Page 13 of Temptation and the Artist

“No… That is, yes, there is—one moment.” He walked over the dust sheet to the desk and without sitting, seized a piece of the hotel paper and dipped the supplied pen nib in ink.

Without troubling with a greeting, he wrote, Unfortunately, I have another appointment at four. I shall be free between six and seven and if convenient, shall call upon you then. Stephen.

Folding the note, he wrote his father’s name on the outside and returned to the servant. “In which room is Sir Oliphant staying?” he asked, dropping the note on the silver tray.

The servant told him and went on his way, leaving Stephen thoughtful and not a little suspicious. He could think of no reason for his father to seek him out. Even a bereavement could have been conveyed by letter.

He removed the paint-splashed shirt and cleaned himself up before changing into more respectable garb, and went in search of the princess. Which, since he knew she was changing rooms, was unexpectedly difficult. The hotel staff were unlikely to tell him which rooms she occupied, and he didn’t want to risk talk by asking. He had just decided to ask staff to send a message begging her company when he saw the distant but unmistakable bulk of Mr. Flowers entering a door on his right.

Speeding up until he came to the same door, he knocked. A youngish maid opened it, and Basil’s voice could be heard shouting, “Mr. Dornan!”

The maid opened the door wider to reveal a large sitting room, off which led three other doors. On one side, a desk had been set up, presumably for Basil who was leaping away from it with joy.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Stephen said, entering. “Good afternoon, Basil! Flowers. I was looking for the princess.”

“I’m here.” Dressed in a becoming shade of turquoise, she emerged from a door at the far end, presumably her bedchamber. “Come, we shall leave the scholars to their studies. Basil, be good and there might be ices later. Thank you, Mr. Flowers.”

The casual thanks was given with a quick, direct smile, and Stephen thought the tutor and all her other staff would be her willing slaves just for such genuine appreciation.

She seemed also to be genuinely pleased to see Stephen.

“Your new rooms are satisfactory?” he asked as they left the hotel and walked toward the path to the pleasure gardens.

“Much better, I think. Basil has the other bedchamber and my maid and the nursery maid share the small room. Mr. Flowers has the room next door. I can hear music!”

“It will be the end of the midday concert,” Stephen said. “We can go and listen if you like.”

They caught only the last ten minutes, though in that time, he made several sketches of her rapt face, and even one of the wry glances she cast at him once she realized what he was doing.

Afterward, they strolled to the canopied tearoom, and Stephen devoured a bowl of rich broth with fresh, warm bread. After which, he got out his sketchbook and drew her eating flavored ices.

“Better than Gunter’s?” he asked.

“Do you know, I think it is!”

When she had finished, they walked around the garden, finding interesting little corners and hideaways.

He said, “I would like to paint you in the moonlight, on one of the public ball nights when the place is lit up with lanterns and torches.”

“Will there not be too many people peering over your shoulder and barging between us?”

“That’s why I’m looking for a place that will be lit but not occupied. What is up here?”

A few steps through overhanging bushes led to what looked like a secret little garden with a lily pond and elegant fronds. A little waterfall poured into the pond and a stream led away down the slope.

“I wonder if this is the place Kitty told me about?” the princess mused. “It is rather beautiful.”

“And there are lanterns hung above.”

“We could bring our own, too, if you needed extra light.”

“True. I could imagine you here.” At the moment at least, it was a place of peace and warmth and solitude. And being alone with her here, so close he could inhale her perfume and feel her warmth brushing against him, was both tempting and intoxicating.

“I can imagine you here, too, with your easels set up…here.” She pointed to the grass by the pond.

“And here, perhaps.” He leaned against a boulder, partly to ease the tension caused by her nearness, and regarded her. He could not help smiling. “From any angle, you are so beautiful, I doubt my ability to do you justice.”

People—men—must say things like that to her all the time. And yet a hint of color stained her delicate cheekbones as she gave him an amused, skeptical look. “You are an artist. You should be able to see that I am not. My features are not quite regular, my nose too long, and my mouth too wide. And I have it on the best authority that my chin is too determined for femininity.”

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