Page 2 of Temptation and the Artist

He separated her features, showing only her eyes and brows when she was being provocative—“Mr. Dornan among the roses,” indeed!—and when she was genuinely amused, and then when she looked at her son. Beneath all the beguiling, long-lashed, almond-shaped eyes, which weren’t quite right although they were close, he drew a series of lips as part of the same expression. Her lips obsessed him, their full yet delicate shape and the way the corners quirked very slightly upward. Her mouth could often be serious while her eyes laughed. And he had seen her smile while her eyes turned bleak.

She was the most fascinating woman he had ever encountered, and if she allowed him the right to try to capture that on canvas…

It was her scent that roused him, as he had known it would. A hint of lime and hyacinth and some elusive spice—sophisticated, provocative, and lovely, like the lady herself. She entered the foyer, smiling at her son’s chatter, the tutor trailing behind. Since her golden blonde head was turned in his direction, it was inevitable that she saw him.

Her smile froze for the tiniest instant. Probably, she did not care to be pursued by him, or by anyone when her son was with her.

He rose and bowed. “Princess. Could you spare me a moment of your time?”

There was a pause, and his heart sank. She was going to deny him and his all-consuming idea would be strangled at birth. It would not work with another woman.

“Fortunately, I can, since it is lesson time once more. Cake for tea, Basil, if Mr. Flowers is pleased with you.”

Basil opened his mouth to protest, then appeared to think better of it and smiled instead, offering Stephen a wave as he trotted away beside the tutor.

The princess sat at the end of the sofa and gestured with one hand to invite Stephen to the other. He sat, turning to face her, holding the hastily closed sketchbook on his lap.

“Madame la princesse,” he began, since this was how he always thought of her. “I have a proposition to lay before you.”

“Why, Mr. Dornan, I am surprised at you,” she drawled.

“No, you are not, and you know perfectly well I would never presume.”

“On the contrary, sir, I know you so little I have no idea what you might presume.”

“Nothing improper,” he assured her before honesty compelled him to admit, “Nothing very improper.”

“Be still, my beating heart,” she murmured.

Stephen knew when he was being teased, even subtly. There would be time, later, if she agreed, for him to give as good as he got, but for now, he needed her simply to agree. “I mentioned to you the series of paintings on which I need to embark. It is for a new competition to be held in Paris later this year, a judgment of skill to be made via a series of paintings—no fewer than three, no more than six—that must somehow be linked or related to each other.

“My original idea—because I love the changing light, the color, and the atmospheres of Maida—was to paint a series of women in the rose garden at various times of the day, all behaving differently to display a whole spectrum of…womanhood. At work, nurturing, laughing, flirting.”

“Hence the harem in the rose garden,” she murmured. “Why women?”

“A good question. There is a cynical aspect. For me—and for the men who will judge the paintings, for the most part– they will be pleasanter to look at. And on a deeper level, women fascinate me. Men are vaunted as the stronger sex, but most of us lack the inner strength of most women, who need, often to survive, to be all things to all people. I wanted to show that strength, that drudgery and hardship and laughing good spirits among the beauty of the rose garden. Which itself is subject to the changes of the seasons.”

Curiosity entered her brilliant eyes. “That is surprisingly…profound.”

“I thought so. And with some of the women…you saw, I think, I could have made it work quite well. And then I saw you.”

Was that alarm behind her suddenly veiled eyes? Suspicion?

“What would I be?” she mused, her voice light, and yet he suspected her mood was anything but. “Not the coquette, for I am beyond such immaturity. The fallen woman, perhaps? The siren?”

“You misunderstand me. I do not judge you, and if I did, it would hardly be in such terms. I see beauty, character, a woman who has created and endured much in her life, a mother, a lady full of life and laughter and sadness.” He paused as her eyes narrowed.

“Do you?” she said after a moment.

“For a beginning. When we met in the garden, I suddenly saw in you everything I had been looking for, and another idea took hold of me. To paint the same woman in all her many roles.”

Her eyes widened. For a moment, she said nothing, then, “Would that not be a bit dull? Just portrait after portrait of me in the rose garden?”

“To make that work, I would have to abandon subtlety, so, no. I would like to paint you in the rose garden in the morning, and perhaps in the moonlight. But also, indoors. With your son, if you will allow it. I can’t tell until I begin.” He drew a deep breath. “Will you agree to sit for me?”

Her gaze dropped from his to her hands, looking perhaps at the fingerprints he had marked on her gloves. She glanced back up, searching his face, her expression carefully veiled. A pulse throbbed subtly at the base of her throat. He had no idea what that meant, although he knew a powerful urge to feel the vibration against his fingertips, his lips.

“I cannot sit all day, every day,” she said. “I would go mad and so would Basil.”

---