Margrave looked aghast. “Why would you do that? You’re a patron of the arts—”
“Exactly. The Institution’s membership isn’t comprised of artists but of connoisseurs dominated by the nobility and those whose only qualifications are notoriety and wealth.” He didn’t bother trying to hide his distaste. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that an organization that supports artists refuses to let artists be members?”
“Well, I…” Margrave stared at him blankly. He’d clearly not considered that. “But they honor artists with contests and exhibitions, far more than the Royal Academy does.”
“True.” But only because the Academy put its money back into its school, where it hosted classes for artists of all levels in all mediums. Still, he supposed, the Institution had its place, however limited. “If you want to see more of my collection, I’ve agreed to loan several pieces to the Royal Academy for study this summer.” He enjoyed the irony as he added, “Including several by Vincenzo.”
“That Italian devil?” Margrave laughed, then finished off the last of his champagne. “All the mistresses he’s been rumored to have, the salacious things he’s done…He makes the Carnival of Venice look pious in comparison to what he’s reported to have done!”
Dom winced inwardly. He had done many sensational and scandalous things in his youth in Italy. He hadn’t realized then that as his fame as an artist grew, so would the stories of debauchery. The rumors of his sordid lifestyle had gained a momentum of their own in recent years. If only he had the true physical stamina for all they’d claimed he’d done.
“Vincenzo!” Margraves toasted his empty glass into the air. “Now there’s a man whose parties need to be attended.”
“If only I could be more like Vincenzo,” Dom sighed, carefully keeping his face inscrutable.
Margrave gestured to the southern end of the gallery. “My daughter Jane is here this evening. She was saying just the other day how much she wishes you and she could—”
“Oh, look—Strathmore’s arrived,” he interrupted, certain that Lady Jane Sheridan had lots of wishes about what she and he could do, and none of them were ones he had any intention of granting. “I promised the duchess a personal tour of the galleries.” A blatant lie. But if it got him out of this conversation, then he’d gladly give a personal tour to Napoleon himself. A worm-eaten French corpse was still preferable to discussions about marriage. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He strode off before Margrave could stop him, weaving through the growing crush and putting plenty of bodies between them while also keeping a sharp eye out for Lady Jane herself.
To his surprise, some of the recently arrived guests were actually looking at the art that covered the walls from floor to ceiling, striking up conversations about the canvases and prints, drawings and sculptures that filled the rooms. Watching their expressions as they gazed at the art was equally as entertaining as the art itself.
His lips tugged into a faint smile. Eve would have loved this preview, he was certain, both for the art and its excitement. In the sennight since they’d been working together, she’d shown a keen appreciation of art.
He wished she could have been here. Not only would her wry humor and energy have been welcomed relief from the monotonies of society pleasantries, but she could also have seen what a finished painting looked like on display. A view from the other side of the canvas. And with the regal way she carried herself, she would have been simply magnificent, stealing attention away from the paintings.
No. The problem was him.
He wasn’t here tonight as Domenico Vincenzo, although his paintings hung on the walls in the international gallery. Tonight, he was Dominick James Mercer, Marquess of Ellsworth, and simple patron of the arts rather than one of Europe’s most lauded artists. He couldn’t let anyone connected to his painter’s life enter his peer’s world. Not even Eve.
Truly, she had the potential to be the best model he’d ever worked with. He must have realized that from the beginning because he didn’t even care that she’d arrived late every afternoon, out of breath and—
Constance.
He halted mid-step as she swept into the gallery. What the hell was she doing here?
Led forward on the arm of Lord Arthur Ledford, youngest son of the Duke of Wembley, she caused a stir as soon as she entered. Draped in a low-cut gown of scarlet silk that would have been more at home in an opera box than an art exhibition, she caught everyone’s attention—the men for the raw sexuality that dripped from her, and the woman for stealing away the attention of their men. Everyone wondered who in blazes she was, none of them ever having seen her before.
And for good reason. She certainly wasn’t part of the elite world of the ton and didn’t frequent the same places as the quality. Including tonight’s preview, which was by invitation only. One of the benefits of being the Institution’s most generous patron for this exhibition was that he’d been able to approve the invitation list himself. And Constance had certainly not been on it.
But the Duke of Wembley had. And damn the man for passing his invitation along to his scapegrace of a son.
Yet jealousy was the last thing Dom felt as he watched her move gracefully on Ledford’s arm. Looking at her now, she meant even less to him than he’d realized. But what was she doing here?
When her cat-like green eyes swept over the room and came to rest upon him, not a flicker of shock showed on her face. She smiled slowly and sent a chill twining down his spine as her intentions became crystal clear. Like ice.
She’d expected to find him here tonight, and not as Vincenzo.
How had the scheming woman figured him out? He had no idea, and no choice but to remain to discover her endgame.
He snagged a fresh glass of wine from a passing attendant, then turned toward the gallery wall, to feign interest in the paintings until Constance made her way to him. Exactly as he knew she would.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. Ledford moved her steadily around the room, introducing her as Madame Devereaux, lately of Paris, which certainly made her appear far more exotic than what she truly was—a failed review singer and would-be courtesan, lately of Vauxhall and most recently of Arthur Ledford’s bed.
“Ellsworth, so good to see you.”
“Ledford.” He plastered a look of bored disdain on his face as he turned to face the pair. His gaze slid to Constance as he silently waited for Ledford to make the mockery of an introduction.
“Madame Devereaux, may I present to you Dominick Mercer, Marquess of Ellsworth? Ellsworth, this is Constance Devereaux of Paris.”
“I would have sworn she came from someplace decidedly more Yorkshire,” he muttered, drawing a surprised look from Ledford.
Constance ignored his comment and dropped into a low curtsy. “My lord. It is indeed an honor to finally meet you.”
He took her hand for a brief bow, then gladly let it drop. What game was she playing? “Words fail me, Madam.”
Her green eyes gleamed with mischievous delight. “Thank you for the compliment, sir. But I’m the one at a loss, I’m afraid. After all, it isn’t every day that I get to meet a marquess.” Irony dripped from her voice. She turned to Ledford. “Are you certain he’s a marquess, Lord Arthur?” Her lips curled up as she baited Dom. “He strikes me as someone completely different.”
Ledford blinked. Unable to follow the private subtext of their conversation, he bounced his gaze between the two of them, not knowing where to look for answers.
When Constance laughed, as if she’d made some kind of teasing joke, Ledford smiled awkwardly and offered, “Ellsworth is one of the exhibition’s most generous sponsors.”
“Oh?” Amusement danced across her face. “Does everyone know how deeply involved with the arts you are?”
Damn her. Dom kept his face carefully stoic, even as whatever few feelings he had left for her in his heart turned to ash.
She placed her hand on Ledford’s arm. “Be a darling and fetch me a glass o
f champagne?”
He raised her hand to his lips to kiss her fingers. Like a good little puppy. “I’ll only be a moment.”
When Ledford strode away just far enough to be out of earshot, Dom clenched his teeth and demanded, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I think I’m in the middle of setting myself up for life.” Her amused smile faded, and her voice turned to ice. “Wouldn’t you agree, Your Lordship?”
He took her arm and pulled her around to face the paintings, so no one would see the wicked gleam in her eyes, or the pulsating fury in his. “How did you discover who I am?”
“I hired men to follow you and your valet.” She clucked her tongue mockingly in derision. “If you decide to continue this charade of yours, you really should let the man go. He doesn’t know the first thing about subterfuge.”
A mix of anger and dread tightened the muscles in his gut.
“I’d considered having them follow that light-skirt you’ve temporarily replaced me with.” She sniffed haughtily. “But she’s obviously not worth the expense.”
“Leave Eve alone,” he bit out.
“You’re not in a position to threaten me. If I were you, I’d be begging to find out what to do to appease me.”
Having no choice, he gritted his teeth and forced out, “What do you want?”
“A trade. Think of it as an exchange of goods. Isn’t that how all the upstarts are making their money these days and threatening the old guard of the peerage? Through trade?” She lowered her voice, “But you’d know that better than I, Domenico.”
His Italian name slithered through him. He repeated coldly, “What do you want?”
“You.”
Hell no. “We’re done, Constance. I was very clear about that.” He darted his gaze down the galley after Ledford. “Besides, you’ve apparently moved on.”
“You mean Alfred? Heavens no!” She fussed with her long gloves. “He might be the son of a duke, but he’s the youngest, with limited funds and no real prospects to speak of.” A self-pleased smile spread across her face. “But he does have some value. After all, he was able to secure me an invitation to tonight’s preview when I asked.”
“You went to a lot of trouble for nothing. I won’t marry you.”
“Marry me?” She laughed darkly, drawing the attention of nearby patrons. “Oh, darling! That was before, when you were merely a painter. But now that I know that you’re really a wealthy peer, I would never settle for being a mere wife. I want so much more than that.” She smiled like a crocodile. “I want to be your official mistress.”
She pulled her arm away. He had no choice but to let her go. He didn’t dare let her cause a scene.
“I want all the luxuries a marquess would afford his mistress—a fully staffed townhouse close to the park, a carriage and team, credit with all my favorite shops, and a sizable allowance for everything else I desire.” She fussed pointedly with her ruby and diamond bracelet. “A pretty bauble now and again would also be a lovely way to keep me content.”
“I won’t be blackmailed.”
“But it doesn’t have to be like that. I can make it all worth your while.” She placed her hand flirtatiously on his sleeve. “You were quite enjoyable in bed. There’s no reason why we should deny ourselves that pleasure.”
He snapped bitterly, “As if I’d ever touch you again.”
“Then even better for me. All the benefits and none of the work.” She laughed lightly. “I guess it is like being a wife, after all.”
“You’ll get nothing from me.”
“Then I’ll expose you.” Her mouth hardened with venom. “No one will want a painting from Vincenzo when they discover you’ve been playing everyone for fools by lying for the past decade about who you really are. For God’s sake, you aren’t even Italian! To the art world, you’re no one and nothing. Your paintings will be worthless, and you’ll never sell another. If you continue to paint at all, a ruined and scandal-ridden man, creating landscapes no one wants.”
His blood turned to ice water. He’d stumbled into hell, and the nightmare he’d feared for years was coming true.
“Just wait until society discovers that its most respected lord is the most shocking and disreputable painter of our time. All those stories they’ve heard about you will suddenly be believed, and your most notorious paintings re-examined not as brilliant works of art but as depraved creations. You’ll be removed from all the committees you serve on in Parliament and stripped of your patronage by the Royal Academy.” A wicked gleam lit her face. “Your precious career as an artist will be over, and not even your title will be able to save it.”
Cold fury pulsed through him. He wouldn’t be blackmailed. And he sure as hell wouldn’t let her strip his art away from him. She might as well plunge a knife into his chest.
“Go ahead and share what you know about me, Constance.” He indicated the crowded gallery around them, calling her bluff. “Do it right here, in front of the English art world and the cream of society.”
“Don’t think I won’t—”
“You’ll be laughed out the door.” She’d discovered that he was an aristocrat, so he’d show her exactly what the power and privilege of rank meant. “You have no proof to link me to Vincenzo except that my valet traveled to his studio. A studio from which the Marquess of Ellsworth has purchased several paintings in the past, which everyone in this room knows. The proof is hanging on the walls.” Despite the apprehension building inside him, he smiled in complete confidence. “Including a rather risqué portrait of you. Perhaps I’ll point that out to everyone and see if they believe you then.”
“I don’t need proof.” Her eyes flashed with hatred. “I only need the accusation. It will be enough to put such scrutiny on you that your career as Vincenzo will be over.”
He laughed, which only infuriated her more. Good. “No one will believe the word of a failed review singer over that of a peer, especially a woman who warmed his bed. Not when half the men in this room will be in the Garden tonight themselves, looking for women of their own for that exact same pleasure. They’ll see you for what you are—nothing but a vengeful harridan.” He clucked his tongue, mocking her earlier attempt to antagonize him. “Is that all the ammunition you have? I have to admit that I expected more from you.”
He began to walk away.
She seethed, “Don’t you dare—”
He wheeled on her. “I will forget this evening, for old time’s sake. So take my generosity and leave. Because if you ever attempt to blackmail me again, I will ruin you.” His voice was ice. “No matter what tricks you’re performing in Ledford’s bed, no one will be able to save you then.”
He strode from the room, not looking back.
Chapter 5
“You’re late.”
Eve hesitated at the angry tone in Domenico’s voice as she slipped into the studio from the rain drizzling over London and threatening to turn into a downpour at any moment. She bit her lip as she removed her hooded coat and shook off the water before hanging it on a hook near the door.
Late? He was lucky she was able to arrive at all.
For the past week, she’d been coming here every afternoon to pose for him, faithfully like clockwork, and all the while giving the excuse to her family that she was doing volunteer work at the Royal Hospital. Thankfully, both her father and her sister Mariah were too busy to question why she was suddenly investing so much time in charity work or ask any probing questions. But they would eventually, and she had no idea what she’d say then. She also had to be very careful with the coachman and tigers who waited dutifully at the hospital for her to return and who would go to Papa the instant they realized what she was truly doing.
And then there was the painting, the one that had brought her here in the first place. She’d arranged for her father’s butler to retrieve it from Mercer House and deliver it to Mariah and Robert, who hung it in their drawing room. So now, every time Eve visited her sister, she came
face-to-face with that reminder of how she was lying to her family. And to Domenico.
“I’m paying you to work.” He stood at the worktable with his back to her, sorting through supplies. “Not to saunter in whenever you feel like it.”
He was certainly in a bad mood. Perhaps now wasn’t the time to inform him that, technically, he wasn’t paying her at all. “My apologies.”
“I don’t want your apologies.” He roughly shoved away a box of pencils. “I want you to do your job.”
A very bad mood. Not helped, certainly, by the gloomy day outside that cast a blue-gray light across the city and made the work he’d planned for today more difficult. If not impossible.
“I’m behind in creating this painting.” An urgency she’d never heard before regarding the project underscored his voice. “It needs to be finished by August, and I can’t do that if you’re not here.”
From the table where he was working with pigments, Jacopo cast an embarrassed glance her way. Then he looked back at Domenico and said quietly, “Vorresti che me ne andassi?”
“Yes. Leave us alone for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Sì, maestro.” He put away the pigment, then raked a curious gaze over her, lingering at her bosom. “Le sue tette sono troppo piccole per—”
“Careful. She speaks Italian.” He tossed a paint knife onto the table and turned to face her, hands on hips. Suspicion darkened his face. “And how exactly do you know Italian, anyway?”
This wasn’t like him to be so confrontational. So distrustful. “The sailors at the docks.” Something had happened…But if she asked what, would he send her home for prying? “Many of the men there come from Italy.” Not a lie. She’d picked up Italian from them over the years by visiting the wharves with her father, although most of what she knew wasn’t fit for polite society. Speaking of which…She leveled a hard gaze at Jacopo. “E i miei seni sono perfettamente bene.”
He stared at her wide-eyed, his cheeks flushing. Good. Maybe next time he’d think twice before commenting on the size of her breasts.
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