‘The Academy won’t like the paintings. Objectively, they don’t fit the English tradition. But you already know that.’
‘Why show them something they’ve already seen?’ Artemisia gave another of her shrugs. He didn’t believe she was as indifferent as she let on. ‘They wanted something different, something fresh.’
‘Not really, we both know that. You’ll make it too easy on them to dismiss you.’ Her stubbornness would be her undoing if she wasn’t careful, and she wasn’t.
‘I don’t want to be a copy of Constable or Gainsborough.’ She paused. ‘My work is better than that. There’s a subtlety to it that transcends the instant satisfaction of pretty colours.’
Darius recognised the remark for what it was, a direct shot across the bow of the Academy’s flagship—Constable with his hues and hazy light that lent his paintings a near-fairy-tale atmosphere. ‘I don’t think such an argument will help your cause,’ he cautioned.
She shook her head. ‘Nor will your hasty judgement. I don’t think twenty minutes with my collection will render a fair assessment, especially since it is not even half-done.’ She nodded towards his trunk in the corner of the room, still strapped and unpacked, or was that already re-packed? ‘You were leaving tomorrow, thinking your job done.’ It was a blatant accusation on par with her bold critique of Constable. ‘Thought you’d seen enough?’
‘I thought you’d prefer it that way,’ Darius offered carefully. He’d been sent to see the art, but he’d also been sent to see her, something he’d been trying to avoid. He was an art critic, he was not an arbiter of morals. The idea that he was supposed to pass judgement on her lifestyle sat poorly with him no matter how unnatural she might be. She was certainly unlike the women he knew, but that did not give him the right to destroy her. It struck at his standard of fair play.
‘I’d prefer you’d not come at all,’ she answered honestly. ‘But since you have, it’s best to carry out your task right.’ She was challenging him again and his own tired temper began to stir. How dare she suggest he wasn’t giving her fair consideration? She had no idea that he was trying to avoid letting her hang herself with her own noose. Had she no idea what men like Aldred Gray suggested behind her back? The longer Darius stayed, the more he’d see and the more opportunity she’d have to be the author of her own demise.
‘Are you asking me to stay in Seasalter and monitor your work? Forgive me if it seems an odd request since it’s the very thing you came down here to condemn me for.’
‘I condemned you for invading my privacy and misleading my sister, for not asking permission,’ she corrected. ‘You may monitor my work on my terms.’
‘Which are?’ Darius drawled.
Her eyes glittered dangerously in the firelight.
‘You wait until the end of February to make a report when my portfolio is done.’
The end of February! That was six weeks away. The minx was holding him hostage by giving him what he’d wanted: access to her art. Why would she do that? He’d been about to protest and thought better of it. Perhaps she wanted him to disagree. Perhaps she thought she could turn this visit against him and argue he’d not given her fair consideration if he left early. Perhaps she wanted the satisfaction of having driven him off, never mind he’d been about to go before she’d shown up. Now, leaving wouldn’t be of his own accord, but something she could take credit for.
He would not be manipulated. ‘Fine, I’ll stay until the end of February.’ She might regret this later even if she felt victorious now. As for himself, he was regretting it already. Six weeks in Seasalter in the middle of winter had a certain death knell to it that pealed as loud as a winter of matchmaking in London, although he was sure Artemisia Stansfield would make Seasalter interesting.
Chapter Five
It had been an interesting argument with an intriguing outcome. Even now, tucked up in the window seat of her room, ready for bed, Artemisia wasn’t sure who’d won. Had she? She’d got her conditions. There would be no premature report, no fear of having her probation terminated early. She’d trapped him here. She’d seen how unsatisfactory the thought of staying six weeks in Seasalter was to him. Six weeks of inn living would seem like purgatory to a man used to the finer luxuries of life.
However, he did get to remain and she’d have to endure his company. Did that mean he’d won? Surely not. She’d seen the look on his face. He hadn’t wanted to stay, although he’d get to make a very thorough report. It wasn’t clear to her exactly why he’d wanted to rush back to London other than the obvious: Seasalter lacked a certain charm when it came to entertainments. Was that all it was?
Artemisia flipped open her sketch pad, lines and form coming to her absently as her mind continued to run over the evening. Perhaps no one had won. Perhaps they’d both lost in their stubbornness. He was forced to stay and she was forced to endure his company by a snare of their own obstinate makings. She looked down at the drawing—the shape forming on the page was of a man emerging from the bath, a very familiar man. It was no wonder that her hand had chosen to sketch that which was imprinted on her mind: Darius Rutherford naked. Despite her claims to artistic objectivity, her body’s reaction, all warmth and liquid heat at the sight of him, had been something else entirely. Her eye might have seen him as an artist’s subject, but her body had responded to him unmistakably as a woman responds to a man, proof that she’d not been in nearly as much control as she’d liked to have been.
If her reaction, if her loss of control, had been a revelation to her tonight she had only herself to blame. Her reckless behaviour had invited such consequences. When one charges into another’s private rooms, anything could happen. She knew this first-hand. Isn’t that how it had happened with Hunter McCullough, although he’d been the one doing the charging into her private quarters. What had started as harmless kisses without witnesses had escalated into something far more dangerous and damaging. One would think she knew better these days. Apparently not. Darius Rutherford was more handsome than McCullough and far more adept.
She sketched more slowly now, thoughtful with her lines and shading as she recalled the image of him in detail. It had been no hardship to let her gaze roam the broad muscles of his shoulders, the sculpted curve of his smooth buttocks, the length and sinew of his legs, long and strong to support his height, but it was the core of him that had captured her attention, riveted her gaze and turned her insides to liquid.
She’d never seen a man with a chiselled midsection that looked as if it could have been made from marble and just as strong. It was a good thing she hadn’t attempted punching it. The exquisite musculature of him drew the eye southwards to the iliac crest of his hip and the pelvic girdle that housed the manliest part of him. Even in a state of semi-arousal there’d been a strength to him in that place, to the weighty sway of his testicles, low and heavy behind his phallus, entities of strength in their own right, reminding the viewer they were no mere dossal ornamentation.
She stopped and studied her work. What would the Academy think of that? If she painted him, their beloved critic? A Lord’s Bath, she’d call it. A naughty smile teased her lips. She would make a subtle satire of it, a palette of fleshy pinks and peachy oranges against the backdrop of the fireplace. She could do a good imitation of Constable with those colours. Perhaps she would, if it amused her. It wouldn’t amuse him, but he’d be hard-pressed to find technical fault with it. What a rather awkward position he’d be in. It would serve him right. Didn’t he know that was the risk of angering an artist? The artist might put you in their painting. She thought of Gentileschi’s Judith and Holofernes. It had been no accident Judith had worn Gentileschi’s face and the doomed Holofernes had been the face of her attacker, a man allowed to walk free from his crime, just as McCullough had walked free from his. But never again. Never again would a man get the better of her, not even one as handsome as Darius Rutherford. She would make sure of it. She was wis
er now.
Artemisia yawned, the day spent out of doors catching up with her at last. She needed her sleep. She would be up early. There was more sketching to be done and she didn’t intend to be easy to find when Rutherford showed up to do his monitoring. She’d only asked him to stay until February—she’d said nothing about making herself available.
* * *
She wasn’t available when he called the next afternoon at the farmhouse, or the afternoon after that. Two missed visits was enough to convince him her absence wasn’t a coincidence, not when it was coupled by a scowling Mrs Harris at the door who was all too pleased to inform him neither Miss Stansfield was receiving. ‘Miss Artemisia has gone sketching.’ She wiped her hands decisively on her apron as if she were wiping her hands of him, making it clear that he wouldn’t be getting even a crumb of the kitchen’s lemon cakes in the near future. The feminine population of the farmhouse had closed ranks against him decisively.
He couldn’t blame them. He might have handled things differently if he’d imagined he’d be staying in Seasalter for six weeks and dependent on their hospitality. He needed to apologise to Adelaide for allowing her to believe his business was different than what it was and it was a point of pride to charm himself back into the good graces of the housekeeper. But both of those tasks would have to wait.
The larger issue at hand was what to do about Artemisia. It was clear that he could call for the next six weeks in a row and she wouldn’t be at home. She was deliberately thwarting him in carrying out the duty she’d charged him with. How could he observe her work if she wasn’t there to be observed?
Darius reached the end of the muddy drive. He could either turn right and head back to the Crown for another unproductive afternoon in the taproom or he could go in search of her. His legs, and perhaps the other parts of him that found something akin to enjoyment in sparring with her, liked the latter idea better. Artemisia challenged him. She’d poked at his assumptions about the world and its fairness, stirred old desires, ones he’d thought were long buried, and then, just when he thought he’d glimpsed a piece of her, she had retreated, once more shrouded in mystery, a mystery he very much wanted to solve. He wasn’t one for idleness of any sort—mental or physical. Between the journey here and the subsequent afternoons, he’d been too idle for his body’s tastes. Spending time with Artemisia satisfied both needs.
He turned left up the shore road, wondering where to look first. There wasn’t much to do in Seasalter except catch oysters. He had to think like an artist. Would she seek out views? He scanned the flat horizon. There were no cliffs in Seasalter. Expanses, then. There was the marsh and the estuary that looked across the Swale to Sheppey. A lone curlew cried overhead, settling his decision. The estuary it would be. She would have water, mudflats and winter wildlife to choose from for sketching.
* * *
He found her down on the beach, snugged into a sheltered space set back from the muddy shore. She sat cross-legged on an old plaid blanket, dressed once more in trousers and boots, her wild hair tamed into a single thick, tight braid hanging over one shoulder, sketch book in her lap, her gaze and thoughts absorbed by whatever was on the paper. She looked...peaceful, restful, two words he wasn’t used to ascribing to Artemisia Stansfield.
There was none of the storm about her today, none of the rage. He hesitated to intrude and risk bringing them back. Darius allowed himself the indulgence of studying her a moment longer. This image of Artemisia Stansfield was just as beguiling in its tranquillity as the dark-haired fury who threw cold bathwater on a naked man, or the virago who challenged an entire assembly with the flash of her grey eyes. This image of the sketcher at work tempted him. His fingers twitched at his side out of old reflex for a pencil, wanting to capture the moment. For the second time in two days, he wanted to draw again. No, that was yet another temptation she offered and must also be resisted. His drawing days were in the past. He’d made that decision decades ago.
He took his imaginings in hand and strode forward into her line of sight, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his greatcoat. ‘You’ve found a good spot,’ he called out.
‘And you’ve found me.’ Artemisia set down her pencil with a sigh that was half-irritation, half-resignation. ‘I suppose discovery was inevitable.’
‘May I join you?’ Darius took a spot on the sand, careful not to infringe on her blanket. It was unexpectedly temperate in this little place of hers. The wind off the water missed them and one could almost forget they were on a beach in January. ‘You’re a hard person to find. But I am always up for a challenge.’
He leaned back on his hands and crossed his legs at the ankles, his pose as casual as his words. There was no need to be antagonistic, she would hear the reprimand and the rule without being goaded. She would not be allowed to elude him. He would hold her accountable to their arrangement. ‘What are we sketching today?’
‘Birds.’ The answer was succinct. For a moment he was taken aback by the abruptness. Then she reached into a covered basket beside her and drew out a bread crust. She broke it into crumbs and scattered it several feet from her on the sand. ‘They’ll come close if we’re quiet.’ Her voice was pitched low, a throaty, exotic murmur. He nodded in understanding. An artist often liked to work in silence, to be alone with their thoughts.
Darius reached into a deep pocket and brought out his journal. He seldom went anywhere without it. He flipped to a blank page and settled in. From the looks of the empty beach, they could be here awhile. He made a habit of journaling, something he’d begun doing at Oxford to keep track of professors’ lectures and to keep his hands busy sans paintbrush. Afterwards, it had transferred into a record of his days, who he met, what he did, thoughts about life. Some entries were more philosophical than others. Today, however, he didn’t want to write. He wanted to draw. Before his mind could gainsay his hand, the pencil was moving of its own accord.
‘A curlew, look.’ Her voice broke into the silence, quiet and slow, and then, a little later, ‘A godwit.’ When the bread was gone, she reached for more. The afternoon became punctuated by three words here, two words there, scattered out like her bread, drawing him in as surely as the crumbs drew the birds.
* * *
At last, she laid aside her sketch pad and stretched her back. ‘I think that’s enough for today. Would you care for something to eat?’ She reached into the basket once more for the rest of the bread and a large, carefully wrapped wedge of cheese. ‘Mrs Harris always packs enough for two.’
Darius gave a wry chuckle and shut his book. ‘She might not have done so if she thought you’d be sharing with me. She made her opinion of me quite clear when I showed up at your door these last two days. Not that I didn’t deserve it. I fear I’ve got off on the wrong foot at the farmhouse.’
‘Mrs Harris is quite protective.’ Artemisia sliced into the bread and the cheese and handed him a chunk of both. ‘She also doesn’t like to admit when her own judgement is wrong and you had her charmed from the start.’ She nodded towards his book ‘What do you write in there?’
His hand moved protectively to touch the worn leather cover. ‘Just notes, observations that are of no account to anyone but me.’
Artemisia lifted her dark brows in a teasing arch. ‘Private thoughts are interesting to everyone just because they’re private.’
‘I assure you mine aren’t.’ Darius tucked the book into his pocket in case she thought to make a grab for it. She would laugh if she saw his efforts today. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to look at them. He’d probably tear the page out tonight and burn it. He cocked his head towards a bird at the edge of the marsh standing on one spindly leg, a long, slender beak pecking in the mud. ‘What kind of bird is that?’
‘An avocet.’ She reached for her sketch pad in measured movements, careful not to startle their visitor. ‘I’ve waited all day for one of those.’
Darius waited for her to fini
sh sketching, seeing the bird through her eyes; its black beak, its black-and-white plumage, would make an ideal addition to her stark palette of winter greys and browns.
‘Very impressive, Miss Stansfield, you know your birds,’ he said once the bird had flown away and she’d gone back to eating her bread and cheese.
‘Painters have to be a little of everything: historian, scientist, anatomist, philosopher, social observer, ornithologist, otherwise their paintings will never be original, just flat copies of what others have already done.’ She shifted on the blanket, untucking her long legs. ‘Birdwatching is no hardship for me. Some people might think it’s boring to sit on a beach all day waiting for a bird, but I like it. It’s a practice in patience and perseverance, which I desperately need, and it reminds me of my great-aunt.’ She favoured him with a rare, genuine smile that lasted only a moment.
‘My sister and I spent our summers at the farmhouse. She would bring us out here and teach us all the names of the birds.’ The farmhouse she’d inherited. He was starting to see why she’d fled here. This farmhouse in the middle of nowhere wasn’t nowhere to her. It was a sanctuary, a place where she could refill her well of creativity and find her centre while Mrs Harris stood guard at the door. In the moment, he envied her that—a place to take shelter from the world. But that envy was short-lived, cut down by the knowledge that Artemisia Stansfield needed refuge, that the world was not the same oyster for her as it was for him. When one version of himself hadn’t worked out, he’d been allowed to reinvent himself. But she would be relegated to anonymity.
Artemisia rose and began to pack the empty basket with her sketchbook and pencils. He grabbed one end of the blanket and helped her shake it out before she tucked it away in the basket, too. ‘Let me carry that,’ he offered.
‘Thank you, but it’s not necessary. I carried it down here, I can carry it back.’
Portrait of a Forbidden Love--A Sexy Regency Romance Page 5