Portrait of a Forbidden Love--A Sexy Regency Romance

by Bronwyn Scott

  Darius handed her a glass of cold champagne. ‘Here’s to success,’ he toasted. ‘You’ve done it, Artemisia.’ They drank and he paused. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s too soon to celebrate? What if no one comes tomorrow?’ She folded up the reviews. ‘Reviews are one thing, but what if good art simply isn’t enough to bring out the people?’

  ‘People will come, not just tomorrow, but all month, and I think you’ll sell every painting.’ Darius fixed her a plate of cold meat and bread. ‘Is that all this is? Opening day megrims? Or is there something more?’ He fixed his own plate and settled across from her.

  ‘The costs are mounting and today I was acutely aware of everything this fight has taken. I’m not sure what I’ll be left with when this is over.’ She took another swallow of her champagne, the coldness of it easing her throat.

  ‘You might be looking at it all wrong, Artemisia.’ Darius gave her a smile that warmed her. ‘This show is not the end, it’s not even an end in itself. It’s the beginning of your rise. Not just your rise, but the beginning of opening the art world to women, truly opening it, so that one day it will no longer be remarkable when a woman does something. We won’t have to say “the first woman” to do something, because it will be expected, it will be a matter of course. What you have left is the future.’

  Artemisia smiled and Darius laughed. ‘You’ve made a convert out of me, my darling. I didn’t understand what the fight really was three months ago, but you showed me things I’d never thought about.’

  She nibbled at her ham and cheese. ‘Speaking of conversions, what about you, Darius? You don’t have to do anything. You’re male. The world is already yours. You don’t need to fight. What do you get from all of this?’

  ‘I’ve got a piece of myself back—the courage to draw again, to paint again.’ His eyes glistened, desire lighting them, a reminder that preparations for the show had kept them busy recently and apart. ‘Most of all, I get you, Artemisia, a woman who is afraid of nothing. I’ve never met anyone like you.’

  She shook her head. ‘These days I’m afraid of everything. Of who I am, of what I’ll become, of what it will cost me and others. I’m afraid of losing you.’ The words were inadequate. She wasn’t as brave as he was with expressing his feelings, nor was she as confident in them. She didn’t quite trust them herself.

  ‘You won’t lose me, Artemisia.’ His voice was low, a husky, determined growl that sent a thrill racing through her even though it would only lead to temptations best avoided. Why torture herself like this with one more night?

  Darius came around the low table and sat beside her on the sofa, his eyes hot on her. ‘Do you want to know what I am most afraid of?’ It was hard to imagine Darius afraid of anything. If anyone was fearless it was him. ‘I’m afraid of going back to what I was: half a man, barely feeling, blind to injustices, wrapped up in myself, not maliciously, but still wrapped up in myself none the less. I’m especially afraid of never feeling with another person the way I feel when I make love with you, when I lie with you, when I talk with you.’

  ‘Oh, my dear.’ She cupped his jaw with her hand. He might have to face that fear. She sincerely doubted Worth’s granddaughter, whoever she was, would ever reach the depths of him. Darius was a complex, private man. That he’d let her see so much of him, that he’d bared secrets to her, had spoken volumes about his depth of feeling for her. He’d trusted her and, in the end, she’d trusted him. But trust couldn’t change anything. It could only remind them of what could not be and what would eventually be lost. But not tonight. Tonight, he was hers, and she was his. There was something she could still give him.

  ‘Darius,’ she breathed against his skin, her lips brushing his jaw. ‘Would you sketch me? Tonight?’ She rose from the sofa, her fingers at her hair, pulling it loose from its pins. She let it fall while his eyes burned. ‘There’s paper and pencil in the desk over there. Go get it,’ she instructed in a throaty whisper. Her hands worked the buttons of her dress as he looked up from gathering supplies.

  ‘Artemisia, what are you doing?’

  ‘Taking off my clothes. Have you ever done a nude before, Darius?’

  ‘No.’ He swallowed hard as he returned to her, his body showing signs of being more than ready to engage in her decadent game.

  ‘Good.’ Artemisia licked her lips. ‘I’ll be your first.’

  Darius gave his head a wicked shake. ‘No, you’ll be my only.’ He took her by the hand and led her to the sofa with a wicked whisper, ‘Allow me to arrange you, my dear.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Arrangements had gone off perfectly. Darius discreetly scanned the exhibition space while giving a good impression of paying attention to Worth’s granddaughter—May, April, June? He didn’t recall her name except that it was a month in spring. She was a lovely girl with more than her share of spirit, but Darius had other things and other people on his mind. Servers were circulating with afternoon champagne and cold hors d’oeuvres. An elegantly draped table of teacakes and other sweet delicacies was kept full along with an enormous silver punch bowl. It was no small feat given that the open space of the hall was crowded.

  Crowded. That was his favourite word today. He wanted to crow in celebration. A footman had brought word just fifteen minutes ago that carriages lined the street, still disgorging passengers looking to attend. Everyone who was anyone was here. In one corner, the Dukes of Boscastle and Newlyn held court with their wives, entertaining a large number of their friends. In another spot, near the portrait of Warbourne, Lady Basingstoke and her husband talked with fellow horse lovers. The scene was repeated throughout the room, clusters of Darius’s friends and supporters holding ‘mini-parties’. Art critics moved through the crowd, studying the paintings. Darius had spent time with each of them upon their arrival, walking them through the collection and offering a narrative for the paintings. So far, all had been suitably impressed. Artemisia could expect another round of glowing reviews.

  Darius smiled at something Miss Worth said. Not because it deserved a smile, but because he was happy and pleased. He was content. When Artemisia arrived she would see the visual proof of her success. She should be here soon. He’d persuaded her to arrive an hour and a half after the opening. He thought there was some confidence and élan in the idea of arriving like a guest to one’s own party. It would signal that she had not been nervous at all over society’s reception of her work outside the Academy’s show.

  That contentment wasn’t only because of the show’s opening success. He thought he might have been content without it, although it would have made things more difficult. He was content because he was with Artemisia, because he’d found his path and his voice once more. There would be struggles. He would need to deal with his parents. But those struggles no longer seemed insurmountable as they once did. Together, he and Artemisia would make a life together, one full of creating opportunities for others.

  There was a burst of activity at the entrance and Darius’s smile widened. The celebrity of the hour was here, accompanied by her sister and her father. He’d left her early this morning, asleep on their blankets in the studio, a note beside her pillow. She’d been tousled and naked—very naked. There was a vulnerability to Artemisia when she slept. He would like to draw that some day... Artemisia with her armour off.

  None of that vulnerability was evident at the moment. Today she’d dressed carefully, perhaps to complement her paintings. Her gown was a subtly pretty but unassuming rose lawn, embroidered with delicate white flowers at the hem. She wore a simple gold chain at her neck and her dark hair was done up in a riotous pile of curls. Like her paintings, her clothing was understated elegance, a point one could not overlook when she stood beside her flamboyant father dressed in a coat of bright peacock blue and a figured waistcoat of jade green. Sir Lesley Stansfield was a showman. Artemisia wanted to be something more. His, Darius thought
. She was his.

  Despite itching to go to her, to take her by the arm and parade her around, to announce to everyone in every way that she was his, Darius did not go to her at once. He remained content to let her make her own entrance, to greet her guests and drink in her success. He wanted to do nothing to jeopardise that. Perhaps the worst thing he could do would be to claim her openly. It would affirm the things speculated in the newspapers about their relationship, the wicked suppositions Sir Aldred Gray had posited. He forced himself to listen to Miss Worth, who certainly deserved better from him than she’d got, and he counted the minutes until he could approach Artemisia.

  * * *

  She would wait for Darius to approach her. That was the plan. But that plan hadn’t included him smiling at a pretty, fresh-faced girl. Artemisia had spotted him immediately upon entering the room. Despite the crowd, he’d stood out: tall, and handsome in a jacket of dark blue superfine, his hair carefully combed, his jaw freshly shaved. Last night he’d been all stubble and tangles. She felt herself flush a little from more than the heat of the room. Last night had been a slow, decadent burn. Her skin still remembered the caress of the paintbrush on her skin as Darius had feathered it across her breasts and down her belly. He certainly wouldn’t be doing that with Miss Whoever She Was. It was all for show, she reminded herself. Darius could not come racing over to her without doing them both a disservice.

  Artemisia kept her eyes firmly away from Darius as she circulated throughout the room, greeting people, nodding here, stopping to talk with others there. The Duke of Boscastle invited her and her family over to join him for a toast, much to her father’s delight. ‘Dukes flock to your standard. The show will be sold out before the week’s end,’ her father said in low tones. ‘You’ve done well, my dear.’

  Had she done well? Her father’s words niggled at her as she drank her champagne and accepted congratulations. What had she done? She’d painted the pictures. She’d tweaked the Academy’s nose by arguing with them. Had she invited these guests? Were any of them her contemporaries? Had she arranged the venue? The catering? Had she held the private show for early reviews and then seen them published the day before opening in key newspapers? Could she even have achieved this much if she’d tried? The answer to both questions was alarmingly no.

  She did not have an entrée to the Duke of Boscastle. She was not on personal terms with other leading art critics. Her contemporaries were not here today. They were all over at the Academy, hanging last-minute pictures for the show in three days. This was all Darius’s doing. Everywhere she looked, it was all Darius: his friends, his connections, his ideas. He had done this for her.

  On the one hand, her heart wanted to swell with the effort her champion had put forward on her behalf. She understood all too well the risks he’d taken, the work he’d exerted for this. Today was his success, just as her success was his success. But light must have darkness and there was darkness aplenty behind this wonderful occasion. These people had come for him, because he’d asked. They’d not come for her exclusively.

  Artemisia excused herself from the group, her party spirit suddenly dampened. She wandered to a window, taking in the view of the Thames as the realisation swamped her. It only seemed to prove her point: this was not her victory against the Academy. This wasn’t her victory for women. This wasn’t even a personal victory for her as an artist. She’d not drawn this crowd. Darius had. Nothing had changed. She was still, most unfortunately, right. Men ruled the world. Men decided who had access, who had acceptance. A woman alone did not. A woman alone was nothing but a novelty that was tolerated until she became annoying. Tolerated. That’s what the Academy had done until she’d overreached herself in their opinion. Then she’d been dismissed.

  Someone approached from behind. Darius, perhaps? Who else would have the audacity or permission? Surely her posture suggested she wished a moment of privacy. ‘To your success, my dear Miss Stansfield.’ A hand offered her a glass of champagne.

  She turned, taking the glass with frosty tones that made her disappointment over the interruption plain. ‘Sir Gray, I am surprised to see you here, or perhaps not that surprised. Has the Academy sent you to spy?’

  ‘It’s a public exhibition, Miss Stansfield. Everyone who buys a ticket is welcome.’ He held up his entrance stub. ‘You’ve had a very good turnout. St Helier has rallied his troops for you.’ He winked, his words picking at her wounded feelings. Hadn’t she been thinking the same thing? How many others would conclude similarly? ‘You’ve upstaged us, opening three days in advance.’ He gave a bland shrug. ‘Perhaps you were worried no one would come if you opened on the same day.’

  ‘Perhaps I opened today so that I would not detract from your show. I was getting the excitement out of the way,’ Artemisia countered sharply. She would not show any doubt to this man who had so shamelessly led the attack against her.

  ‘Touché, Miss Stansfield.’ He held up his glass in a brief salute and drank. ‘Tell me, what do you think happens after this? Let’s assume all the best. Let’s assume you sell every piece of artwork, that the negative press calms down, that someone not in St Helier’s pocket takes up a liking for your artwork. What does that get you? What happens the next time you hold an exhibition?’ He took another swallow of champagne before offering his hypotheses. ‘Do all the same folks turn out because St Helier asked them, bribed them, offered them favours, whatever he does? How much art do you think his friends can buy? How many art critics can he keep on influencing, especially once his own standing suffers a blow?’

  ‘How dare you suggest he bribed anyone for a review,’ Artemisia all but growled.

  ‘It’s an uncomfortable realisation. I see you hadn’t thought of it.’ No, she hadn’t. Darius had, however, carefully selected those he approached, ensuring a good early set of reviews. Perhaps the line between bribery and cautious audience analysis was a thin one.

  ‘I don’t need to think of it. I am quite confident my work speaks for itself, just as I am quite confident in the integrity of the critics you malign by the attack on their own credibility,’ Artemisia threw back, but it was too late. The little bomb he’d dropped over her ramparts was already exploding. Would she ever be able to believe anything anyone wrote again? Was this what it had felt like for Darius growing up? Wondering how true his talent really was and unable to know because of his position? Would there always be a hidden agenda? The doubts were starting to mount up.

  ‘I didn’t come over here to spar with you, actually, Miss Stansfield. I came to make sure you saw the future. Consider this an embassy of good will. You care for St Helier. The Academy admires his eye for art and his value to us as a critic, as well as his very direct connection to the house of Bourne. The Earl keeps many artists employed with his purchases. The Academy is willing to make amends with him, welcome him back into the fold.’ Gray exchanged champagne glasses on a passing tray. ‘Let him go, Miss Stansfield. He can have his status, his reputation back before it’s really truly gone.’

  ‘Assuming I mean to keep him, that there is a relationship between us that transcends our business arrangement, why should I?’ Artemisia kept her words even, her gaze steady. It was becoming too much, really. First Darius’s father and now Sir Gray, both of them begging her not to ruin Darius. Between them, her self-esteem would be in tatters.

  Gray chuckled. ‘I’ll give you three reasons.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Because you can’t win. Every time you produce a piece of work or an exhibition people will resurrect the scandal and drag your name through the mud. They’ll drag his, too, if you stay connected. Second, you will always wonder if your success is really yours or if it’s because of him, assuming there is any success after this. Third, there is the humanity of it. You do care for him and you simply don’t want to ruin him.

  ‘You are not meant to be a countess, Miss Stansfield. When I say ruin him, I mean ruin his family name, as well as this “ca
reer”, if I may use that word, he’s carved out for himself. How long do you think love would last under those conditions? When you’ve taken everything from him?’

  He nodded across the room to where Darius was once again with another smiling debutante and her parents, standing in front of the pintail duck. ‘Let him go lead the life he was meant to lead.’

  She tossed back the last of her champagne, too fast, the fizz clogging in her throat. ‘Do you think it’s that simple? If I walk away, what’s to say he won’t follow me?’ Darius had spotted them and was walking her way at last.

  ‘You overestimate your appeal, Miss Stansfield.’ Gray followed her gaze, marking Darius’s progress. ‘St Helier has always been a man who has done what was required of him. You might admire him for that, but he will leave you for it.’ He gave her a nod. ‘Good day, Miss Stansfield. Thank you for your time and consideration.’ He melted into the crowd before Darius could reach them. Coward, Artemisia thought. The man would not dare to say such things to Darius in person. Then again, he didn’t need to. It wasn’t Darius he needed to sow doubt with. It was her, because she already had doubts, doubts that ran parallel to the ones he’d voiced. He merely affirmed them.

  Hadn’t she already had such realisations? Hadn’t she already argued with herself that she should leave him? That nothing good could come of being with him? Yet there had been good. She’d allowed hope to flicker, however briefly. It had flared last night. Last night anything had been possible, even today when she’d walked into the exhibition that hope had still burned. But Gray was right. It was selfish to keep Darius.

  ‘Champagne?’ Darius grabbed two glass from a passing tray.