Page 14 of Temptation and the Artist

“Beauty is not that kind of symmetry or perfection,” he said impatiently. “Whoever told you it was is a nincompoop.”

She laughed at the word, and he smiled all over again at her spontaneity. “Come, shall we explore further?”

By the time they returned to the hotel, there was still an hour left of Basil’s lesson time.

“Would you let me paint you for that hour?” he asked.

Her gaze was direct. It always was. “Where?”

“In my studio.”

A smile flickered across her face. But to him, this was the true description. He happened to sleep in the room that was his temporary studio. He didn’t think of it as painting in his bedchamber.

“Why not?” she said lightly, leading the way upstairs. As he followed, he allowed himself a quick glance around the public areas for any sign of his father. In fact, he kept his eyes peeled, until they were inside his room when he closed the door behind them with some relief.

“Where do you want me?” she asked with a trace of the old, teasing provocativeness he had seen so little of today.

Inevitably his body answered silently, but with his voice, he was able to say easily, “In the window seat again, if you would.”

Her fingers hovered over the buttons of her pelisse. “Do you want me to leave it on?”

“I want you to be comfortable.”

As she removed the pelisse, he took off his own coat and threw it on the bed before snatching his painting shirt from the top of the trunk. His breath caught at the picture she presented, like ice in the sunshine, waiting to melt. The warmth in her eyes contrasted achingly with the calmness of her face and the cool, turquoise fabric of her gown.

He began to paint at once, both entranced and determined, inspired and desperate. He knew instinctively that this one would be good. She took form on his canvas in the tones of her skin and hair and the almost exact color of her gown. He would work on its shades of fold and shadow later. For now, he needed its boldness, her expression, and her beauty to shine through…

“My rooms were ransacked last night.”

The announcement came out of nowhere and took a moment to penetrate his paint-obsessed brain. His brush stilled. He frowned. “Ransacked?”

“Ransacked. I found it like that when I returned from dinner with you.”

“Dear God, why didn’t you tell me?”

She was silent, and it came to him that she didn’t know. She was too used to dealing with problems—dangerous problems, he more than suspected—alone.

“Did you even tell your servants? Flowers?”

She shook her head. “I need good, loyal servants. I don’t want them taking fright and running.”

“If they do so, they are hardly good or loyal. Their job is to protect you and your son.”

“I know, and I believe they would. But first, I need to know who did it and why.”

“Have you any ideas?”

“Three,” she said. “The first that it was a total stranger, who just happened to get into my room and wanted to make a mess. It wasn’t a thief, though, for nothing was taken. My opinion is that while possible, this idea is unlikely to be the case.”

“I would agree, but you should have a word with Renwick anyway. What is your second possibility?” He had begun to paint again, to catch that particular brave tilt of the head, her sheer aloneness.

She sighed. “The Monteignes. My first husband’s family want Basil back. It would be easy enough for them to have discovered by now that I am here and to send someone to frighten me. Basil’s room was untouched, which bears out this theory. I believe this to be the likeliest possibility.”

“Then I think it’s time the Monteignes were made aware of how many friends you have in London, more than ready to break Monteigne bones or shoot them over twenty paces.”

A smile flickered once more. “Why, Mr. Dornan, I had not realized you were so bloodthirsty.”

“I can be on occasions,” he replied, restraining his anger because it would not help her. Or the painting. “What is your third theory?”

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