Page 4 of Temptation and the Artist

His quick glance seemed to denote surprise. Why? That she had noticed him? She almost laughed.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he invited. “Shall I fetch us tea? A glass of wine?”

“Wine would be pleasant,” she said boldly. “Although I have to point out that if you pull that bell beside you, a hotel servant will take your order.”

“And bring it. I thought you might prefer not to be seen here.”

“Mr. Discretion,” she mocked, but he was already gone, leaving her to take off her gloves, bonnet, and light pelisse. Since there was an empty hook on the door, she hung them there, then wandered around the room.

It seemed he had just arrived, for an open bag of clothing lay on the bed. She itched to shake them out and put them away in his wardrobe. Since it was hardly her place, she refrained, although she did sit on the bed and with a spurt of amused guilt, bent and sniffed the black coat at the top of the bag. She smiled because it smelled very faintly of him. Not paint, but soap, she thought, pleasantly earthy and overall warm and masculine. Enough to encourage the butterflies which had grown quiet in his absence.

She rose quickly and wandered to the window near the desk. His sketchbook lay there, tempting her. He had been drawing in it when she had entered the hotel. Had he been sketching a likeness of her? After all, he had waited to approach her, after abandoning all his eager beauties in the garden.

She snatched back her reaching hand. It felt too much like spying, and she wanted Stephen Dornan to be her friend. Pathetically enough. So, she admired the view from the window instead. The meadow outside the hotel grounds, where she had recently watched a bizarre fencing tournament, led to a wood and open country, and the road to the left brought the London-bound travelers.

She moved to the middle window and sat on the cushioned seat to gaze out and calm her silly nerves. It was a long time since any man who was not an immediate threat to her or Basil had affected her nerves. And this effect of Dornan’s had never been unpleasant, simply incomprehensible.

Chapter Two

He re-entered the room quite suddenly, a bottle and glasses clanking together as he negotiated the door. As her head jerked around, he paused.

“Don’t move,” he instructed and whirled into action. He all but dropped the glasses on the table, splashing wine into each, then set one glass beside her on the window seat, the other on the little desk, from which he whipped up his sketchbook and pen. He yanked up the heavy chair with one hand and set it where he wanted it before dropping into it, flipping open his book, and beginning to sketch.

“It’s the way the sun is shining on your hair and your face,” he said apologetically. “A sketch won’t replicate the luminous texture of your skin, but I might catch enough to remind me…”

It was slightly disconcerting to have all that attention on her. His dark eyes pinned her in place as though seeing into her soul, then dropped, and rose again as soon as she began to breathe.

A smile flickered across his lips. “You needn’t look so frightened. Have a taste of the wine. I’m told it’s quite good.”

“You told me not to move,” she pointed out. “And I am not remotely frightened, merely unused to holding one position for so long.”

“A whole half-minute,” he said with sympathy she knew was false, and, indeed, when he raised his eyes, a beguiling laugh hung behind the focus.

“You are making fun of me, Mr. Dornan,” she said, picking up her glass.

“What is sauce for the goose…”

She sipped her wine. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“That you frequently make fun of me, so it is only civil of you to allow a little retaliation occasionally.”

To her surprise, a faint heat rose into her face. “You did not appear to notice.”

“As an artist, I tend to notice everything about the people or the scenes I want to paint.”

“Come, Mr. Dornan. You had no desire whatever to paint me before today, and we spent several weeks in each other’s company at Christmas.”

He smiled faintly, but said only, “I was glad to hear that whatever danger you faced then no longer hangs over you.”

She paused, the glass halfway to her lips once more. “Johnny told you that?”

“With no details, of course. But then, I never asked for any.”

“As I said, you had no interest, Mr. Dornan. What changed for you today?”

“Courage, perhaps. Inspired by artistic vision, of course.”

“Now you are mocking yourself.”

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