Page 21 of Temptation and the Artist

And then he was mixing paint, desperate to capture her as she was now.

“Did you love him?” he asked, not so much because he wanted to know as because he wanted to bring the softness of sensuality to her face. Yet having asked it, and won something of the expression he sought, he hung upon the answer.

“Johnny? Yes, a little. Not that I ever told him so, but I had never met anyone like him before, so grasping of life and all its pleasures, and yet determined to do the right thing by his innocent sister and her friends. And by traitors.”

“That is a story I don’t know.”

“I suppose it is not mine to tell. But one day I expect he will tell you.”

“Did you come back to England for him?”

“No, I came to remind the British government of its obligations. When the prince died…” She hesitated, a wealth of sadness passing through her eyes, drooping the corners of her soft, suddenly vulnerable mouth. “I played a rare, bad card. In the midst of danger, I pretended to be with child, thinking it would preserve my position and my wealth. But the new ruler wanted no rivals, and I had to flee.”

She reached out and took a delicate sip of wine. “Although I will further confess that when I saw him—Johnny—again, I did think it might be fun to marry him. After all, he was a duke now and even more intriguing than he had been as a younger man. But then there was Kitty. I never meant to like her.”

“You stepped aside.”

She let out a breath of cynical laughter. “I never had the chance. Without trying, she stepped right through me.”

“Do you mind?”

“No.” Again, the smile playing on her lips was a little sad, though not heart-breakingly so. “Neither he nor I were the same people, and it had only ever been a fling. I like to see him and Kitty together. It brings me hope.”

“Hope? Of what?”

The smile grew deprecating. “Of the one true love every girl secretly dreams of. You are wicked, Stephen Dornan. You have caused me to betray a foolishness that does not sit well with my character.”

“Not with your invented character, perhaps. Would you call me Stephen?”

“To distinguish you from your brothers?”

“No, just to hear my name on your lips.”

Her eyes grew luminous. Dear God, how could he paint when she looked at him so?

“Are you flirting with me, Stephen?” she drawled.

“Did you think I could not?”

“I thought perhaps you would not. But you haven’t answered my question.”

It seemed he was still painting after all. “I don’t know the answer. Is it flirting to tell the truth?”

“I think it depends how you tell it.”

He smiled. “You have an answer for everything.”

“I wish I did,” she said ruefully.

He left it in the air while he worked, but when she said no more, he prompted, “Such as what?”

“Such as… Were my actions during the war with France truly as right as I thought at the time? Even enemies of one’s country—and one’s adopted country—have good reasons for what they do.”

“Including you,” he pointed out.

She took another sip of wine, and set down the glass, pushing it impatiently away from her. “And the person who lived at the top of the stairs that smelled of oil paint and turpentine. I had no reason for that. Was my information worth his imprisonment? His torture? His life?”

He paused and stared at her helplessly. He drew in a breath, “Aline—”

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