Page 9 of Temptation and the Artist

“Always.”

“What did your family think of that?” she asked curiously. “Because you are a gentleman, are you not?”

“What makes you think so?”

“You move too easily among the aristocracy to be anything else.”

He didn’t deny it. “And gentlemen do not follow such girlish hobbies as painting,” he said sardonically. “Or any profession that is not the army, the church, the diplomatic service, or, at a pinch, the law.”

“Which you did not consider. Then did your family not support you? How did you live? Off the sale of your paintings?”

“Sometimes. I also inherited some land in Sussex through my mother, which supports me adequately and is, besides, a pleasant place to call home.” He leaned across the table to refill her wine glass. “What of you, madam? Where is your family?”

“Apart from Basil, in a better place.”

He regarded her. “Your natural reticence?” he wondered. “Or am I rudely inquisitive?”

“Which do you think?”

“I think you have grown so used to keeping secrets that you have forgotten how to trust.”

Devastatingly shrewd. “You wish to know my origins? My father owned a farm in the north of Spain, close to the French border. I married a landowner on the French side of that border. Basil’s father.”

“What happened to him?”

“War happened to him, mostly.”

“And to you?”

“I discovered I supported my own people in their struggle to throw off the French yoke.” She swirled the wine in her glass and glanced up to meet his gaze. “I have a talent for dissembling.”

If she had hoped to shock him, she was again disappointed. He merely nodded. “I know.”

She blinked, then laughed with genuine amusement. “Apparently less of a talent than I thought.”

“I am observant,” he said apologetically.

“I thought I was, too. But there is a great deal more to you than meets the eye, is there not, Mr. Dornan?”

His dark eyebrows flew up. “Oh, no. I’m an open sort of fellow. A bit dull and single-minded.”

“Single-minded, perhaps,” she allowed.

The waiter interrupted to clear their dishes away and bring dessert—an extravagant creation of wafer-thin sugared pastry, raspberries, and vanilla cream. Although it was delicious, Mr. Dornan did not eat his, merely sat back and watched her, the faintest smile playing around his lips.

Disconcerted, she concentrated on the bliss of the sweet before her, and when she looked again, he had his damned sketchbook out, his pencil busy about the page.

“What the devil is there to draw in a woman eating?” she demanded.

“Pure, sensual pleasure.”

And she, who had been trying to shock him for most of their short acquaintance, was the one who found herself blushing. The words pure, sensual pleasure were like a jolt of lightning in her veins, because he had said them, because he sat opposite her with his busy, graceful fingers, and she could not help but wonder about the very impure, sensual pleasures those clever hands could create.

Her entire body still tingled even after the sketchbook vanished, even as they drank coffee and spoke of unthreatening things. It came to her with another, lesser jolt, that he was an interesting man, alternately comfortable and challenging. And that, combined with the background buzz of physical attraction, was fascinating. She felt more alive than she had in years.

“More coffee?” he asked. “Or shall I order another bottle of wine?”

She regarded him, heat curling deep in her belly. His expression was polite, but his soft, brown eyes could melt a lady’s bones. She could swear desire simmered there in the darkness, just waiting for her to say the word. And once, she might have.

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