Page 25 of Temptation and the Artist

In other words, he wanted control of the boy to be sure of his own position when the child came of age. Sir Oliphant had no quarrel with that—or much interest in it either.

“My question, sir, is this. From your observation, is the boy safe? Well-guarded?”

Sir Oliphant, his boot already on the coach step, lowered his foot to the ground and, scenting an opportunity for mischief, led his new friend away from the people coming in and out of the hotel.

“It is interesting you mention that. The boy has a tutor built like the side of a house and there are two footmen almost as large. While I love my son, I cannot pretend he is an eligible partner for a princess, or anyone related to a distinguished family such as yours. My son is a so-called artist, a ne’er-do-well, a rake of little conscience. He was even in Europe—France itself, I hear—during the late wars, and that is not something his own people would approve of.”

Sir Oliphant smiled and managed a few more barbs against his son, all but chortling over his own cleverness in getting around Stephen’s conditions by slandering, not the princess, but Stephen himself. “By all means, take her and the boy out of his influence,” he finished nobly. “As a caring father, I would be grateful. Good day, sir.”

With that, he tipped his hat and climbed into the coach. He waited until the coach moved away before he broke into delighted laughter.

*

Aline and Stephen Dornan spent large parts of the day together. After the morning sitting in the rose garden, he joined her and Basil for breakfast. Basil seemed pleased with the company, chattering away about what he was learning with Mr. Flowers, the pleasure garden, ices, and the joys of toy soldiers.

Stephen didn’t tease him or talk down to him in that jovial way adults tended to. Instead, he spoke to him much as he did everyone else, with serious interest, leavened by breathtaking flashes of humor that Basil shared.

“Would you look at my drawings?” Basil asked once. “Mama and Mr. Flowers say they’re good, but I’m not sure Mr. Flowers knows as much about art as Latin grammar and mathematics.”

“I would love to see them,” Stephen said at once, but Mr. Flowers had just been admitted, and it was time for lessons. “Perhaps at lunchtime?”

Aline thought Stephen would bolt off to work on his paintings, but he suggested a walk, and she was glad to join him. The odd breathlessness she always felt around him had become a familiar, pleasurable background to their growing closeness. She had no idea where this strange relationship was going, if it would end with her portraits. But for the moment, she was happy to grasp it with both hands.

Returning from their walk in the woods—he behaved like a perfect gentleman throughout—he spoke briefly to the hotel doorman.

Rejoining her, he said, “My father and brothers have departed the hotel, leaving me to pay their shot! But at least they have gone. Tonight is the public ball in the pleasure garden.”

She blinked. “Are you asking me to dance?”

“I’m asking you to pose for me at the lily pond if the light is right.”

“Of course,” she agreed. Taking her courage in both hands—when had dealing with a mere man become so difficult?—she added, “Shall I see you before then?”

He smiled. “As much as you like. I may not be much company, but your presence delights me.”

It was fortunate, perhaps that they had to stand aside to allow two elderly ladies to pass them, for her entire body was flushing with delight of its own.

She let him work alone for an hour while she dealt with her correspondence and listened to the occasional hum of Basil and Mr. Flowers talking. Then she ordered coffee, left a cup for Mr. Flowers, and took two more upstairs to Stephen’s “studio.”

When she knocked, his distracted voice bade her enter. She doubted he even registered who had come in as she silently laid the coffee beside him, but a smile did flicker across his face as he worked.

She was tempted to peek at the canvas before him, for an impression at the corner of her eye caught the shape of his bed and a fold of red shawl, and she knew he was working on last night’s painting. The others scattered around him were all covered.

She took her own coffee and sat in the armchair. The quiet was rare and oddly soothing, and she loved to watch him work.

His paint-stained hand reached out and grasped the dainty cup. He drank with his critical gaze still on the canvas, then unexpectedly glanced up and caught her eyes. He smiled as if seeing her there was a surprise, and her heart gave its inevitable flutter.

“Thank you for the coffee. All is well?”

“Basil is wrestling with mathematics. It brought back unpleasant memories, so I vacated the room.”

“You struggled with mathematics?”

“No, I struggled with the teacher, who was my brother’s tutor, and saw no reason why a female should know such things.”

“I thought the Europeans were more enlightened than the English about educating women.”

“Not this European.”

---