‘Perhaps I should be the one worrying about you?’ Artemisia teased, wanting to move the conversation away from her own situation. ‘I hear Bennett Galbraith is quite taken with you.’ She nodded to the vase at the end of the table. ‘Are these from him? One wonders where someone finds flowers in Seasalter in January.’ Addy blushed, but Artemisia could see the notion of Galbraith’s attentions pleased her. ‘What do we know of Mr Galbraith?’
It was a successful diversion and they spent the rest of dinner probing the depths of Addy’s suitor, of which Artemisia didn’t think there was much. Bennett Galbraith seemed an insincere dandy, but perhaps it was too soon to tell, or to worry. They would be in Seasalter until the end of February and when they left, Bennett Galbraith would cease to matter. Darius Rutherford, however, would continue to matter. He would follow her to London. In hindsight, she knew she’d behaved imprudently today. She was allowing Darius to get too close. She said goodnight to Addy and went into the sitting room. She would send a note to Darius, asking him not to come tomorrow, to give her a little distance.
She drew out a sheet of paper, a large part of her already missing him tomorrow. Perhaps she was more vulnerable than she realised. She had been alone a long time, careful for a long time in her determination not to repeat the debacle with Hunter McCullough.
She’d been eighteen, impressionable and arrogant, thinking she was worldly enough to understand men. Hunter had been twenty-six, a good-looking, sweet-talking Irish painter, her father’s latest protégé at the time. She’d fallen for every line, every look, never guessing he wasn’t above using her to secure her father’s coat-tails for himself. He meant to marry her, but for all the wrong reasons. It wouldn’t be the last time she encountered a man who had such designs on her person.
The page before her was still blank. How did she explain all that to Darius? How did she explain why she needed distance? That no matter what he said, she couldn’t allow herself to believe him because the risk was too great, to her regret. She took up her pen. She would begin with an apology, she would take responsibility for her actions. He would understand that.
Chapter Ten
It was not a good morning for the mail. Artemisia’s note had been on top of his correspondence when Darius had gone down for breakfast. It was not the way he’d wanted to begin the day. Artemisia was retreating, much as he’d suspected. He reread the opening of her note. She felt her self-sufficiency was under attack. Darius saw that much in the first line. It was carefully coded in an apology that was meant to remove any sense of burden from him for what had passed between them in the studio. She didn’t want to see him this afternoon or the next. He could come around and view the progress on the paintings while she was out on the third day. He was welcome to send her a note if he had questions about her work. This part was also clear. She meant not to see him again for the duration and that was unacceptable.
He crumpled the letter in his hand. Damn right he had questions. Not about the paintings, but about her sudden burst of misgivings. She was regretting their afternoon lapse. Which only meant one thing: she doubted him. The trust he thought he’d won was a façade. The realisation was awkward and disappointing, especially given his own reflections on the afternoon. He’d felt a connection that was electric and genuine, not just in their sport, but in their conversation. For him, there’d been no thought of using those intimacies against her. It stung doubly that she thought he would.
The afternoon had left him hungry for more. More conversation and, yes, more pleasure. Why should they not indulge? They were both adults with no fairy-tale expectations. Surely, that was enough to ensure the balance of power between them remained even? There were only four weeks left to them before they returned to London. Why not enjoy this newfound and short-lived passion between them? Last night, he’d been hard-pressed to imagine anything else; four glorious weeks with Artemisia, a woman who embraced her passions as fully as she embraced her opinions and challenged his own.
What an about-face his thoughts had done from a month ago when he’d sat at the assembly meeting, finding Artemisia outspoken and odd, to translating that unconventionality into the source of his intrigue with her. Those very same attributes drew him and ultimately it was those attributes that were reshaping how he viewed not just her, but her art, and other women.
Darius poured himself another cup of coffee and took a long swallow, as sobering as the realisation itself. Was it possible she was right? That women were deliberately kept in their place not for their own good, as Darius had been raised to believe, but for his own good, the good of collective man? For a man who prided himself on keeping a code of honesty, that supposition seemed decidedly dishonest.
He thought of his mother, who had given up her flute to marry his father. Had she been pushed to it by her parents? Had the choice been hers? He’d always assumed it had been. That was how it had been presented to him through the years. Perhaps it hadn’t been any more her choice than it had been his choice to give up painting. Why had he not thought of it before? Because she was a woman? A wife to a titled man? That being a mother to an heir was the greatest achievement she should strive for? He knew what Artemisia would make of that. He knew what his father would make of it. The question was, what should he make of it? That would require a complex answer.
Darius reached for the next letter in the pile and his hand stilled—this one was from the Academy. He could guess its contents: a polite note to enquire about his progress. Harmless in and of itself. Perhaps less so, considering the thoughts running through his mind at present. They’d not sent him here to have his head turned, or to start a revolution. Is that what was happening? Had his head been turned? Would he be having these same thoughts if he wasn’t smitten with her?
Darius wrapped his hands around his mug, letting its warmth focus his thoughts. Had Artemisia done it on purpose? Did she distrust his motives yesterday afternoon because her own were suspect? It certainly put a different cast on things—those invitations to the beach to watch her sketch issued just reluctantly enough to be believable; her penchant for arguing with him, which gave her licence and a stage from which to share her radical thoughts. He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. If so, he’d been played by a master. He’d been so focused on winning her over he’d not been aware of her ideas taking root in his own mind.
Then there’d been yesterday afternoon, the coup de grâce. She’d reeled him in with a collection of intimate moments physically and emotionally. By the time he’d asked to see the art and she’d agreed, he’d thought it had been a sign of mutual trust, a pact between them. He’d spent a heady hour, his arms wrapped about her, breathing in the soft winter-spiced scent of her, as she’d shown him the works in progress, discussing each thoroughly as they went, each one a rebellion in its own right, each one brilliant. He’d given her the perfect stage and a willing audience with whom to make her argument once more: that the Academy was deliberately denying her on grounds of gender.
She’d made the argument so compellingly that he was sitting here with his coffee, poised to write his report, while the question ran through his head: What if she was right? He’d promised the Academy only that he’d be objective. Was that wrong? Perhaps he was panicking too early. Objectivity by definition meant he was required to look at both sides. There was nothing wrong with considering her perspective.
Darius felt a bit better after that. He slit open the letter from the Academy. It was as expected up until the last lines. Those gave him pause.
‘In closing, the Academy knows it can rely on you to see our standards upheld. The word of a critic of your stature is beyond value, something one does not give lightly or without due consideration.’
Adoration or extortion? Perhaps Artemisia was getting to him, after all. A week ago, he would have thought nothing of it beyond a bit of flattery. Everyone wanted a good review from Darius Rutherford, some were even happy to get a bad one. Any notice from
him was still publicity. He had more exhibition invitations than he had time to attend. Now, though, with Artemisia’s theories pounding in his head, he saw the sinister context of the words. Did the Academy mean to blackmail him into compliance?
Darius fingered the note, rereading. They meant to turn their backs on him if he endorsed her. They’d denounce him and discredit his opinions. They would discredit her in the process as well. That wasn’t any different than the current plan. Either way, Artemisia lost. But the former would be far messier than what they preferred. They wanted him to do the dirty work for them. If he didn’t endorse her work, no one would expect them to override his opinion. They were simply following the suit of an expert with a good opinion. Should he not offer that opinion, he would go down with her. Or at least they would try to take him down. It would be a nasty fight. He might survive it, but not unscathed. It would require hard choices, hard sacrifices.
Darius put his head in his hands. This was supposed to have been an easy task aside from the inconvenience of it. It was not supposed to cause him a moral quandary, to force him to question the order of the world, his world. Should he retreat the field, his honour intact in exchange for publicly decrying Artemisia Stansfield? That was merely the personal quandary. It had become so much more than it should have been. It wasn’t supposed to cause him to dream old dreams, to pick up a sketch pad or to question the order of things. Men protected women, children, all those who were beneath him, and in return the protected kept their place, like the tenants in his father’s village. Everyone understood and accepted their place in the scheme of life. Until now. Until Artemisia.
He was not prepared for what happened when a woman exceeded her place. It would have been no hardship to carry out his task if her work had been poor. But it wasn’t. It was different and rebellious, and pointed, but it was good. If a man had produced this work, he might be hailed as a pioneer, taking the English school in a new direction. But a woman? And those who endorsed her? He would be risking his very reputation.
On her, a woman who might have manipulated him into this very dilemma. Was she worth it? Had she been coaxing him into taking that risk? He hoped not. He did not like thinking of yesterday’s magic, of the sweet taste of her, her soft moans as he put his mouth to her, as part of a play, something designed to unman him.
Perhaps she is counting on that, his conscience whispered in wicked punishment. Your own ego can’t admit it wasn’t pleasure for pleasure’s sake.
But he’d seen her face, felt her body’s response. Those had not been lies. His heart knew what his mind denied, but how to prove it?
He sifted through the pile of letters, finding Artemisia’s note. A smile coming to him. This was the proof. She would not have warned him away if it had simply been a manoeuvre. Her reaction had caused her to withdraw, to reconsider the nature of her association with him. Her concerns over that association were clearly implied. She feared he would use any intimacy between them against her. A woman who’d wanted those intimacies, who’d wanted them as tools for directing his responses, would not have pulled away when the fire was hot.
He folded the note and put it away, some of his anxiety easing. This made for an interesting dynamic. Whether Artemisia liked it or not, they were now in this together. Only he had no idea how to resolve it in a way that protected both her and his honour. He knew only that he would not betray her for the sake of his reputation.
His conscience couldn’t resist getting in one more jab: perhaps that was what she’d been hoping for all along.
His father would be displeased. His admonitions had not gained purchase with his son. Darius pushed a hand through his hair. There was nothing like having one’s world upended and then questioning the legitimacy of that reality.
* * *
Darius stayed away for three days, but it did not provide him with distance or clarity. He hoped Artemisia was doing better, that the space she’d asked for was giving her peace of mind. Not so for him. For him, there was no space, no separation and too much reflection. She was in his thoughts everywhere he went: the beach, the little harbour while he watched the fishermen repairing their boats, even the tavern wasn’t safe from her. There was no privacy in the private parlour for him, only memories of the dinner they’d shared and the kiss that had followed. There was certainly no privacy in his room. Its most noted feature now was the place where she’d doused him with cold water in the bath.
In the time he’d been here, Artemisia had imprinted herself on his space, his mind and his body. She dominated his routine. His days had been built around her. In this unlooked-for interim of absence, his days were shattered. With the spare time on his hands he couldn’t stop thinking about her, about the direction of his life, about what he’d given up to get to this point, about what was expected of him back in London. And how it might all come undone in a single decision.
He wandered Seasalter with an uncanny ability to find himself watching the farmhouse at a distance and to linger imagining what was going on inside; Artemisia would be in her studio, in her smock, her hair in a plait, curls straying despite her best efforts, her brow forming its little furrow as she assessed her work. Then, he’d imagine Mrs Harris catching him and coming outside to scold him, undoing his hard work to get back into her good graces.
That usually got his feet in motion and his thoughts refocused on the situation at hand and brought them full circle to the same conclusion he’d arrived at on day one: he couldn’t resolve this without her. Any solution he arrived at involved her compliance, more specifically, her cooperation, the two things Artemisia Stansfield was least likely to give. He’d have better luck asking her for the moon. He pushed a hand through his hair, damp from the perpetual winter mist of Seasalter. He had to see her, had to confront her and hope she’d be truthful. He was tempted to storm the farmhouse and demand answers. Artemisia would never respond favourably to such a tactic. It would give her reason to withdraw further.
He could not go to her with demands. Neither could he go empty-handed. He needed a peace offering, something to convince her of his integrity. There was one thing that might suffice: an honest opinion. Darius turned from the farmhouse drive and retraced his steps back to the inn. He would write his report as proof of his intentions and hope it would be enough to persuade her. He’d pack a bottle of the red she liked as well. Perhaps wine would persuade her if words would not.
Chapter Eleven
‘Come walk with me.’ The words brought Artemisia’s eyes up from the easel. Darius stood there as if conjured by her very thoughts. Painting had been difficult today. She’d not been able to concentrate without thoughts of him interrupting. Painting the estuary only served to call up memories of their days sitting on the beach, of watching him unaware, the little gesture he made to sweep that imperfect fall of dark hair to the side out of his eyes. She’d heard his voice in her head all day and now that voice and the man it belonged to stood in front of her.
He was dressed in his greatcoat and boots, misty droplets glistening in his hair. He looked elemental and raw, less like London. ‘You can’t paint much longer. The light is nearly gone for that,’ he coaxed, looking entirely too attractive. A three-day interim had not dampened his appeal. Neither had a three-day absence settled her thoughts about him. It had only made her crave his company, his presence. She’d missed him. It was the last reaction she would have thought to have.
Artemisia made her decision. ‘Yes, help me wash the brushes out.’
Cleaning up didn’t take long and they were on their way, the wind fresh in her face after a day indoors. He hadn’t even been with her and he’d known what she needed. They walked down the road in silence, neither one saying a thing; perhaps he, like her, was simply letting the other happen to them all over again. She was refreshing her memory of him, of his long stride, of the way he shoved his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, how the breeze played with his hair.
&n
bsp; They reached a vee in the road and veered towards the beach on the estuary. Sand stuck to their wet boots and she smelled the familiar brine of the marsh. ‘What brought on this visit?’ she asked at last. ‘I thought my note was clear.’
‘Very clear, but I needed to see you.’ There was raw honesty in his voice and a heat in his gaze that prompted her next careful question.
‘For what reason?’ The rawness in her own voice mirrored his, a tentativeness, unsure of what path his answer might take and how she might respond. ‘Have you come for work or pleasure, Darius?’ There was only one acceptable answer, only one they could have. He did not choose it.
‘Both.’ His voice was quiet beneath the wind and it sent a trill of wicked want down her spine. ‘I have to talk with you and I need you to be honest with me.’ He made a gesture with his hand, drawing her gaze towards the sheltered area where she liked to sketch. A small campsite had been set up, a blanket laid out, a basket at its centre and a firepit at the ready waiting to be lit.
‘This sounds serious.’ Artemisia slanted him a considering glance, trying to read him, but he was inscrutable as always.
‘It is.’ He knelt beside the fire, retrieving a flint from his coat pocket and striking a match. He fixed her with his dark stare as she settled on the blanket. ‘This is very difficult to ask and, the more I thought about how to ask it, I realised there was simply no good way to put it.’
She smiled encouragingly. ‘It’s rather refreshing to see you off tilt. Well? Give it your best shot.’
He balanced on the balls of his feet, stoking the fire with a spare stick, gathering his words as he held her gaze. ‘Artemisia, have you been seducing me to your side? I need to know. If you have, just say so. You are in an untenable situation with the Academy. I wouldn’t blame you, but I do need to know.’ The fire crackled between them, sending sparks into the dusk.
Portrait of a Forbidden Love--A Sexy Regency Romance Page 9