Page 11 of Temptation and the Artist

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—”

“No,” he said at once. “I shall take these.” He was already throwing small dustsheets over each and stacking the easels together cleverly so that nothing touched the paintings. He could even carry them in one hand, the folded table in the other. “The chair belongs to the gardens, so we can just leave it here.”

The only people around were the gardens staff—a few gardeners, who nodded as they passed, and the girl setting up her outdoor tea shop. With some surprise, Aline realized that she felt peaceful again.

It’s him. He of the sculpted profile, the gentle expression, and the sharp, sharp eyes. Seductive eyes, too, when he chose…

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