Page 1 of Temptation and the Artist

Chapter One

He sat in the rose garden, surrounded by beautiful women. And he took her breath away.

Aline always found her reaction to Stephen Dornan inexplicable. Of course, he was handsome, in a dark yet subtle and refined sort of way. But Aline tended to favor fair men with larger-than-life characters. Mr. Dornan was quiet, almost diffident, and generally too distracted to make conversation, let alone flirt. And yet each time she saw him, her heart skipped a beat, and the air left her lungs.

He had a rare smile like sunshine, which was evident now as one of the women spoke to him. He gazed directly into her face, and Aline knew an unusual twinge of jealousy. Only once had she been aware of him looking at her with such concentration—at Dearham Abbey. She had thought he was sketching her at the time, though there had been no portrait of her among those he had displayed at the Abbey that Christmas.

Forcing herself to walk on after her involuntary pause, Aline surveyed his companions, all bright colors and beauty, like so many butterflies. She would have thought them courtesans, except Mr. Dornan was surely too pure to associate with such. No, these women were artists’ models—at least to him.

As she drew closer, she saw that he was indeed sketching. The pencil, like an extension of his long, clever fingers, flew across the book, which he had propped against his knee, deft and sure. The pencil paused, then, with a paper knife he took from his pocket, he cut the page from the book and laid it on the table in front of the girl he had smiled at. While she gazed at it in some awe, he turned to the girl nearest him, asking her something. While she chattered, he watched her, and Aline watched him.

Until—perhaps she blocked some light or shadow from where he needed it to fall—he glanced up and saw her. He looked gratifyingly startled and sprang to his feet.

“Mr. Dornan among the roses,” she drawled. “I wish my own talent was up to painting such a scene.” She stretched out one languid hand as he moved toward her.

“Princess,” he murmured, taking her gloved fingers and bowing over them. When he released her, there were grey-black fingerprints on her gloves. He frowned. “Sorry.”

“You are clearly busy, so don’t let me disturb you.”

“I’m looking for models for a series of paintings,” he said. “Some of which will have the background of the pleasure gardens.”

Aline’s raised her brows. “Paintings of all of these ladies?”

“Oh. No. The sketches were a lure to get them here so that I could choose.”

Her lips twitched, and his gaze dropped to them. Her stomach fluttered. “Very astute,” she managed.

His gaze returned to her eyes. “I thought so. At the time. What brings you here?”

“A card party last evening, believe it or not. But Renwick’s Hotel is so comfortable, I have decided to stay a few days.”

“Mama!” came her son’s happy voice, and she turned to see him rushing toward her, a large tutor striding along beside him. “There are huge men, tall as giants!”

“Really? That I must see.” She swung back to Mr. Dornan and found him watching her intently.

“This is your son?” he said.

For a moment, she hesitated, but Basil had already called her mama, and Dornan, was, after all, a friend of Johnny’s. “Yes, this is Basil, and his tutor, Mr. Flowers. Basil, make your bow to Mr. Dornan.”

Basil, growing into a long-legged eight years old, bowed correctly. “How do you do, sir?”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Dornan replied and exchanged nods with Mr. Flowers. “You are enjoying the pleasure gardens?”

“Oh, yes, it was a great idea of Mama’s to come here.”

“I beg you won’t tell anyone,” Aline said lightly. “I can’t have polite society thinking I embrace such unfashionable pleasures. We’ll leave you to your sketches, Mr. Dornan. Good morning.”

*

Stephen Dornan sat down and tried to recall which girl he had been sketching. The last one, thank God. It was an effort to concentrate when his mind was full of another face, another idea that was carrying him away with the kind of eagerness that seemed to surge up from his belly. Only his best ideas affected him thus, though there were no guarantees he could execute this one. Or that she would agree.

She. Aline. Princess Hagerin. Twice widowed that he knew of and once the lover of his friend Johnny Winter. At Dearham Abbey, he had ached to paint her. And more. He had dared only a sketch, which had done her such poor justice that he had never shown it. As for the more… She was well above his touch.

Handing out the last sketch, he said politely, “Thank you, ladies. I will be in touch when I see my way clear. I appreciate your company.” Rising, he bowed and strode off in the direction he had last seen Aline. He was vaguely aware of the rise of confused conversation behind him but kept moving until he found the men on stilts and jugglers who were entertaining people up and down one of the main paths.

However, he could see no sign of Aline or the boy or even his extremely large tutor. They must have moved on to other delights, like the castle or the waterfall or a large plate of ices. Maida Pleasure Gardens, in daytime, was an innocent, if slightly faded, joy for children. And adults, if looked upon correctly.

He could trail around the garden looking for them. But she had said they were staying at Renwick’s, the new hotel built on the edge of the grounds. So, he made his way directly there instead, asked the doorman if Princess Hagerin had returned, and, discovering she had not, deposited himself in the nearest sofa to wait. Crossing one ankle over the other knee, he got out his pencil and sketchbook and began sketching from memory, trying to capture the expressions that turned prettiness into beauty and fired his artistic imagination.

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