Page 30 of Temptation and the Artist

“You will come back?” he blurted.

Her gaze flew up to his and seemed to lighten. “If I can.”

He bent and kissed her lips, not a lover’s kiss, but a soft, brief one of affection. And then she was gone, leaving him already longing for her return.

Unless she already regretted what they had done.

Chapter Nine

His anxiety that he had done something wrong, scared her away so soon, twisted through his joy in last night and his effort not to think of the future. At least, not beyond her return to his room while Basil stayed with his tutor.

He knew only too well the beguiling intimacy that could spring up between painter and sitter. But he had never before taken advantage of it, had never wanted to. The intimacy, from his side at least, had always been platonic. Until Aline. Who was just…overwhelming. Unique. Wonderful.

He distracted himself the only way he knew. Having put the bed to rights and tidied up, he washed and dressed in his old painting clothes, and set about cleaning the brushes he had left out last night. Only then did he allow himself to look at all the portraits he had begun of her so far. He scowled at them, trying to be objective, and came to the relieved conclusion that they were all working. And as long as he didn’t mess it up, the one he had begun last night in the secret garden, would be the centerpiece, large and bold, full of movement and joy and life.

He set to work on it once more, filling in what he had only sketched out of the trees and bushes in the background, working backward from the bits of reflection he had already painted in the pond.

He had just begun on the unpainted stretch of sky when a knock on the door heralded not Aline but the chambermaid with fresh water and towels. He turned down her offer to clean the room, all but shooed her out, and returned to his painting.

Which was when it hit him. Today was Sunday. There would be no lessons for Basil, no reason for her to leave him in the care of others in order to be with him. Disappointment swirled. But perhaps he could join them instead. The weather seemed pleasant enough—perhaps a country walk and luncheon al fresco?

He finished the sky and found his heartbeat quickened just by looking at his painting of her.

You are pathetic, Stephen Dornan. He covered the painting and moved to the next. And the next. Until he knew that if he was going to invite Aline and Basil to walk, it should be now. Hastily, he cleaned his brushes once more, and his hands. He was about to change when a knock sounded at the door.

Refusing to allow hope to overwhelm him, he strode to the door and opened it.

Aline breezed in with a basket. And he could only smile as if he had been given the best, most unexpected gift.

“Are we going on a picnic?” he managed.

“Picnic, yes,” she replied, setting down the basket on his dressing table. “Going… Not unless you want to.”

From her basket, she took two glasses and two empty plates, followed by full plates of sandwiches, pastries, cold meats and fruit, and a bottle of wine.

He began to laugh. “Aline, you are magnificent.”

“Mr. Flowers is taking Basil to play football in the meadow with some of the local boys we met in the gardens yesterday. It is a boys’ activity, and his mother’s presence is neither required nor desired.”

It was a delightfully decadent afternoon, all the more so for the feeling of it being stolen. They ate and talked and made love, and took the remains of wine to bed where, a little later, they made love again.

Emotion and knowledge settled around Stephen, too new and precious to examine too closely. He merely enjoyed her, enjoyed the present and every pleasure it offered, large and small. And then, they washed and dressed respectably once more, packed up the basket, and left the room.

Stephen returned the basket to one of the hotel staff, and then, arm in arm, they went in search of Basil.

*

Basil was discovered in the meadow where Aline had recently watched Lord Darblay turn a dangerous duel into a fencing tournament. She spared a thought for Darblay and Gina Wallace, whom she hoped were married by now, or at least well on the way to being so. But mostly, her mind and her heart were full of Stephen Dornan.

This morning, her emotion had frightened her. It was nothing she could control and that had never happened to her before. No one, neither of her husbands nor even Johnny Winter, had made her feel like this. And she had no idea what to do about it.

And then it had come to her. She should do what she had always done, what came naturally to her. Make the most of it.

If it didn’t last, she might be relieved. If it grew…well, she didn’t know how she would bear it. But she would not sit alone in her rooms wondering if he regretted her or if he would leave her now he had had his wicked way with her.

He had put her stocking on with such tender, sensual grace… He had asked her to return when she was already regretting making the offer. And so, she had rediscovered her courage and done as she wished. And dear God, she was glad. Stephen was a man of hidden depths and intense, relentless pleasures.

She had never felt as thrillingly, wonderfully close to anyone as she did to Stephen as they walked arm and arm to the meadow and found Basil saying goodbye to his new friends.

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