Page 7 of Temptation and the Artist

Stephen laughed, and for an instant, the tutor’s lips quirked in response. When they reached Stephen’s “studio,” Mr. Flowers entered very close to Basil and stood in the doorway for a moment before walking in the rest of the way.

Basil went immediately to his mother, boasting about his Latin declensions and the new wonders of mathematics he had grasped.

“I’ll order tea,” Stephen murmured. “Mr. Flowers, will you join us?”

“I will,” the big man replied. “Thank you.”

Stephen inclined his head and departed, but he was not fooled. He knew why Flowers had changed his mind—because his employer was taking tea in a man’s bedchamber and it was hardly proper. The man protected the princess as well as her son. With a twinge of jealousy, Stephen wondered if there was more to their relationship.

The suspicion unraveled during tea, which might have been a tense affair without Basil, at least in the beginning. But while the boy ate cake and his mother drank tea, and Mr. Flowers provided a unique form of chaperonage, Stephen recovered his focus and quickly lost himself in trying to capture the relationship of mother and son in drawings. The nature of the woman was further revealed, not just by her clear love of the boy, but by his regard for her. Beyond the tie of mother and son, they liked each other, teased and laughed together.

Artistic excitement overtook Stephen’s baser urges, while his tea remained untouched and his pencil flew across the pages. Only when he realized Flowers was peering over his shoulder did he snap the book shut.

“I don’t care to be overlooked,” he said shortly. “If it’s good enough, you’ll see the finished article.”

“You have talent,” the tutor allowed. He sounded surprised. Straightening, he regarded the princess. “Shall I take Basil, madam?”

“No, enjoy some leisure time, Mr. Flowers. We will entertain each other.” But she had risen, too, and Stephen knew his time with her was over for the day. While the tutor departed, she turned her gaze on Stephen.

“So, what happens next, with regard to the portraits?”

“Painting them. Would you object to joining me in the rose garden at first light? Weather permitting, of course.”

“Not at all. After this morning, it will feel like a lazy start to the day.”

“Am I allowed to ask what happened this morning?”

“I’m sure it will be all about town by now. Lord Darblay and his friends held a hilarious fencing tournament at dawn in the meadow just over there.” She pointed out of the window. “It caused a lot of interest—and disappointment for those who had expected a duel.”

“Maida does not appear to be short of excitement,” he observed.

“It does not.

“I missed the fencing,” Basil said, scowling. Then he smiled. “But Mr. Flowers is going to teach me. Can you fence, Mr. Dornan?”

“I’ve dabbled now and again, but I’m no master of the art.” A curious panic surged upward as the princess led her son inexorably toward the door. He would see her again tomorrow morning, and yet… “Would you dine with me this evening, Princess?”

The words had fallen from his mouth without permission. He was probably more surprised than the princess, who merely turned toward him with one brow raised. Not condemning but considering.

“I mean in the dining room, of course,” he added swiftly. “But naturally, I understand if you do not care to dine in public.”

“It has never bothered me in the slightest,” she said, apparently amused. “Thank you, Mr. Dornan, I will be happy to join you. Shall we say seven of the clock?”

He inclined his head. “Until seven.”

She swept out of the room. When he had closed the door behind them, he leaned on it. His mild obsession with her was blending dangerously with the bond he often felt with his sitters as he got to know them. And in this case, the bond was growing too tight, too quickly.

But more than anything, he wanted to paint her. And he wanted those paintings to be the best he had ever done. Not just for his own pride, but to do her justice.

Pushing himself off the door, he began moving the furniture that would be in his way. Then he rummaged in his trunk for the dust sheets he used to protect the floors of other people’s houses when he took commissions, and spread them over the whole area from the double window, almost to the door. He set up his easels and canvases, fetched paints and pallets, and set up a small canvas for practice. He was humming to himself by the time he mixed his paints.

*

To be dining with Mr. Dornan felt curiously like stepping into a scene of unknown danger. Which she had done on many occasions.

As she played a spirited game of jackstraws with Basil, part of her rejoiced in Dornan’s invitation, in the fact that he was finally seeing her and the possibilities that could arise.

Another part, that which had kept her alive through too many hair-raising adventures, was sounding alarms and warnings because she knew in her heart, he would disappoint her. He might have challenged her view of him as puritanical, almost chaste, but she was in danger of wanting too much from him.

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