Page 12 of Temptation and the Artist

“May I steal you again this afternoon?” he asked.

“Inside or out?”

“Out, weather willing. I’ll take you for an ice.”

“We should wait for Basil.”

“We’ll take Basil later, as well. Then you can have two ices.”

She laughed. “Very well.” She left him at the door of his own rooms and then went down to enjoy breakfast with Basil.

Chapter Four

Sir Oliphant Dornan, sauntering along the passage, was delighted to see two footmen and a lady’s maid hauling baggage out of Princess Hagerin’s rooms. He tried not to smirk as he passed them and went on his way downstairs to join his sons for breakfast.

“It worked,” he said gleefully, sitting down with them at their table by the window. “Her servants are wheeling out her luggage as we speak.”

“As long as her people don’t trace it back to us,” Clive said. “Upsetting princesses—”

“Don’t be a bigger gudgeon than you can help,” advised his proud papa. “She’s only the widow of some central European princeling, not a real princess with any power, and she’s foreign. Still,” he added thoughtfully, “I have to say Stephen has surprised me. Extremely beautiful woman. Wouldn’t have thought she’d look twice at our boy.”

“Maybe she thinks he’s got money,” Gordon said, receiving his breakfast with ferocious satisfaction. “After all, he apparently socializes with dukes and countesses, too. English ones.”

“They probably want their portrait painted,” Clive sneered. “He’ll sleep with the servants.”

Sir Oliphant snorted. Although he was perfectly happy to make fun of his errant youngest, he did not care for the idea of a Dornan being treated as a lackey. It was an insult to the whole family.

“The sooner we get him home the better,” he muttered, tucking into his own substantial meal. “And not just because this hotel is costing me an arm and a leg. We’ll make a call on your brother after breakfast.”

His sons were uncharacteristically silent until Sir Oliphant looked up and followed their gazes out the window to the terrace. The princess, the same woman who had been moving out of her rooms not ten minutes ago, was walking in the direction of the pleasure garden, laughing with a boy of about eight or nine who danced around her. She wore a pelisse of deep turquoise with a matching hat, both in the first stare of fashion. And she was in no obvious hurry. No carriage waited to be loaded with her baggage.

“I think that call on our little brother might be premature,” Clive remarked. “It doesn’t look to me as if she’s going anywhere.”

Sir Oliphant swore. “So much for indirect methods. I’ll give the boy one chance, and that will be all.”

*

Stephen knew something was wrong in the princess’s world. He wasn’t surprised she didn’t tell him her problem, though he hadn’t expected that lack of trust to bother him quite as much as whatever difficulty she faced.

Plus, he was not happy with the portraits he had begun. The sunrise and the roses were an excellent background, and the early light reflecting on her hair and skin he could make work very well. But her face was wrong. Her distracted expression, her mood, were not inspiring. At the moment, the paintings had little hope of being anything other than ordinary, decent portraits. And they should be more. He needed them to be more.

Abandoning them, he got out another canvas instead and put the finishing touches to his portrait of the Duke and Duchess of Dearham. Looking at it made him smile, which was the effect the pair had on most people. No one loved life like Johnny Dearham unless it was his Kitty. He would give them the portrait when they returned from their wedding journey, and hope they liked it.

Leaving it to dry, he set about cleaning his brushes and setting up fresh canvases. His stomach had begun to rumble by the time the knock sounded on his door. Hoping it was the princess, he was already opening the door before he realized he was still in his painting shirt. But then, she had seen him so improperly dressed this morning.

It was not the princess who stood there but one of the hotel servants, who bowed and presented him with a visiting card from a silver tray. Frowning, Stephen picked it up.

It was his father’s.

His frown deepened to a scowl. No good ever came from his parent’s communications. And what the devil was he doing here? How had he even known to find Stephen here?

He turned the card over to find a message in his father’s distinctive scrawl.

Join me for tea at four.

A father certainly had the right to command his son, and the son had a duty to obey. But Stephen knew of old the dangers of complying with Sir Oliphant’s orders too precipitously. And he had besides, more or less promised to accompany the princess and Basil for ices.

“Is there a reply, sir?” the servant asked respectfully.

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