Portrait of a Forbidden Love--A Sexy Regency Romance
Page 17
Artemisia finished speaking and sat down to polite applause. It was all so courteously done that one might not have even noticed what was really happening. Certainly, three months ago he’d not have noticed. But today, he saw it and his heart sank. Her hard work, her brilliance, her arguments, even her concessions, wouldn’t be enough. They were going to refuse her. Everyone knew. He knew. Artemisia knew, yet everyone was playing their parts to perfection. Anger stirred in him at the farce unfolding.
‘St Helier, perhaps we might hear from you on the paintings?’ President West called on him. ‘You spent time watching the development process.’
Darius rose, not daring a glance Artemisia’s direction. What was going through her mind? Did she think he would denounce her? Did she hold out an ounce of hope that his testimony would tip the scales? Or was she so collected because she already knew the outcome? ‘I submitted my report this morning. It is available to anyone who wishes to read it. In short, I will share the highlights here. First, I find Miss Stansfield’s work to be singularly unique in its style and use of colours. Secondly, I find her skill to be outstanding in blending her own personal style with the traditions of the English school. I am of the opinion that she brings much insight and talent on which the English school can build. I fully support her elevation to a Royal Academician.’
Darius sat down to a room full of silence. Aldred Gray lifted an almost imperceptible eyebrow in his direction. President West nodded his head as if his opinion was well received. ‘Thank you for your insights and your time.’ Shortly after that, President West dismissed guests and candidates so that the Academy could discuss and vote in privacy.
Artemisia left Somerset House without a single glance in his direction. He wished he could be with her to await the news. Darius left for his club to hold his own lonely vigil and to run through plans for the inevitable. This was not the end. They would fight, yet he hoped it wouldn’t come to that, that the Academy would accept her brilliance.
* * *
Aldred Gray found him shortly before six o’clock. Gray took the chair opposite and ordered a brandy. ‘I thought you’d be here. Word has been sent to Miss Stansfield. She’s probably reading it right now.’ Gray sat back and took his glass from a waiter’s tray. He swirled it about and put his nose to it before tasting. The damn man was going to make him beg for news. Either that or he was watching for a reaction to see just how invested Darius was in Artemisia’s situation.
Darius chose not to give Gray the satisfaction. He took a slow swallow of his own drink. ‘How will Miss Stansfield feel about the news?’
‘We’ve chosen not to elevate her status. She is welcome to remain as an associate, however.’ Gray made it sound as though maintaining her status quo—something she’d already earned—was a grand favour. ‘We do thank you for your honesty, St Helier. We have all done our best for her; her father, with the original nomination, you with your time invested, your incredibly detailed report, the Academy with its probation. We’ve done everything possible, perhaps even more, to give her a fair hearing.’ He clapped a friendly hand on Darius’s knee. ‘You can rest assured this decision was not taken lightly.’
‘I was never worried about that,’ Darius replied drily. There’d never been a question of the decision being taken glibly. The Academy had taken it with the utmost seriousness of a general planning a campaign. They’d executed it with attention to every detail to ensure their success and their image.
Gray missed the wryness. ‘You played your part and the Academy is grateful to you once more.’ He ordered another round of drinks and launched into a dissertation of the newly approved candidates and the upcoming spring show.
Darius listened with half an ear. Gray was thankfully very good at entertaining himself, requiring little from him to keep the conversation going. So that was how it was going to be. The Academy was willing to view his opinion as a necessary demonstration of fairness towards Artemisia, part of the play of justice they’d constructed. They would allow him to retain his position within the fold if he distanced himself from her now.
They’d wasted no time in offering the olive branch to him. They must be highly concerned about his reaction to their decision, concerned enough to fear some well-based repercussions and his consequence. They’d be right. They had to have rapprochement with him. An earl’s son could not be so easily dismissed as an artist’s daughter. He finished his drink and set the glass down. He rose abruptly. Gray might or might not have been in mid-sentence. Darius didn’t particularly care.
‘You must excuse me, I am expected somewhere this evening.’ He paused and then mentioned offhandedly, ‘A copy of my report will appear in The Times tomorrow, adjacent to the list of newly approved RAs, in abbreviated format, of course. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to relay that news to President West? Have a good evening, Gray.’
That felt good. Darius couldn’t help but smile as he collected his coat, hat and walking stick at the cloakroom. It was freeing. There was no more waiting to see how things would go. Decisions had been made. The next step was to go to Artemisia. That was a reason for celebration, too. They needn’t pretend to avoid one another now.
* * *
She needn’t pretend sophisticated indifference or cool acceptance of the Academy’s decision here in her private studio. She was alone here and could give herself over to rage and disappointment. The note had come an hour ago with the return of her collection, carefully packed with the Academy’s thanks, best wishes and the reminder that she would always be welcome as a royal associate. She’d read the note stoically under Anstruther’s watchful gaze, given directions to have the paintings taken to the studio and then she had retreated.
Artemisia stared at the paintings lined against the wall. They were starkly beautiful. Perhaps too stark, message and all. Had she done this to herself? She had been very deliberate about the message of protest behind her work. Darius had warned her and she’d forged on any way. Her gaze landed on the pintail duck. How could it be she’d completed that only a few weeks ago? Seasalter seemed like another lifetime. She wanted to be there now, tucked up before the fire in the farmhouse parlour, Darius beside her, a warmed glass of the Crown’s fine red in her hand.
She shook her head against her self-pity. She’d allow herself this one night of disappointment, but no more. It would solve nothing. She shouldn’t even allow herself this much pity. She’d known her bid would end this way. She’d had weeks, months, to mourn this loss. And yet the unfairness of it all hurt so damn badly.
But there was no time for drowning, for wallowing. Her battle was over. She needed to turn her attention to Darius and how she could best protect him from his own nobility. He’d stirred her heart today when he’d spoken on her behalf, as foolhardy as it was. He’d been so commanding, so confident, she’d almost believed he might sway them. For a few moments, he’d given her back a hope she’d disposed of.
It had taken all of her willpower to walk out of Somerset without a glance for him. She’d wanted to run to him, throw her arms about him and kiss him. No one had ever done as much for her as he had in those words, publicly endorsing her against all odds, a decision that would cost him unless she could convince him otherwise. That convincing would mean giving her up, setting aside his plans to champion her outside the Academy.
A knock at her studio jolted her out of her ruminations. The room had fallen dark as she’d daydreamed. She turned up the lamp and opened the door. ‘Darius!’
He nearly knocked the lamp from her hand as he swept her into his arms, kissing her hard. He smelled of the spice of his own soap and clean linen. ‘You were magnificent today, my darling!’ He took the lamp from her and set it aside. He was dressed for the evening in a dark cloth coat, single-breasted with tails over pale, tight-fitting breeches, and an embroidered waistcoat in a rich sapphire blue. He was dressed for going out, clearly.
‘I wasn’t magnificent enough
,’ she said. Had he heard the news? She suddenly felt guilty she’d not sent word. Had he been waiting to hear all this time? ‘I thought you would have been told.’
Darius waved a dismissive hand. ‘I know, I heard. Gray came to the club to enlighten me. Their decision does not make you less magnificent.’ She was in his arms again. ‘Since when have you ever defined yourself based on their standards?’ His ebullience faded, replaced by seriousness. ‘I was proud of you today. You were everything you should have been.’
Tears stung at his words. ‘Don’t, Darius,’ she warned. She hadn’t cried yet, but his words would break the last of her resolve. What he’d done for her today, and what he continued to do, would undo her. ‘Come sit, we must talk.’ Perhaps talking would allay her tears. She tugged at his wrist, but he remained fixed in place. ‘What is it?’
‘This is the studio?’ He glanced around, his gaze falling on her sofa.
‘It’s my private studio,’ she answered carefully, following his train of thought. ‘I don’t paint with my father’s students any more. I moved in here several years ago after the incident with Hunter McCullough. It was obviously not a good idea for me to continue to paint with the group.’ It would have been an invitation to more trouble. Darius seemed to relax as he followed her to the sofa.
‘Gray was insufferable.’ He took up the conversation. ‘He told me I could rest easy in knowing that I’d done everything possible to ensure you a fair hearing. The Academy was thankful for my objectivity. I had played my part well for them.’
Artemisia heard the edge on his last words. ‘I assume that was their method of announcing their forgiveness of your errant ways,’ she said coolly. Was he looking to her for absolution? ‘You should take the offer, of course.’ It seemed she wouldn’t have to save him after all, the Academy had done that for her. For him, this couldn’t have gone better. He’d emerged with his honour intact, he hadn’t been compelled to sacrifice his principles for a lie, or his position for the truth.
‘I most certainly should not.’ Darius frowned at her. ‘They have done you a gross injustice.’ His gaze considered her, warmth and hope pooling in her belly. ‘This is not over. I told Gray my report would appear in The Times tomorrow.’
Artemisia gasped, ‘No, you didn’t. You will alienate the Academy completely by publicly setting yourself against them.’ More to the point, by aligning himself so directly with her. ‘I thought we’d decided I was a lost cause.’
Darius reached for her hands. She wasn’t fast enough to pull them away. It was hard to argue when he was touching her. Everything seemed more compelling. ‘I don’t know that we can win for you, but what about the others who come after you? There will be other women with talent who want what you want. This fight is about you, but it’s also about them.’
‘But it doesn’t have to be your fight. I always thought I’d be in this alone and it’s fine. You needn’t sacrifice yourself.’ He’d better take that offer while she could still make it. It was getting more difficult to let him go, to want to fight alone. He’d changed that for her and she wasn’t sure yet if she had thanked him for it.
‘I know it doesn’t. But I want it to be. I was denied a chance at something I loved. I think it’s my fight, too. They’ll be careful not to alienate me too much.’ He leaned in and kissed her cheek. ‘I need you to do something for me, darling; change into a ballgown. My carriage is waiting out front to take us to the Elliots’.’
‘Dancing is the last thing I feel like doing tonight,’ Artemisia said.
‘I’m sure it is, which is why it’s the thing you must do tonight.’ Darius rose and offered her his hand. ‘Tonight, you dance and laugh as if the Academy’s decision does not pain you in the least. They wanted to put out your fire, Artemisia. You need to show them they’ve done the opposite: they’ve fanned it. You don’t need them to be a successful artist.’ He gave her an experimental twirl that made her laugh, brightening her spirits. ‘Put on your dancing shoes, Artemisia. We have declared war on the Academy.’
Chapter Twenty
They danced that night, a glorious, sweeping waltz that left Artemisia breathless. Darius was an exquisite dancer, navigating them through the crowded Elliot ballroom with athletic grace and confidence, his hand firm at her back, his mouth teasing her into smiles of her own with its infectious grin. For a few precious moments she could get lost in him, his eyes, his touch; she could forget the disappointments of the day, she could believe in the fantasies he wrought.
They danced the next night, too, and the one after that. She felt invincible in Darius’s arms as they sailed across London’s dance floors. She was buoyed by his confidence and the vindicated satisfaction of seeing his well-articulated editorial regarding the recent RA selections by the Academy appear in The Times. Darius stole kisses in moonlit gardens, and her studio in the mews became their refuge. There might be no more lovemaking by night, but they had the afternoons, long, lazy afternoons spent in the studio. After such interludes, she was happy to put on her fashionable ballgowns and dance the nights away with him.
Darius had proved inventive in that regard. Well aware that even two dances a night with her would draw speculation, Darius limited their dances to a single waltz and then cannily arranged to have them dance in the same sets so they might at least partner one another for a short time. She was starting to have fun in London, starting to see the charm her sister saw in town. It was different when one had an attentive and influential escort. Darius was all that and more: escort, lover, believer, champion. Although, as one week faded into the next, she was aware of a certain anxiety settling over her.
Everything had been too perfect. There’d been no response from the Academy yet to Darius’s editorial. Were they simply going to ignore it? For Darius’s sake, she hoped so. Grown adults should be able to tolerate and accommodate a difference in opinions on occasion. As for herself, her situation remained unsettled. What was she to do now? She said as much to Darius on a grey afternoon towards the end of March.
‘What do you want to do?’ Darius asked, drowsy from cosy lovemaking before the studio’s fireplace. His hand idly combed tangles from her hair as she snuggled in the crook of his arm.
‘I want to be an RA, but that’s not going to happen.’ Artemisia raised up on an arm to look at him.
‘No, that’s not going to happen. But what do you need that for?’ Darius argued.
‘RAs can teach at the Royal Academy. They can mould the minds and styles of future artists, their opinions have weight in shaping the direction of the English school,’ Artemisia itemised.
‘Can you not do those things without the initials?’ Darius asked. ‘Can you not teach? Can you not exhibit your work or publish treatises on art? Can you not wield influence from outside the academy?’
‘I can, but I would lack status. Who wants to be taught by a rejected candidate? It would be an exercise in futility.’
His hand went back to stroking her hair in a thoughtful motion. ‘Those who have also been rejected.’
‘An academy of misfits?’ Artemisia questioned. ‘I can’t see the benefit in catering to mediocrity.’
Darius laughed. ‘Now who is the snob, Artemisia? I am not talking about misfits. I’m talking about people like you, others who have been passed over because they didn’t fit the mould, but whose talent deserves recognition.’
Artemisia shifted in his arms, considering. ‘Other women.’ A little spark of excitement flickered. ‘An academy for women? For girls?’ She liked the idea. ‘There are so few women even as associates in the academy because there’s no place for them to study. Art schools don’t take female students.’ She’d been lucky in that regard. She had a father to teach her. Mary Moser and Angela Kaufmann had also been protégées of their fathers. But what about the girls who didn’t have artistic parents? How would she ever breach the bastion of the male-dominated academy without an army?
‘No, I don’t think they would,’ Darius said slowly. ‘They might take away your associate status. I would think very carefully about that if you set yourself up in direct opposition.’
She laughed softly. ‘Says the man who was just moments ago suggesting I strike out for my own and eschew the protections of the Academy.’ The flicker of excitement was dimmer now.
‘I fully believe it’s a possibility given that they aren’t going to elevate you. But everything has a cost—perhaps the trade-off is worth it.’ His words were thoughtful and slow. ‘It’s important to know what that price is upfront. We make better decisions that way and have fewer surprises.’ She wondered how autobiographical that comment was. At some point, he had decided his painting came at too great a cost to himself and to others. Perhaps, at some point, she needed to decide the opposite: that the cost of not painting, of not challenging the institution, was a price too high for herself and others to pay. ‘All evil needs to prosper is for a good man—or woman—to do nothing, is that it?’ She softly paraphrased Burke.
‘Yes. What shall we do, Artemisia?’ It was the one thing they’d not discussed since the night the Academy had declined her nomination. ‘I think the world is waiting on you. The Academy certainly is, as am I. I have plans in motion, but they mean nothing without your consent.’