Page 20 of Temptation and the Artist

It was an amusing evening, mixing banter with intelligent conversation. Mr. Flowers proved to be a highly interesting man, a scholar, and a pugilist, though how far he took either activity remained a mystery.

The footmen served the meal from covered silver dishes, replenished glasses, and removed each course when it was done. Basil came to join them for dessert and was then sent reluctantly off to bed. The princess led her guests back to the sofa and offered them brandy or port. The footmen were given leave to retire, once the remains of the meal were cleared away.

Stephen, basking in the princess’s vital presence, could have stayed there all night. But after one glass, Flowers clapped him on the shoulder. One knew when Flowers was attracting one’s attention. “Come, then. Time we wished the princess good night and left her in peace.”

Stephen did not mistake him. He was acting correctly and making sure Stephen did, too. It wasn’t just the boy he guarded. Stephen allowed himself to be drawn from his seat, added his thanks for the delicious meal and the delightful evening, and followed Flowers to the door, where they both bowed. Flowers walked along the passage toward the next door.

Stephen turned for a last glance at the princess. Candlelight glinted off her hair and the translucent skin of one side of her face. The other side was in shadow, making it mysterious but no less alluring. Like two sides of her many-facetted character. But the image stayed him, striking him like a blow.

“Princess, would you consider letting me paint you now?”

Chapter Six

“Here?” she asked dubiously.

“It would make a lot of noise moving everything. My studio is already set up.”

She hesitated, but only briefly. “I have my key, Burton,” she said to the maid. “Open the door to no one.”

“Of course not, madam,” the maid said, as though shocked.

And so, they walked the distance from her rooms to his, almost like a couple going home at the end of a pleasant evening. He liked the thought of that. Imagined them going home together every evening—and pulled himself up for a stern, if silent, talking to.

Inside his room, he turned up the lamp and turned his attention to the unlit fire in the grate, for the room was cool at this time of the evening. Besides, the flames provided the kind of glowing light he wanted.

When he rose and turned, he found her watching him. “Where do you want me?” she asked, with more genuine humor than the first time she had said the words to provoke him.

“On the bed.”

This time it was her eyes that widened in shock, a hundred expressions chasing each other across her face, too quickly to read. He liked to think there was a flare of desire in there, but he also knew wishful thinking when he came upon it.

“If you are not offended,” he said. “I would like to paint you sitting on the side of the bed, here.”

Following his gesture, she brushed past him, allowing him to inhale her distinctive scent, and sat where he asked. “People will speculate that I granted you too many liberties.”

“As part of the set, I believe it will be understood as the pose it is to those who know you. But we don’t have to show it. I would like to try it, but you will always have the final say as to whether or not it is shown or even kept.”

“Do your worst, Mr. Dornan,” she said lightly.

“That is not much encouragement to an artist.” He took off his coat, threw it over the chair, and pulled on his painting shirt.

“I don’t think you need encouragement.”

He pulled a few easels around him, changing the distance and angle of his view with each. He settled on the middle one, from where he could see her in detail between the bedposts, though he secured canvases to each, just in case the notion came upon him.

Inspired, he strode over to her, raising his hands to position her as he wanted her. Her veiled gaze followed his every move.

He paused. “Permit me?”

Her nod was infinitesimal. Very gently, he touched her cheek, turning her face toward his favored easel. Her skin was so soft he wanted to linger, to know her by touch rather than mere sight. She did not jump when he took hold of her red, lace-trimmed shawl, loosening it so that it fell around her elbows as though she were shrugging it off. Thus, the beauty of her shoulders and chest was also revealed, down to the fashionably low-cut neck of her evening gown.

She was so lovely, she caught at his breath. Slowly, so that he didn’t startle her, he touched her hair, seeking and finding the correct pin. A lock of hair freed itself and tumbled to her shoulder where it nestled, drawing attention to her creamy skin. The effect was a fine, sweet line between sleepy and decadent. It was an effort to keep his focus on art, on painting rather than devouring the pliant woman on his bed.

She trusts me.

The words echoed in both wonder and warning. He stood back and moved to his easel, from where he couldn’t help smiling. “Perfect. Thank you.”

As a last-minute courtesy, he poured the remains of yesterday’s bottle of wine into two glasses and placed one for her on the bedside cabinet before returning to his easel and lighting more candles behind him. He took a thoughtful drink of wine, surveying the somehow moving figure on the bed, forcing himself to consider technicalities of light and shade, color and brushstrokes.

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