‘So, Darius...’ the taste of his name was still new on her tongue ‘...why does an earl’s son spend his time as an art critic?’
He laughed and set down his fork. ‘Why not? I have the time to spend precisely because I am an earl’s son. What else shall I devote my enormous amount of discretionary time to? Mistresses, gambling, dangerous carriage races? I have time on my hands. Why not do something meaningful with it?’
‘But why art specifically?’ Artemisia pressed, unwilling to be lured away from her question by debate on the virtues and vices of a gentleman.
‘The Bourne family has always been supporters of art. Throughout the generations the Earls have collected art, paintings particularly. I grew up surrounded by the grand galleries at my father’s various houses.’ The answer was too polished, too quickly given. He’d been asked that before. He’d been ready for her.
Artemisia was familiar with the Bourne catalogues. They possessed one of the finest private collections of paintings done by the English school in the country. It was a patriotic point of pride with the current Earl. ‘A critic is not the same as a collector, though. You could have just continued the work of collecting, supporting artists through patronage.’
Darius furrowed his brow and fixed her with his dark eyes. ‘There’s not such a great difference between a critic and a collector—both are trendsetters in their own ways, both lend value to an artist’s work.’ He’d been ready for that, too. She wasn’t doing a very good job of getting under his skin. He was too well-armoured.
‘Or not.’ She was quick to respond. ‘When a critic suggests someone’s work is inferior you ruin their career. Do you ever consider that when making your opinion public? A critic’s opinion is far more widespread than an individual’s single like or dislike. Others are inclined to adopt a critic’s stance as their own. A critic’s words spread like a contagion.’
‘Contagion? First you make me a monster, now you make me a disease.’ Darius chuckled and then sobered. ‘If I am anything, I hope I am honest, even when it hurts, even when it’s hard. Catering to an artist’s ego helps no one in the long run. I would not want to give anyone false hope about their talents.’
‘That’s a very cold nobility.’ Artemisia sipped her wine. ‘An artist puts their heart and soul into a work, regardless of its quality. To have that work brutally, objectively destroyed with words is like ripping out that heart.’
‘Is that what I did to you with my remarks about your new collection?’ he parried. ‘I doubt it. Any artist who seeks a career needs a thick skin. It’s part of being an artist, part of being in the public eye.’ He rose and moved to the sideboard once more where a mince pie waited for dessert. ‘We are not so different in our backgrounds, I think. I grew up surrounded by art. You did as well. It is no surprise we ended up where we are today. What is it like growing up with a famous father?’ He served her a slice of pie and resumed his seat.
‘Probably the same as it is growing up an heir to an earldom. Pressure to be successful, pressure to put forward a certain image.’ She took a bite of pie and gave him a cool smile to let him know she was on to him, to his smooth manoeuvring of the conversation away from himself and over to her. ‘I thought tonight was about getting to know you?’
‘And you have.’ His smile spread slowly across his face, warming something deep at her core, further proof just how dangerous Darius Rutherford could be. ‘You’ve been watching my every move since we arrived. Getting to know someone is about more than words.’ He leaned across the table, capturing her gaze with his, his dark eyes steady and intense, his voice low and intimate. She concluded he had not exaggerated. He probably didn’t need to bribe women into his bed, not when he possessed a look like that, a look that made one the centre of his attentions and shrank the room to only the space between them. Even forearmed, Artemisia’s own breath caught.
He reached for her hands, gripping them in his. ‘I see you’ve decided you can trust me in your studio. Now, you just have to decide to let me in and accept my opinions whatever they might be.’
There it was again, this illusion that she had a choice. She fought the urge to look away. She’d never been read quite so thoroughly before, or so correctly. ‘We cannot be friends.’ It would be a slippery slope to disaster. If friendship with him was this intoxicating, how much more so would other intimacies be? It was not hard to imagine those intimacies here in the firelit privacy of the dining parlour with his eyes on her, his hands wrapped about hers, strong, capable and long fingered, the firelight glinting off the sapphire ring on his right. These were a lover’s hands, sure and confident. Despite the wine, her throat was suddenly dry. She should not have gone down that particular rabbit hole. She did not want to think of him as a lover, her lover, those hands on her skin, that mouth at her ear whispering impossible nonsense.
‘Why can’t we be friends? Because we might disagree? Friends are allowed to disagree. It would be boring, otherwise.’ He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over a chest that she knew was well defined beneath his coats and shirt. ‘Or is it something more? Is it that this friendship has not been offered on your terms? Is that what makes you uncomfortable? No one is permitted to take you by surprise? Artemisia Stansfield must always define the rules of engagement?’ That hit too close to home. She’d not defined the rules with Hunter McCullough and she’d paid for that.
‘Perhaps I don’t believe there are any more surprises.’ Although he’d surprised her plenty tonight. He saw too much of her. She didn’t dare risk him seeing any more. That was the problem in getting others to expose themselves—one often had to expose oneself in return. She wasn’t comfortable with that. Artemisia stood up and gathered the plates. That he could see through her made him even more dangerous. ‘A woman needs her protections, Darius. She can’t just let anyone in.’ Not into her bed, her studio, her thoughts, her soul. There was a reason her circle of friends was small. She’d learned that through difficult choices, but, once learned, she was not keen on making those mistakes again with a man who was handsome and well mannered.
She could not let herself forget for a moment that he was a critic, he was a man and he’d been sent by those who wanted her to fail, three very potent strikes against him. Yet she’d nearly forgotten those tonight for a short while. Even now, remembering his sins, she was still tempted to overlook them, all for that smile, those eyes, those hands, those words of assurance that what happened in Seasalter, would stay in Seasalter, but too many men did not keep their word.
She set the dishes down on the sideboard. She needed to get out of here while some semblance of good judgement remained to her. ‘Thank you for supper, it was enlightening. I must go. I don’t want Addy to worry.’ In her haste, she was clumsy, her senses focused inward. She’d not heard him leave the table. She turned from the sideboard straight into the hardness of his chest.
‘Stay, just a while longer.’ His hands were at her waist, steadying her, his eyes hot on hers, dark mirrors reflecting his intentions, the only warning she had before his mouth claimed hers.
His kiss was warm, his mouth firm, confident. He knew what he was about with a caress of mouths, a slow, lingering exploration of lips, of tongues. He tasted like dinner’s wine, dry tannins mixed with buttery oak, complex and intriguing, hinting at depths that would please a more sophisticated palate should one wish to explore. And she did wish it, another reminder that she was not as in charge of her responses around him as she’d like to be. The lapse was easily reasoned away, a moment’s exploration would hurt no one. She let her own tongue trail over his lips, trace the lines of his teeth. This was kissing at its slow and exhilarating best, the kind of kissing that could easily segue into other exhilarating activities. Those she could not afford, not with him, not now.
She gave his lip a final nip, catching it between her teeth as she pulled away, taking refuge in a reprimand. ‘Why did you do that?’
Hi
s eyes glistened, two black diamonds shining with secrets unrevealed, secrets close enough to the surface to tempt. What did the perfect Darius Rutherford have to hide? ‘To prove there are still a few surprises left.’ For whom? she wondered. For herself? Or for him? More importantly, why did it matter? Nothing good could come of exploring what those surprises might reveal and they both knew it, which made the temptation all the harder to resist. That kiss had become a veritable tree of knowledge in the garden of their desires, the root of good and evil.
Chapter Eight
Darius Rutherford was positively inscrutable. One would think, after a kiss, there would be some kind of unveiling, the lowering of one’s guard. If anything, Darius’s guard was more alert. His secrets, which had once tantalised her with near capture, lying on the surface of him, now evaded her entirely. For all the openness he seemed to evince, that same openness only served to shield him more completely. Perhaps it was his version of hiding in plain sight. She knew no more about him now than she had at the start. It hardly seemed fair when she’d let him into her studio to watch her paint.
Artemisia picked up a penknife and sharpened her sketching pencil. She hazarded a look over the top of her easel at Darius, who’d taken up residence on the old sofa across the room and was once again busy with his ever-present journal while it rained outside—a perfectly dreary day to be indoors with her speculations. What did he write in there? Her curiosity was starting to get the better of her. She didn’t doubt he’d told her the truth, that he wrote down thoughts and observations. But what thoughts? What observations? What did Darius Rutherford think, see, feel? Were they observations about her? Surely some of them must be.
Seven days ago, you didn’t care. Last week he was nothing but a nuisance following you to the beach, her conscience prompted.
Not all week, though. By Wednesday he’d stopped being annoying and had become a somewhat comfortable appendage who had invited her to dinner and kissed her. It mattered little to her when he’d become an accepted fixture in her routine. It mattered more as to why. What had changed? She’d gone from wanting to know nothing about him to wanting to know everything. What was in that leather journal of his? What secrets lurked behind the guarded gates of those dark eyes? Why did she care? A week ago, she’d have said Darius Rutherford could keep his secrets. This week, she wanted to know them. It would be better not to. Knowing his secrets was akin to naming a stray dog. Both were a step closer to an attachment she didn’t need. That didn’t seem to stop the wanting of it, though.
She set aside the knife and went back to outlining on the canvas, but even work couldn’t quite distract her. That kiss had taken her over temptation’s edge, just far enough to want to know more about a man who kissed not like sin but like sincerity. It was the sincerity that was hard to resist. Rakes were easy enough to ignore, she had no interest there. But Darius Rutherford was not a rake. Society defined him by titles: art critic, gentleman, heir to an earldom, a viscount. But he spoke of fairness and objectivity, showing himself to be a man who was not limited by those titles.
She did not know many of such men. Even her father was defined by his title. The ‘Sir’ in front of Lesley Stansfield’s name meant everything to him—at times she thought it meant more than his own daughters. It signified his level of accomplishment, the quality of his expertise, his standing in society. But where Darius was more than the sum of his titles, her father was not. Therein lay the intrigue. What sort of man lived beyond social constraint? These musings were proof she should not have kissed him. It had opened a Pandora’s box and all nature of curiosity from the esoteric to the sensual had flown out, not to be put back in.
Artemisia finished the outlining, satisfied with its initial lines. It was one of the oystermen and she had great hopes for it; it was different than birds and wildlife. Now, it was time to do something about that journal. She carefully put her tools away and approached the sofa, slowly, cautiously. They’d been wary of each other this week, careful not to tease, not to stir the pot of temptation knowing what waited there. ‘Is that old thing comfortable enough?’ She tried for a comfortable conversational tone. They were both adults, neither of them untried by passion and lovers. One kiss should not have them on edge like adolescents.
Darius looked up from the journal. ‘Absolutely. Sometimes old sofas are the best sofas, especially on rainy days.’ He gave her a smile that roused the butterflies in her stomach. ‘Come, sit.’ He patted the spot next to him and she did, knowing full well they were playing with fire now, the tacit agreement to keep their physical distance when together had been just as tacitly set aside. Had they learned their lesson?
‘Are you done for the day? Did the outlining go well?’ He was always so conscientious not to interrupt when she worked.
‘Well enough. I’ll know for sure once I start to paint.’ She settled on the sofa cushion, legs and skirts tucked around her in a casual pose. ‘And your writing? How was your journaling this morning?’ They knew too much of one another’s routine. Such knowledge made a mockery of the distance they’d tried to impose. Distance wasn’t only about space, it seemed.
He gave his customary shrug regarding his journal. ‘Fine.’
‘Fine? Is that all?’ she queried, temptation whispering loud now, too loud. ‘Perhaps I should be the judge of that.’ She made a lightning-quick grab for the open journal in his lap, snapping it up before he could stop her.
‘Artemisia,’ he warned, ‘give that back.’
For the space of a heartbeat she almost did, so firm was his request. ‘Fair is fair. You saw my paintings.’
‘Your paintings were meant to be public, meant to be seen.’ His eyes glinted dangerously. She wondered what he’d do if she dared him to come and get it. Old sofas and rainy days were made for such dares.
‘But they were still a secret,’ she countered. ‘They were not meant to be seen yet, like a bride on her wedding day. A piece of your soul for a piece of mine, Darius. You must pay the forfeit,’ she teased, glancing down at the pages prepared to see words. She saw drawings instead. She recognised the beach, the godwit, a boat from the oystermen. She stared at them, letting her thoughts settle before she looked up. It made sense now, how he knew when to stay quiet, how he seemed to respect the process. He wasn’t merely an art critic. She felt his eyes on her, still and waiting. She looked up.
‘I’ve misjudged you.’ Her earlier assumption shamed her. ‘I was wrong,’ she confessed. ‘I was thinking you were one of those critics who’d never held a paintbrush. But you’re an artist, too.’ She handed the journal back to him. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Because it’s not relevant. It’s not who I am any more.’ He rose from the sofa and tucked his book into the pocket of his coat where it hung from a peg.
‘Any more?’ She picked up on that one word. ‘Does that mean at one time you were?’ She asked the last quietly, holding her breath in anticipation of the answer. These were the unlooked-for depths she’d dipped her foot in last night.
‘Yes.’ Darius didn’t shy away from the truth now that the subject was broached. ‘I enjoyed painting in my youth, but I haven’t any notable talent.’
She thought there might be some room for disagreement on that point. ‘Those are good. You use perspective well.’
‘One needs more than technical expertise.’ He was uncomfortable with the subject. He didn’t come back to the sofa, but paced the length of the glassed wall. ‘Technical expertise can be bought with the best of instructors. It cannot, however, make one an artist.’
No, that was true. One needed some other intangibles for that: passions, experiences, a raw look at life for instance. She had that in spades; a mother dead before she was ten, an infant sister to raise, a father who’d travelled his daughters all over the Continent while he struggled to make a life for them. Those were experiences an earl’s heir was unlikely to have, but Artemisia held her tongue
. There were more important things to discuss. ‘When did you stop?’
‘I put away my paints when I went to Oxford.’ It was offered tersely, but there was history behind Darius’s sparse words. It prompted more questions. Why? What had happened to cause him to give it up?
‘Not everyone has to be hung on the line at the Academy to be an artist. If it brings you joy, you should do it.’ She couldn’t imagine giving up painting. Even if she never sold another painting, she would still paint. She had to. It was in her blood.
He gave a rueful smile. ‘I’m not you, Artemisia. I have other things that require my attention.’
‘Attention and joy are not the same thing,’ Artemisia pressed, her curiosity surging with the rain against the window. What brought him joy?
‘No, they are not.’ It wasn’t an answer. He wasn’t ready to share.
‘Thank you for letting me see them,’ Artemisia offered. Drawings, writings—those were personal things not shared lightly.
He chuckled. ‘I didn’t think there was any “letting” about it.’
She shrugged and gave him a teasing smile. ‘I suppose you could have taken the journal back by force if you’d been so inclined.’
‘Maybe I should have,’ He was teasing now, too, the stiffness of unplanned revelations and the reminder of a kiss fading just when they needed the reminder the most. This way lay danger, a delicious, delectable danger.
‘But then I would never have known you painted. You never would have told me, otherwise.’ Something potent was simmering between them again, hot and searing and undeniable. The question was whether or not it was resistible or inevitable. She was aware of everything in those moments: the persistent drum of rain on the glass, each breath she took, the heat of his gaze.
Portrait of a Forbidden Love--A Sexy Regency Romance Page 7