Temptation and the Artist, page 6
Stephen sighed. “This was all aimed at me. My father and my brothers want me to go home and sort out the mess they’ve made of the estate. They clearly thought I wouldn’t be able to tear myself away from you, and so they’ve been trying to persuade you to leave me.”
“By frightening me,” she said slowly. “And then by belittling you, and finally, by threatening Basil.”
“Clive called him a little prince this afternoon,” Stephen reminded her, “and they have no idea that he isn’t. They don’t move in your circles. When they come up to London, it’s for sport, gaming, drinking, and wenching. And they don’t like that I won’t do as they want.”
“Then you were wrong. They will hurt you! They did.”
Stephen smiled. “I think all my panicked thrashing around hurt them considerably more. Don’t worry. If they’re still here tomorrow, I’ll put them right on a few points, including the breadth of your influence and your protection.”
The princess appeared to be speechless.
Flowers said, “You had better be right about this.”
“I know.”
Aline rose to her feet and walked to the decanter on the side table. “I think we all need a glass of sherry.” Her hand shook very slightly as she poured it out, but her voice was steady.
Stephen’s admiration grew. He wanted to put his arm around her and hold her in comfort. He wanted to throw his father and brothers out the window. Any window, as long as it was high up.
“I’m sorry,” he offered as he accepted a glass from her.
“I believe I am relieved.” She gave the other glass to Mr. Flowers. “Although I’m sure we would both like to know how you came off best against two much larger brothers.”
Stephen thought about it, though not for long, for he was very aware of her seated beside him, even at a distance. “I’ve grown bigger and fitter, and they have got fatter and slower. Although as I said, the panic helped.” He raised his glass, “To you, Princess, and Basil.”
Flowers raised his glass in return, and they all drank rather thoughtfully. When her footmen came in with trays of food, the princess’s mood seemed to change to one of gaiety. It was, probably, a social trick, but it lifted the mood and set the conversation flowing until the good cheer was genuine.
It was an amusing evening, mixing banter with intelligent conversation. Mr. Flowers proved to be a highly interesting man, a scholar, and a pugilist, though how far he took either activity remained a mystery.
The footmen served the meal from covered silver dishes, replenished glasses, and removed each course when it was done. Basil came to join them for dessert and was then sent reluctantly off to bed. The princess led her guests back to the sofa and offered them brandy or port. The footmen were given leave to retire, once the remains of the meal were cleared away.
Stephen, basking in the princess’s vital presence, could have stayed there all night. But after one glass, Flowers clapped him on the shoulder. One knew when Flowers was attracting one’s attention. “Come, then. Time we wished the princess good night and left her in peace.”
Stephen did not mistake him. He was acting correctly and making sure Stephen did, too. It wasn’t just the boy he guarded. Stephen allowed himself to be drawn from his seat, added his thanks for the delicious meal and the delightful evening, and followed Flowers to the door, where they both bowed. Flowers walked along the passage toward the next door.
Stephen turned for a last glance at the princess. Candlelight glinted off her hair and the translucent skin of one side of her face. The other side was in shadow, making it mysterious but no less alluring. Like two sides of her many-facetted character. But the image stayed him, striking him like a blow.
“Princess, would you consider letting me paint you now?”
Chapter Six
“Here?” she asked dubiously.
“It would make a lot of noise moving everything. My studio is already set up.”
She hesitated, but only briefly. “I have my key, Burton,” she said to the maid. “Open the door to no one.”
“Of course not, madam,” the maid said, as though shocked.
And so, they walked the distance from her rooms to his, almost like a couple going home at the end of a pleasant evening. He liked the thought of that. Imagined them going home together every evening—and pulled himself up for a stern, if silent, talking to.
Inside his room, he turned up the lamp and turned his attention to the unlit fire in the grate, for the room was cool at this time of the evening. Besides, the flames provided the kind of glowing light he wanted.
When he rose and turned, he found her watching him. “Where do you want me?” she asked, with more genuine humor than the first time she had said the words to provoke him.
“On the bed.”
This time it was her eyes that widened in shock, a hundred expressions chasing each other across her face, too quickly to read. He liked to think there was a flare of desire in there, but he also knew wishful thinking when he came upon it.
“If you are not offended,” he said. “I would like to paint you sitting on the side of the bed, here.”
Following his gesture, she brushed past him, allowing him to inhale her distinctive scent, and sat where he asked. “People will speculate that I granted you too many liberties.”
“As part of the set, I believe it will be understood as the pose it is to those who know you. But we don’t have to show it. I would like to try it, but you will always have the final say as to whether or not it is shown or even kept.”
“Do your worst, Mr. Dornan,” she said lightly.
“That is not much encouragement to an artist.” He took off his coat, threw it over the chair, and pulled on his painting shirt.
“I don’t think you need encouragement.”
He pulled a few easels around him, changing the distance and angle of his view with each. He settled on the middle one, from where he could see her in detail between the bedposts, though he secured canvases to each, just in case the notion came upon him.
Inspired, he strode over to her, raising his hands to position her as he wanted her. Her veiled gaze followed his every move.
He paused. “Permit me?”
Her nod was infinitesimal. Very gently, he touched her cheek, turning her face toward his favored easel. Her skin was so soft he wanted to linger, to know her by touch rather than mere sight. She did not jump when he took hold of her red, lace-trimmed shawl, loosening it so that it fell around her elbows as though she were shrugging it off. Thus, the beauty of her shoulders and chest was also revealed, down to the fashionably low-cut neck of her evening gown.
She was so lovely, she caught at his breath. Slowly, so that he didn’t startle her, he touched her hair, seeking and finding the correct pin. A lock of hair freed itself and tumbled to her shoulder where it nestled, drawing attention to her creamy skin. The effect was a fine, sweet line between sleepy and decadent. It was an effort to keep his focus on art, on painting rather than devouring the pliant woman on his bed.
She trusts me.
The words echoed in both wonder and warning. He stood back and moved to his easel, from where he couldn’t help smiling. “Perfect. Thank you.”
As a last-minute courtesy, he poured the remains of yesterday’s bottle of wine into two glasses and placed one for her on the bedside cabinet before returning to his easel and lighting more candles behind him. He took a thoughtful drink of wine, surveying the somehow moving figure on the bed, forcing himself to consider technicalities of light and shade, color and brushstrokes.
And then he was mixing paint, desperate to capture her as she was now.
“Did you love him?” he asked, not so much because he wanted to know as because he wanted to bring the softness of sensuality to her face. Yet having asked it, and won something of the expression he sought, he hung upon the answer.
“Johnny? Yes, a little. Not that I ever told him so, but I had never met anyone like him before, so grasping of life and all its pleasures, and yet determined to do the right thing by his innocent sister and her friends. And by traitors.”
“That is a story I don’t know.”
“I suppose it is not mine to tell. But one day I expect he will tell you.”
“Did you come back to England for him?”
“No, I came to remind the British government of its obligations. When the prince died…” She hesitated, a wealth of sadness passing through her eyes, drooping the corners of her soft, suddenly vulnerable mouth. “I played a rare, bad card. In the midst of danger, I pretended to be with child, thinking it would preserve my position and my wealth. But the new ruler wanted no rivals, and I had to flee.”
She reached out and took a delicate sip of wine. “Although I will further confess that when I saw him—Johnny—again, I did think it might be fun to marry him. After all, he was a duke now and even more intriguing than he had been as a younger man. But then there was Kitty. I never meant to like her.”
“You stepped aside.”
She let out a breath of cynical laughter. “I never had the chance. Without trying, she stepped right through me.”
“Do you mind?”
“No.” Again, the smile playing on her lips was a little sad, though not heart-breakingly so. “Neither he nor I were the same people, and it had only ever been a fling. I like to see him and Kitty together. It brings me hope.”
“Hope? Of what?”
The smile grew deprecating. “Of the one true love every girl secretly dreams of. You are wicked, Stephen Dornan. You have caused me to betray a foolishness that does not sit well with my character.”
“Not with your invented character, perhaps. Would you call me Stephen?”
“To distinguish you from your brothers?”
“No, just to hear my name on your lips.”
Her eyes grew luminous. Dear God, how could he paint when she looked at him so?
“Are you flirting with me, Stephen?” she drawled.
“Did you think I could not?”
“I thought perhaps you would not. But you haven’t answered my question.”
It seemed he was still painting after all. “I don’t know the answer. Is it flirting to tell the truth?”
“I think it depends how you tell it.”
He smiled. “You have an answer for everything.”
“I wish I did,” she said ruefully.
He left it in the air while he worked, but when she said no more, he prompted, “Such as what?”
“Such as… Were my actions during the war with France truly as right as I thought at the time? Even enemies of one’s country—and one’s adopted country—have good reasons for what they do.”
“Including you,” he pointed out.
She took another sip of wine, and set down the glass, pushing it impatiently away from her. “And the person who lived at the top of the stairs that smelled of oil paint and turpentine. I had no reason for that. Was my information worth his imprisonment? His torture? His life?”
He paused and stared at her helplessly. He drew in a breath, “Aline—”
“Ignore me. I grow maudlin. It must be the wine and the smell of your paints that reminds me of the past. Tell me instead about your life and loves, Stephen Dornan.”
“I paint portraits,” he replied. “And like you, I am still waiting for my one true love.”
“Waiting, not looking?”
He knew what she was asking, and it was most improper. But she had already trusted him with her feelings for Johnny Dearham.
“I am not a monk.”
“But you keep no mistress in Kensington or in Mayfair. At least not at the moment.”
He smiled at his painting. “How do you know that?”
“I asked Lord Calton.”
“Why?” he asked baffled.
“Because you always intrigued me.”
His heart skipped a rapid beat, disconcerting him. Or perhaps she had done that. He darkened the shadow among the painted folds of her shawl, added a touch of orange to the glow from the fire striking her hair, but he was in no condition now to paint. The intimacy had overtaken the task.
He laid down his brush and stepped back. “You always dazzled me,” he said conversationally.
She made no reply, and he was afraid to look. Instead, he turned the easel so that the canvas faced the wall. He hadn’t touched the others.
“I have reached a good place to stop, and you must have a crick in your neck.” He pulled the paint-strewn shirt over his head. “Allow me to escort you back to your rooms.”
“Are you afraid your brothers will attack me?”
“No. But I will take every second of your company I can.”
She eased off the bed in slow motion, as graceful as it was arousing. She walked toward him, the shawl still dangling from her elbows. “While throwing me out of your room,” she mocked.
He swallowed. “While trying to keep you safe.”
“From you, Stephen Dornan?”
He could no longer tell if she was mocking him. Her beauty, his own body, both clamored too much. “Yes.” He had to move away, blowing out all the candles, and turning down the lamp by the door.
He turned to find her right beside him. His heart seemed to be knocking against his ribs. But fear of losing her trust, her friendship, was drowning in the possibility that there could be more. That he wanted, needed more. Beyond that, he could not think, only feel.
“I would like,” he said, gazing down into her warm, brilliant eyes, “if you would allow it, to kiss you good night.”
Mutely, she lifted her face to his.
*
She had been on the verge of taking matters into her own hands. The strange, unbearable intimacy of the last hour—or more, she had no concept left of passing time—had done its work too well. Just feeling his gaze upon her had aroused her unbearably. Combined with the constantly growing surges of affection and trust and fascination, she found it near impossible not to touch him.
And now he touched her first, lifting one slow, paint-stained hand to glide his fingertips across her cheek. She closed her eyes, and his hand settled, cupping her face as his breath kissed her mouth.
And then came his lips with the tiniest of touches on hers, followed by a brushing caress as light as a butterfly wing. And a small soft kiss at the corner of her mouth, another that moved gently to capture her parted lips at last, tasting, savoring.
Her hands crept over his shirt, to his shoulders, his nape, as she sighed with wonder as well as pleasure. No one had ever kissed her quite like this before. It felt like awe, like worship, and she never wanted it to end, for it was sweet and enchanting. She didn’t even realize she wanted more until he gave it, sinking his mouth deeper and moving on hers with slow sensuality.
With a sigh, she opened wide to him, winding her tongue around his, and drew him closer, her fingers tangling with the soft hair at his nape, her other arm around his waist, her palm flat against the astonishing heat of his back. She pressed nearer, discovering with fierce triumph that he was already fully aroused. He made no effort to hide it from her either, even moved his hips languidly against her as he kissed. God help her, he would be a uniquely sensitive lover, giving pleasure after pleasure.
His free arm swept around her, holding her fast for a long, delicious moment. And then his mouth loosened, smiling against hers. “You kiss as you look.”
“What does that mean?”
“If I ever find out, I’ll tell you.”
“I hope, at least, it is good.” She hoped she didn’t sound as defenseless as she felt.
“You have no idea.” He pressed his lips to hers once more and then stepped back, reaching for his coat.
Had she ever been this unsure before? He would not even ask her to stay, and she could not suggest it for fear that her kiss had not inspired him enough. He was not like the other men she had known. He had discernment and she…she was no innocent. She had married twice for sentiments that had never quite reached the height of love. Or at least, she didn’t think they had.
He deserved, better, purer… But devil take the man, no one had proposed marriage.
He shrugged into his coat, and, either ignoring or forgetting his cravat, offered her his arm and opened the door.
“Am I required tomorrow?” she asked lightly.
“At sunrise, in the rose garden, if you are not too tired? I’ll wait for you.”
Will you? “Very well.”
“Aline?”
“Stephen?”
There was a pause. “You take my breath. All of it.”
She had no idea what to say to that, so she remained silent, letting the warmth and gladness seep through her. From the stairs, she could hear voices below, and a door closed above, but they reached her rooms without meeting anyone.
He raised her hand to her lips, not a chaste salute to her fingertips, but an open-mouthed kiss on her knuckles. “Until the morning. Sleep well.”
And then her hand was free, and he strode back toward the stairs.
*
Sir Oliphant woke to darkness. Despite the fuzzy head caused by last night’s brandy, he had the unpleasantly clear feeling he was not alone. He turned over in the comfortable bed and peered into the darkness. Surely a blacker darkness formed the shape of a man at the foot of his bed?
“Clive, is that you?” Sir Oliphant growled. “Go back to bed, for God’s sake. I’ll listen to your apologies tomorrow, and they had better be abject.”
“You should have taught them better when they were young,” said a freezing voice, one who should have sounded as familiar as Clive’s but did not. “I never saw why I should be the only one to be caned.”
“You squealed more,” his father sneered before he remembered he needed this son on his side, although it appeared now to be a lost cause.
“I imagine everyone squeals at five. Or was it four? No matter. I came to discuss the future, not the past. In particular, the future that will be yours and my brothers’, should you ever threaten Princess Hagerin again. Or even hint at a threat. Did you imagine she was some hapless refugee relic of a minor foreign princeling no one has ever heard of? That she has no friends in this country? Allow me to disabuse you.
