Portrait of a Forbidden Love--A Sexy Regency Romance Read online

  ‘You’ll see, Artemisia,’ Darius whispered at her ear. She could feel him smile against her skin. ‘We can change the world.’ Maybe they could, she thought as he bore her back to the bed. But it hardly mattered. In the end she would still have to leave him. Best to recognise it now so it would hurt less when it came. Women like her weren’t meant for men like him, not in the long run. She had to remind herself that from here on out, everything was a prelude to farewell.

  Chapter Eighteen

  London welcomed her back with better weather than it had farewelled her with in December. March was still brisk and it would see its share of rain, but for today the sun pierced the grey clouds and the wind had chased away the worst of the soot so that, by the time the coach reached the outskirts of town, there was a facsimile of spring in the air. One could argue London in spring was London at its best.

  ‘Will you be happy to be home?’ Artemisia asked Addy, who’d been peering out the coach window for the last twenty minutes in order to catch the first glimpse of town. Addy had not been happy to leave Seasalter. More to the point, Addy had been reluctant to leave Bennett Galbraith and his obsequious attentions.

  ‘I am, I just hope Mr Galbraith doesn’t forget about me,’ Addy said wistfully.

  ‘How could anyone forget you, Addy dear? If Mr Galbraith does, it is his loss,’ Artemisia assured her. Privately, she thought there was every chance he might forget about her sister and she would be satisfied with that. Mr Galbraith was a rake of the first level. Artemisia wanted him as far from her sister as could be managed.

  It should have been quite telling to Addy that he made no arrangements to come up to London during the Season, a clear signal that he lacked the funds for town even for a short while and that he hadn’t the connections. He was beneath the notice of a daughter of a knight of the realm. But Addy didn’t see that. She saw only the excuses he offered: he didn’t like town, it was too crowded, too noisy. His supposedly wholesome self preferred the country. He’d even tried to persuade Addy to stay, but Artemisia had quickly squelched that. Addy could not stay alone without her sister for a chaperon. She’d been exceedingly firm on that point.

  ‘Mr Galbraith won’t forget you,’ she repeated. ‘Perhaps he’s worried that you will forget him,’ she postulated with a teasing smile. ‘Maybe right now he’s imagining you being swept off your feet by all the London beaux, men who love town as you do,’ she reminded Addy. She could not see Addy appreciating life in the country permanently.

  ‘Ha, ha, very funny.’ Addy gave a short laugh. ‘I’m not the sort to attract bevies of beaux. Men don’t fall at my feet like they do yours. I’m too...’ She hunted for a word and failed to find it. ‘I don’t know what, but too something.’

  Too young, too beautiful, too innocent, Artemisia supplied silently. Her sister was going to stay that way if she had any say in the matter. ‘When the time is right, you’ll meet someone,’ Artemisia assured her gently.

  ‘The way you met Darius?’ Addy enquired slyly. ‘You must be excited to see him.’

  Excited wasn’t quite the word for it. She was somewhere between excited and anxious. It was her turn to have doubts. It had been almost two weeks since Darius had kissed her goodbye at the Crown amid a rumple of bedsheets and lovemaking in the predawn darkness. He was going to pave the way for her and she was to follow. She’d packed up her paintings, closed the farmhouse and done just that.

  Had things gone as he’d planned? Had he succeeded? Or had he met with obstacles? Had he had time to think about the reality of their situation? If so, had he realised how much he risked and how little she was worth it? Had he decided to distance himself from her? She’d told him once she wouldn’t blame him if that was his choice, that she understood. In theory, she still did. But that had been before...before lovemaking on beaches and in beds, before wild beliefs that he could order the world to their liking, that he would marry her. He wouldn’t marry her, they both knew that. But it was a nice thought.

  ‘Are you going to tell Father you and Darius are in love?’ Addy asked. The buildings were taller now and better built. They’d passed the outskirts.

  ‘We are not in love,’ Artemisia corrected. ‘My relationship with Darius is my business and while we’re in London the relationship is strictly business.’ It might never be more than business again. That was what was truly eating at her as they drew closer to the Stansfield town house on Gower Street just off Bedford Square. Had that morning at the Crown been their last morning? Was everything that was to occur in London just a slow fade to forgetfulness, an easing erasure of what had once been?

  ‘Not in love?’ Addy protested. ‘The two of you spent weeks closeted away together.’

  ‘Sketching, painting,’ Artemisia snapped a little more sternly than she’d meant to. ‘I had an enormous amount of work to accomplish.’ Work that had been carefully packed in a waterproof trunk. Her future was riding on that work. Perhaps the Academy would like it, perhaps they would be swayed by Darius’s report and all other preparations would become unnecessary. It would be the best possible way for this to end. It was another fairy tale she’d spun for herself.

  ‘I saw how he looked at you and you like him, Arta. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. You don’t tolerate fools.’

  ‘I do like him, but that’s not love, Addy. I hold him in esteem. He is intelligent and kind in a way many men are not. There is a selflessness to him.’ One that he had to be protected against or he’d be the maker of his own downfall. ‘He is the son of the Earl of Bourne,’ Artemisia reminded her. ‘Whether or not we are in love is irrelevant. He isn’t just an art critic. He has obligations we cannot begin to imagine.’

  It really was over, then. Perhaps she’d needed to hear herself speak the words out loud in order to be convinced. She could stop worrying. There was nothing to worry about. Worrying assumed there was room for possibility—that something could or could not be. She’d not been aware of how much possibility she’d allowed to exist until now. Apparently, she’d allowed for more than she’d thought. She thought she’d been very careful not letting her heart get carried away. She had not been carful enough, it seemed.

  ‘You’re the daughter of a knight. You talk as though we’re peasants, Artemisia.’ Addy toed her with her boot, half-teasing, half-scolding.

  ‘You’re right,’ Artemisia said in conciliatory tones. There was no need to step all over Addy’s finer feelings. Besides, she needed Addy to remember their standing when it came to Bennett Galbraith. They were definitely too high in the instep for him, even if they weren’t high enough for the grand Rutherfords of Bourne. While her carriage was rolling up in front of a town house on Gower in Bloomsbury, Darius was quartered in the West End. He was at the centre of Mayfair while Sir Lesley Stansfield lived among intellectuals, scientists, writers, businessmen and professional artists, the occasional émigré. Bloomsbury was always interesting, but it wasn’t the aristocracy.

  The steps were set and the girls were handed down into the bright sunlight. Artemisia blinked and looked up at the town house’s façade with its long windows, white shutters against red brick. This was home, as were the studios in the converted mews. She was not ashamed of it.

  Inside, Anstruther waited for them in the hall, welcoming them back and giving directions for trunks. ‘There will be tea in the rose room in an hour. I am to tell you your father wishes to speak with you, Miss Stansfield.’ So her father was home. Her stomach tightened. Did he know something? Had Darius been here without her permission to unveil their plan?

  ‘I’d rather take tea in my studio, Anstruther. Please tell Father I’d be happy to speak with him there. Have the footmen bring my art trunks immediately.’ She wanted to be unpacked before she met with her father, wanted to have her work on display. Perhaps he meant to dissuade her from confronting the Academy. It would be harder to do with proof of her excellence staring back at him.

  *
* *

  Sir Lesley Stansfield stared at the canvases lining the edge of Artemisia’s studio. His gaze was slow and lingering; there was no rush. Artemisia sat on the small sofa she’d appropriated for her private working quarters and sipped tea, waiting in silence. When he came to the last one, the pintail duck, he said simply, ‘Daughter, you’ve been busy. Your retreat was not spent in vain. This is an impressive collection of work.’

  Artemisia smiled at the praise. She knew the work was good, but to hear her father say it meant everything to her. Darius wasn’t the only one who strove to please their parents. She wondered if it was something a child ever grew out of. ‘I’m glad you approve.’ She fixed him a cup of tea as he took a seat across from her.

  Her father lifted a dark brow. ‘I said it was good, I didn’t say I approved.’ He took the cup and saucer and added another cube of sugar. He and Darius had a sweet tooth in common. ‘It’s beautiful work, Artemisia. There’s a sense of a real collection about it: the consistent theme, the unified palette, the subject matter. It’s thoughtful, well constructed and well executed. It carries a narrative with it, as I’m sure you intended, not just in each individual painting, but across the series.’ He sipped his tea and sighed. ‘But it’s a risk. I am sure you know that, too.’

  Artemisia lifted a shoulder. ‘The Academy asked to see something new, something they felt I hadn’t showed them in twelve years of work. They might have meant that, or not.’ She tried to keep the sarcasm from her tone. Her father would not appreciate having the Academy maligned. ‘What I’ve done is new. It’s daring, it’s different and yet, if one looks closely, it pays homage to the important parts of the English tradition. Constable paints scenes from nature as well.’ She practised the arguments she would make in a few days at the Royal Academy’s March meeting. At last she asked the pertinent question. ‘Will you be there for the meeting?’ He had nominated her, at her request, but he’d not been there in December. She’d wondered if that would have made a difference.

  Her father shook his head. ‘I think it’s better if I am not.’ She felt disappointed; she would have welcomed his attendance, her father’s support.

  ‘Better for whom?’ Artemisia queried coolly, shooting him a hard stare over the rim of her teacup.

  ‘For both of us, Artemisia,’ her father snapped. ‘You pride yourself on your self-sufficiency. You would never forgive yourself or the Academy for accepting you on grounds not your own. I can’t imagine you would want to invoke nepotism,’ he scolded. ‘Even so, there are other considerations. I must have a career left when this is over. You will need me to have that career. You can take shelter under that canopy and repair your losses if need be. But that can’t happen if I go down with your ship.’

  Artemisia bristled. ‘You think I will fail.’ Did he think that because he also knew it was a foregone conclusion, that the Academy was stacked against her even if she had produced the Mona Lisa? Or because he didn’t believe in her talent in general despite his kind praise? She wasn’t brave enough to ask, not just for the sake of her own self-worth. She didn’t want to see her father’s own weakness, his innate selfishness. She’d seen it before in Italy when he’d put his grief ahead of raising his daughters. She knew the weakness was there. She tried not to remind herself of it. He was the only parent she had left.

  ‘You think I threaten your self-sufficiency,’ Artemisia accused. ‘I’m not sure I find that very flattering.’ Nor did she like the reminder of how alike they were. Wasn’t this akin to the same reasons she built mental walls against Darius’s incursions? She had to have something left when he was gone. Above all else, she had to protect herself. Like father, like daughter.

  He met her gaze with tired grey eyes. ‘I’ve worked hard for my career, for my fame, for my chance to give my daughters a life worthy of them. I will not allow that security to be threatened in my waning years.’ Even his voice held a weariness she’d not heard before. ‘How do I explain this to you, who has so many masterpieces left to paint? You have all the passion for painting, for living that I once had, but now lack. Not by choice, but by virtue of time.’ He sighed. ‘How many masterpieces do you think I have left? I will be lucky if I have one.’

  ‘Father, you have years left to paint,’ Artemisia protested. She’d never known a life when her father hadn’t painted. Even when her mother was alive, he’d buried himself behind an easel, painting, always painting. He was only fifty-five.

  ‘Yes, my dear girl, I have years left to paint. But to paint well? Ah, there’s the question. Mary Moser, your own mentor, stopped exhibiting at fifty. I’ve been lucky to paint this long. How much longer will my eyesight hold? How much longer will my hand be steady enough to produce excellence? The masterpieces I have left won’t be paintings but students, the people who will carry my legacy forward.’

  ‘All the more reason to champion me and Addy. She’s become very good,’ Artemisia argued. She was being bold, but this was her chance. How did her father not see the obvious? ‘Let me be your legacy. There have been several parent–child partnerships through the Academy’s history.’

  He held up a hand to stop her recitation. ‘I know all of that, Artemisia.’ He dropped his head in his hands. ‘I wish it could be different...’ He let his sentence trail off. He didn’t need to finish it. Artemisia set her cup down and rose, turning away from him and looking out the window so he wouldn’t see the injury he’d dealt her. Any legacy attached to her was fraught with speculation, with a shadow of question about her competence, her longevity. She would never be good enough. No wonder her father didn’t want to tie his kite to hers.

  Mary Moser had stopped exhibiting in her fifties because she’d married, not because her skills had failed. Angelica Kauffman, the other female founder, had kept painting after marriage, but only because she’d left England and gone to Rome. Despite their careers and their immense competence, they weren’t even allowed to attend the assembly meetings. Legacies needed sons. Sir Lesley Stansfield’s son had died with her mother. A daughter would never be enough.

  Artemisia gripped the windowsill until her knuckles were white with pain as the unspoken reality swept her. Her father had lost more than a wife all those years ago. He’d lost the hopes on which he’d built a lifetime: a beloved partner, a child, an heir for his legacy. No wonder his grief had endured, had defined months of their lives in Italy. ‘You must have hated us, Addy and me.’ Did he still hate them? And yet he’d taught them to paint.

  ‘I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated my beautiful daughters. I love you and Addy. But I am an old man, Artemisia. I cannot risk anything more. I need to have something left...’ he lifted his head ‘...for all of us, in case my girls need me. If Addy wants to marry well, I will want to bring all I can to bear for her.’ He could not do that with scandal attached to his name. She noticed he said nothing of her marrying well. Perhaps he despaired of her there, too.

  It was difficult to be angry with him on those grounds. She knew the kinds of needs he meant—significant life needs, like the protection he’d given her when she’d gone to him over Hunter McCullough. He’d not hesitated to use his influence then. He would not hesitate to use that influence or resources to help Addy make a good match, or perhaps later to secure futures for any potential grandchildren. Those things were worth saving himself for. She understood that if he had to choose, her choices had put her outside that circle.

  ‘Artemisia, be careful. You are an associate of the Royal Academy already. You’ve won prizes, you’ve gained recognition. No one disputes your talents, only the title bestowed upon them. Be careful you aren’t throwing away what you have achieved with both hands.’ For his sake, for Addy’s sake, for her own sake. If she was too scandalous, he and Addy would have to distance themselves from her.

  She could understand it, even empathise with it, but even so, she could not accept it as her own decision. She was on her own. Just as she’d always been.
You have Darius, the little voice of hope whispered optimistically in her mind. Did she? Or would she learn at the crucial moment he’d decided to save his own skin instead?

  Chapter Nineteen

  The crucial moment had arrived. Darius watched it unfold from his seat in the assembly. Artemisia had been allowed to hang her works beforehand, assembly members had been allowed to browse the offerings before the meeting was convened. Artemisia was called upon to give a talk about her work and the inspiration for her collection. She’d been articulate and intelligent, discussing the theme of the work, the inspiration for it and her design choices. He’d been fiercely proud of her as she’d moved among the men viewing her work, stopping here and there to redirect thoughts and potential criticisms. He’d been even prouder as she’d delivered her presentation.

  She’d made concessions for the occasion in the hopes of gaining favour, much as she’d done the last time. Her wayward curls had been tamed into an elegant, conservative twist at the nape of her neck and secured with a tastefully plain gold comb. She wore a mulberry dress of merino wool suited for afternoon wear, appropriately cut with a high neck and long sleeves trimmed in a sharp, clean, white lace.

  Despite her efforts to look conservative, she’d managed to make tradition look sexier than ever. His hand itched to pull the comb from her hair, to let all that curling, tumbling luxury spill untamed over her shoulders. He wanted to undo the laces of her dress and slide the propriety from her body. Was she wearing silk beneath the wool? He itched to discover that, too.

  Two weeks without Artemisia had been two weeks too many. He’d not seen her since her return to town. They’d agreed it would be too risky. They did not want any association to be noted that might suggest to the Academy there was a potential conflict of interest. Seeing her today, so composed, so assured, was a revelation and a reminder of why he cared for her, why he was committed to her cause. He’d never met anyone like her. She had changed his world in remarkable ways from picking up a paintbrush again to his understanding of things he would have once simply not seen. Now he wanted to change hers. And he couldn’t.