Page 31 of Temptation and the Artist

Mr. Flowers looked a trifle frazzled at the edges, but Basil and the footmen had clearly had a wonderful time.

“Mr. Flowers, my thanks,” she told the tutor. “You deserve a little time to yourself, so please, consider yourself off duty until tomorrow morning,”

“We’re going to play again tomorrow,” Basil said. “At midday.”

“It will be a shorter game tomorrow, then,” Aline warned, but even that seemed to be fine with Basil.

At her invitation, Stephen joined them for dinner. None of the servants batted an eyelid at the indiscretion. Burton, after all, must have had a fairly good idea where Aline had spent the previous night.

And that evening, she again returned to Stephen’s “studio,” to let him work on the painting of her on the bed. Every nerve tingled with awareness as he adjusted the folds of her shawl and the angle of her face. And she melted completely when it seemed he couldn’t help kissing her before he returned to his easel.

He was more disciplined than she. Even so, tension crackled between them. Even though she was suddenly so tired she could barely think. Perhaps he was, too, for as he cleaned his brushes, he said, “Will you stay? I shan’t pester you. I’d just like to sleep with you in my arms.”

Enchanted, she could only nod. There was a strange, sleepy comfort in helping each other undress and coming together beneath the sheets. But he was as good as his word. Wrapping his long, lean body around her, his chest to her back, he held her close and warm until they both slept.

*

She woke to the smell of coffee and Stephen’s tender kiss, which she returned with languorous desire. But when he released her and she opened her eyes, she discovered he was dressed in his painting clothes.

“May I hustle you to the rose garden? One more sitting should see that portrait all but finished.”

Somewhat disappointed not to be ravished, she tried not to pout. “I have the wrong clothes with me. You will have to allow me time to go back to my rooms and change. I’ll meet you in the rose garden.”

“You are wonderful.”

Still, he sat on the bed for two minutes while she took a few sips of coffee and then dressed. She liked the way he watched her, loved the way his eyes clouded with desire. It entered her head, then, that he was being considerate because the day before and the night before had been full of physical loving. He was giving her time to recover.

The knowledge of such unprecedented care stunned her through the posing session in the rose garden, and even through breakfast with the excited Basil. Stephen agreed with Mr. Flowers to give Basil a first drawing lesson to begin the day. Aline kept her distance, sitting instead with her correspondence, her heart swelling with pride in them both.

“You can meet us in the gardens for luncheon if you like,” she offered casually as Stephen took his leave. A smile of understanding passed between them, and her body went boneless with the anticipation of spending another afternoon of bliss in Stephen’s arms.

How many more? she wondered. A letter from a friend informed her that the Monteignes had left town, so it was probably safe to go home. And Stephen was finishing his portraits. She had one, maybe two more days with him here at Renwick’s. And then what?

She was being greedy. When what she had was not enough, surely it was time to end the affair before it became any more difficult. And yet she could not think of ending it. Trying to concentrate on her letters, an insidious voice seeped into her mind.

You love him. This time, you really, truly have found love.

But that made no sense. She liked him. She desired him. He was an interesting man and a lover to die for, sensitive and passionate and strong. But she had known him so short a time. Love was a mere fantasy inspired by being so much in each other’s company. When she returned to London, she would not miss him.

I will miss him. I do love him.

Her mind kept slipping back to these circular arguments, through Basil’s lessons and even when Mr. Flowers and the footmen accompanied him to find his friends for football before lunch. When she realized she had been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes and seeing only Stephen’s face, she gave up and pushed the letter aside.

I am not some silly chit of a schoolgirl, she told herself severely, jumping to her feet and asking Burton for her pelisse. A schoolgirl with a crush on her damned drawing master. Stephen and I are adults indulging in a little mutual pleasure. When our time is past, we will part as easily as we came together.

Keep telling yourself that, Aline.

Oh God, what am I going to do?

Fastening her pelisse and pinning on the matching hat, she swung out of the room and left the hotel to watch Basil play football. It was not yet time to meet Stephen, but she could stay indoors no longer.

The boys were playing in the same meadow as yesterday, and as well as cheering children, seemed to have attracted several adult watchers. Some looked like hotel guests, others might have been local laborers or travelers from the cheaper side of the hotel.

Basil was clearly having a lovely time, haring all over the pitch set up between two sets of coats for goalposts. Aline was glad to see his guardians doing their jobs, too, moving unobtrusively up and down the sides of the unofficial pitch so that one of them at least was always within easy reach of him. They also kept an eye on their fellow watchers, and so nodded to Aline when she arrived.

Aline strolled around the perimeter of the game, thinking how good it was to see Basil playing with other children, holding shouted conversations and laughing with them. It was all very egalitarian—apart from the number of adults surreptitiously watching over Basil—and natural. And when Basil scored a goal, her heart almost burst with pride.

That was when one of the laborers brushed past to stand right in front of her. Irritated by the rudeness, she stepped around him only to find another large man planted there, too. And then they both stepped back, forcing her to do likewise.

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