Page 24 of Temptation and the Artist

Though she had sprung out of bed, washed and dressed for the occasion with such enthusiasm that she would be well served if Stephen himself slept through their appointment. Would he have painted more last night, working on the same portrait of her that had absorbed him the evening before? Somehow that absorption, that intense focus on her had aroused a slow, blistering desire.

She saw at once that he had set up his easels and canvases in the same place as yesterday. His sketchbook lay precariously on the edge of his paint table. But of the man himself, there was no sign. She moved toward the easels, wondering where her chair was. Perhaps he had gone to fetch one. She took a moment to admire the beauty of the sunrise. Although she didn’t think it quite as spectacular as yesterday’s, she gazed with new appreciation at its pinks and golds.

Inevitable, the easels were covered. She gazed, tempted, at the sketchbook. If she were just to pick it up and see where it opened, surely that would not be spying on unfinished work? In truth, she didn’t want to spy on how he saw her. In fact, she thought she was rather afraid of that. She just wanted to look at his work, as though through studying it, she could learn more of the man.

Still, seeing no sign of his approach, she stooped and picked up the sketchbook. Holding the spine in one hand, she let it flop open. The pages revealed to her were around the middle of the book, some time before they had met at Maida. And yet, the full-page faces looking back at her were her. One with a teasing smile, the other contemplative, almost sad. Almost exactly as she had felt when she realized she no longer wanted Johnny Dearham. And wanting nobody had made her sad.

Wanting nobody and yet noticing everything about Stephen Dornan. She closed the book and replaced it on his table before wandering around the empty, scented garden. And then she saw him in his painting clothes, snipping roses from their stems at apparent random. Over his arm, he carried a shawl.

He glanced over and lifted his hand before striding over to meet her. “Good morning! I went over to ask Bill Renwick if I could cut some of these roses because yesterday’s painting wasn’t quite working. I wondered if you would hold these, and pretend to pick some more? It would provide context for your presence. And we can still use yesterday’s sunrise.”

So, straight to business. “Where do you want me?” This time, the words spilled out without intent, and to her surprise, she actually blushed.

But he paused, his gaze flying to hers as he handed over the shawl to protect her arm from the thorn. He didn’t blink. “Anywhere,” he said softly. “God help me.”

Her blush deepened, flooding her entire body.

But as if he hadn’t spoken, he pointed to the tall rose bushes behind her. “Can you reach up for one of those roses while holding the others? I’m afraid your arm will tire, but we’ll do it in spells. Tell me when it hurts. Glance back at me over your shoulder…”

*

At a quarter before ten, Sir Oliphant stepped down from the hotel toward his waiting coach—a ramshackle old thing that should have been replaced years ago. He all but shoved his sullen sons inside, for Gordon’s face was bruised where Stephen had kicked him, and Clive sported a bandage around his head, having landed on it, apparently, when his little brother threw him on the floor.

Their pathetic blundering had led to this humiliating departure, and he was not in charity with either of them. Neither, of course, was he in charity with his youngest, who, despite agreeing to send a steward to sort out their estate problems, had spoken to his father quite without respect, ordering him around as though he were an ill-behaved stable boy rather than a baronet.

That rankled. It rankled so much that Sir Oliphant had told the hotel clerk that Stephen would pay the shot for the entire family. A petty but necessary revenge since none of them but Stephen had the wherewithal to pay such extortionate charges. The hotel was not even in town.

Before he followed his sons into the coach, he glanced to the right, toward the pleasure gardens which were quiet at this hour, although the staff were busy. He looked the other way and glimpsed a couple arm in arm, walking along the grass at the side of the drive that led to the main road to London. They paused, the man pointing around him, perhaps to the new canal or the view of the city.

Sir Oliphant knew another surge of resentment, for the man was his son, and the woman with him was Princess Hagerin.

“Your pardon, sir,” interrupted a polite voice, and Sir Oliphant turned to see a distinguished man of about his own age touching the brim of his hat. “Might I ask if you are acquainted with that lady?”

Old habits died hard, and it took an effort of will not to slander her just to spite his son. However, bearing in mind her powerful connections, he held his peace. Besides, the fellow addressing him sounded French. Sir Oliphant had never cared for the French—or for anyone really who was not English. He preferred to forget that he himself had been named for a Scotsman, as had one of his sons, thanks to a drunken promise he had apparently made to his wife.

“I have met her,” Sir Oliphant replied briefly. “I am more acquainted with her companion.”

“Who is…?”

This was bordering on rudeness, but the Frenchman’s blatant curiosity aroused Sir Oliphant’s. “My son,” he replied mildly. “Mr. Dornan.”

The Frenchman’s eyes remained civil and friendly, but they were remarkably shrewd. “Forgive me, sir, but I think you do not approve of your son’s…friendship with Madame la Princesse.”

“Not for me to say,” Sir Oliphant muttered. He would have turned away, but the Frenchman spoke again, this time offering his hand.

“I hope you will also forgive my vulgar curiosity. Allow me to explain. My name is Monteigne, Philippe de Monteigne. This is my son, Charles de Monteigne. My brother’s son had the honor to be married to the princess.”

“The child is not a prince,” Sir Oliphant muttered sardonically, as he reluctantly shook the hand of his new friend. He nodded curtly to the younger man, who appeared happy enough to wait in the background.

“Not to the world, sir, but to me, he is as good as a prince. He is, in effect, the head of our family, and the heir to the land Charles and I manage for him.”

“Good for him,” Sir Oliphant replied, tiring of the pointless conversation. “If you will excuse—”

“Your son is, no doubt, a most estimable young man,” Monteigne interrupted.

A derisive snort came from inside the coach.

“But,” Monteigne continued, “my concern is for the head of my family. I cannot have her dragging the boy around Europe and keeping him from us. A boy needs his male relatives.”

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