.” It would be easier to protect Basil that way, and if whoever had ransacked her rooms last night still lingered, they would find out her connection to Basil anyway. If they didn’t know it already.
Mr. Dornan scowled at the easel in front of him, then more direly at the other easel, and threw down his brush. “I can work on these more inside. May I escort you back to the hotel?”
“No,” she replied, amused rather than offended by his suddenness. “But I can help you carry all this—” she waved a hand around his paraphernalia—“back inside.”
“Thank you, but that would hardly be suitable.”
“Well, we could walk back together empty-handed and send one of my lazy footmen to fetch it all in.”
He gave in. “Can you manage the bag of paints and brushes?”
“Of course. And your canvases—”
