Portrait of a Forbidden Love--A Sexy Regency Romance

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘They sound wonderful. When did they stop?’

  ‘The summer before I went to university. My father was in London for Parliament and, in the autumn, I left for my first term.’ He might have felt adulthood had begun at twelve when his father had started his official instruction in the earldom, but childhood had lingered a few years in the transition. Pulling away in the carriage for Oxford had been a farewell to more than his parents that cold autumn morning. Watching Bourne Hall fade from view had been like watching the last of his childhood fade as well. Part of him had died that day. Part of him had died a few months earlier.

  ‘I was glad to leave, though,’ he confessed. ‘I think the camping trip would not have been the same that year even if we had gone. My father and I had quarrelled frequently that last winter and spring before I left.’ He never talked about that final year at home. He tried to think of it as a beginning, not as an end when he thought of it at all. Even almost two decades later, it was painful to think about.

  Artemisia’s circles on his chest had slowed to long, thoughtful ovals. ‘That must have been difficult. You seem very close to your father from the way you speak about him.’

  ‘My father is a good man, I admire him and, growing up, it was important to me that I had his admiration as well. I think discovering that you disagree with your parents, especially when you admire them, is hard for a young person. You have to choose. Who is right? You? Your parents? If you’re right, then your parents are wrong. But how could that be when they’ve been infallible your whole life?’ Darius smiled and looked down at her head resting on his shoulder. ‘Have you ever quarrelled with your father?’

  ‘Yes, countless times.’ Artemisia laughed with a sigh. ‘I’m always right, though.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ That didn’t surprise him in the least. Artemisia with all her self-sufficiency would never doubt herself, would never choose another’s rightness over her own. In that way, they were very different.

  ‘There are so many things I want to ask you,’ Darius murmured. ‘But we’re out of time.’ Beyond them, the fire had burned down and their pile of reserve sticks was spent. The wine was gone. It was time to go. Darius eyed the sky, unable to resist the urge to show off. ‘Do you want to know what time it is? It’s half past eight.’ He drew his watch out from a pocket and passed it to her without looking, ‘Check it.’

  ‘You’ll owe me a forfeit if you’re wrong.’

  ‘Then you’ll owe me one if I’m right.’ Darius buttoned up his clothing.

  Artemisia flipped open the timepiece with a saucy smile and studied the watch face, tipping it this way and that to catch the last of the firelight. She shut the lid and fixed him with a stare. ‘Half past eight,’ she admitted. ‘Very good. You would have made a fine sailor, navigating by the stars.’ She handed the watch back to him. ‘Shall you claim your forfeit?’

  Darius shook his head, tempting as it was, though. ‘I shall save it for a more auspicious moment.’ He shook out the blanket. ‘I hope you are generous in defeat,’ he joked.

  ‘Only to those who are humble in victory,’ she teased as they picked up the campsite. ‘Did you set all this up yourself?’

  ‘No, I had help. I had the two boys at the inn get it all ready. I had my hands full making sure you came out walking with me.’ Darius offered her his arm. ‘I am glad you came.’

  ‘I am, too.’ She leaned her head against his shoulder as they strolled back towards the road. ‘Thank you for sharing that review tonight. Thank you for being honest about the Academy and the position they’ve put you in. I don’t know many men who would have been as honest or even consulted me on the details.’

  Old doubts stirred in Darius against the evening’s pleasure. ‘Did you make love to me to thank me?’ Did that explain why she’d not been with him at the last? Had he misread her desire? Had this been a courtesy? A favour to him?

  Her head came up from his shoulder and he immediately missed the weight of it. He’d grown used to the presence of her, the touch of her in such a short time. ‘No, I am not in the habit of taking lovers haphazardly, whatever you may have been told.’ Some of her sharpness was returning and Darius regretted his question. He’d meant to protect himself, but he’d insulted her in the attempt.

  ‘I’ve been told nothing,’ he replied quickly in hopes of salvaging the walk. The evening had been too good to end in a fight, too good to give his father’s words any purchase.

  Perhaps she felt the same. They did not speak again until they reached the farmhouse drive. A lone light burned in the front window. Artemisia’s voice was soft when she spoke. ‘I made love with you, Darius Rutherford, because you are the most incredible man I know. You are bold and courageous, willing to stand up for what is right, willing to change your own opinion when you feel it no longer serves the truth. Such things should not be crushed by the world, not if I can help it.’

  Darius smiled in the darkness. ‘It seems I’ve heard those words before, or close enough.’ The first bit had been his, but the last was all hers. It touched him that she saw the man he wished to be. It wasn’t who he was, though, not yet. If she knew the truth of him, she’d realise she gave him too much credit.

  She reached up and kissed him on the mouth before he could argue the compliment. ‘I am sketching in the Oare Marshes tomorrow, weather notwithstanding. There’s one last drawing I need. Come with me. Bring lunch and wine.’

  How was he supposed to sleep tonight with a kiss on his lips, her invitation on his mind while his body still hummed with the echo of her on his skin, on his tongue? He waited until she was gone from sight. He juggled the basket on his arm and moved the blanket under the other and started the walk back towards the Crown. He didn’t mind the walk. It gave him time to mull the evening over. Sweet heavens, she got to him like no other, perhaps because she didn’t care he was the heir to an earldom. She wasn’t trying to please him. No, certainly not that. Artemisia Stansfield was a woman who pleased herself in life and in passion.

  Because she trusts no one to do it for her, came the rejoinder.

  Darius laughed aloud in the night. Of course. She’d kept her eyes shut, the gateways to the soul. She wouldn’t relinquish that innermost piece of her to anyone. Her body was one thing, her soul was another. Even then, she hadn’t given her body to him. There’d been no submission tonight. She wasn’t capable of it and, in truth, he didn’t want it. He wanted a partner in this dilemma.

  He knew people like that, those who held their innermost self in reserve, kept it apart from the swirls of life. They were people who’d been hurt, who’d learned the lesson in hard ways, and he knew she numbered among them. She’d shown him that much that rainy afternoon on the couch, whether she’d meant to or not, and in other ways, like the way she spoke about men and power and her father.

  Anger on her behalf began to churn. He would like to call them to account, all of them, anyone who’d hurt her. He wanted to make them pay for hardening the edges of her, for making her unreachable even in moments of abject pleasure. But even that thought mocked him. That’s how the world of men dealt with their problems. It was not what she wanted.

  Artemisia didn’t want men punished for crimes that could not be erased. She wanted a better world where such crimes didn’t happen in the first place. That might be beyond even him. It was humbling to recognise that even if he made it the work of his lifetime it might not be enough. It might take two lifetimes, or more.

  At the inn, he left the basket downstairs with tomorrow’s order and climbed the steps to his own room. It was still early by town standards, barely half past nine, and sleep was beyond him. He turned up the lamp and reached for his journal, his fingers already itching for a pencil before the images of her could fade. He wanted to capture her as she’d been tonight on the beach. This was what she’d brought him to—full circle back to the boy he’d been at sixteen, who’d sketched, who’d pa
inted, who’d imagined a different life for himself, who’d given up those dreams for the sake of his father’s.

  He was more conflicted than he’d been in a long while these past weeks, but he was also more alive than he had been since the day he’d left Bourne Hall for Oxford and traded in his pencil for politics and history, and all the things an earl’s son should know.

  He looked down at the sketching, seeing Artemisia as she’d been tonight, as she’d fiercely announced, ‘I am always right.’

  But she was wrong about him. He wasn’t as brave or courageous as she thought. When he’d had a choice between himself and his father, his family, he’d chosen peace within his family.

  How could you not have? You were a sixteen-year-old boy.

  He could still see his mother’s face, stricken and pale by the words he and his father had hurled at one another.

  ‘You will never be anything but a dauber. You would risk all this for that, for a middling talent?’ his father had shouted—the perpetually level-headed Lord Bourne had actually raised his voice and laid his hands on Darius, as if he could shake sense into him. Perhaps he had. His mother had cried out and he’d capitulated at her distress. The family had recovered, but all three of them still bore the scars from those days—words that could not be taken back, things that could not be unsaid.

  He’d not stood up for himself. He’d given up the one thing he thought had mattered more than all the rest. He would always wonder if he’d been weak, if he simply hadn’t had it in him to persevere when it had become difficult. Had he given in too soon? Artemisia didn’t give in. Artemisia didn’t bend, except apparently where his reputation was concerned. That was both admirable and frightening about her. He worried greatly that her stubbornness would be her undoing one way or another unless she would allow him to pave the way for her. He would see this fight through. He needed to for both their sakes. Artemisia would be his redemption just as he would be hers.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He wanted to redeem her. It was the one thought that had doggedly stayed with her all night and into the morning. She was struck by the oddness of such a choice as she gathered her supplies. One would think other things would be more prominent in her mind regarding last night other than redemption—things like the wickedly sinful passion they’d engaged in, the feel of his hands, his mouth on her body, the knowledge of her own fierce response.

  Artemisia tucked a cloth around her sketch pad and pencils in the basket to keep them dry, a little smile twitching on her lips. She could feel evidence of that response today. She was deliciously, ever-so-slightly sore from making love on a beach. It had been a delight for the senses: the smell of brine and campfire mixed with the scent of cooked sausage, the stars overhead, the sounds of night birds, the touch of a man who knew how to please a woman. Even now, in the businesslike brightness of the morning, her body stirred at the echo of his touch. But such thoughts gave him little credit. Last night hadn’t been solely about technical expertise. To say it was reduced it greatly.

  She had hungered for him, she’d wanted him, not just what his proficiency could do for her physically. That had scared her this morning. It still scared her. That was new territory and, once realised, she’d withdrawn from it at the end. She might have been ready to exchange physical pleasures, but she’d not been ready for emotional pleasure, for admitting the way she felt with him was unique to him alone, that no one else could conjure that reaction. This wasn’t about orgasm and that gave her a huge fright.

  Orgasm she could deal with. Emotional investment, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t want to care about Darius Rutherford in that way, but it seemed she had little control as to where her feelings led, especially if those feelings were in any way reciprocated. Heaven help them both if they were. This would be so much simpler if it could have just been physical pleasure.

  She looked up at the sound of horses in the drive and smiled at the surprise. Darius had brought the coach today, in the likelihood that it would rain. They would go to the Oare Marshes in style. What a treat it would be to ride somewhere after six weeks of walking everywhere.

  Artemisia grabbed her heavy cloak and hurried out of the studio. She could hear him chatting with Mrs Harris in the entry. Mrs Harris was thoroughly smitten with him these days, after their rough start—not that he hadn’t worked hard for her appreciation. He brought their housekeeper all sorts of thoughtful little things: some spices he’d ordered from London or a nice roast from the butcher in Faversham. Part of her wished he didn’t make such gestures. The last thing Artemisia wanted was more Darius Rutherford supporters in the house. It was easier to not like him when Mrs Harris wasn’t singing his praises. At least Addy was still a voice of reason, thank goodness.

  ‘Are you ready?’ She looped an arm through his, abruptly interrupting the conversation with Mrs Harris, but not before she noticed he’d brought a bottle of wine for the housekeeper’s stores.

  Darius grinned, taking the interruption in his stride. ‘I am. Mrs Harris was just telling me about the party tonight at Gann’s oyster mill. The whole town is invited, it seems.’ He arched an eyebrow to suggest that somehow she’d hidden this piece of news from him. ‘There will be dancing and good food, I am told.’

  ‘Oh, yes, milord,’ Mrs Harris enthused, oblivious to the quelling glance Artemisia shot her direction. ‘It’s one of the winter highlights in Seasalter. It breaks up the long stretch of nothingness between Christmas and spring. Folks hereabouts look forward to it.’ She seemed to recall who she was speaking to. ‘Of course, it might not be fancy enough for town folks.’

  ‘I like to think I’m not so high in the instep, Mrs Harris, that I can’t enjoy a good party.’ Apparently, Darius had made his decision. He favoured Mrs Harris with a dazzling smile. ‘We can all go in my coach. I’ll have Artemisia back by five from the marshes, it will give you ladies a chance to change and I’ll call for you around seven.’ If there had been any lingering resistance to Darius on Mrs Harris’s part it was entirely dispelled now. She was beaming like a young girl when they left her, already dreaming of her evening out with a lord and his coach.

  ‘You’ve quite turned her head,’ Artemisia commented drily as Darius handed her up into the coach.

  ‘Are you jealous?’ Darius teased, taking the seat opposite. ‘You were quite abrupt back there, as if you didn’t want me to say too much.’

  ‘I didn’t want to give us away,’ Artemisia confessed. More to the point, she hadn’t wanted to give herself away, not sure how she would react seeing Darius this morning. Would she do or say something that might indicate a shift in the nature of their association?

  The coach lurched into motion and Darius fixed her with one of his intense stares. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the party? Mrs Harris seemed to imply that you and your sister already had plans to go.’

  ‘People will make assumptions, they will talk.’ She wasn’t ready to explain she and Darius to anyone. She had no idea what it might mean, or if it meant anything at all. Until she did, she wanted it to remain just between them.

  ‘I doubt they will say anything at all except that I came with the household I am here to visit. Just so you know,’ he teased, ‘it’s quite normal to invite your guests to attend outings with you.’

  ‘You’re mocking me.’ Artemisia suppressed a little grin. ‘It’s just that I’ve been relatively private since I’ve been here and I don’t want people speculating.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to dance with all the girls, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ Darius winked and settled back against the squabs. ‘Now that’s settled, tell me about today’s sketching session. What are we looking for?’

  It was the perfect question to ask. It gave them a comfortable space in which to interact. Discussing her work allowed conversation that skirted last night’s interlude without being stilted. They fell into a pleasant rhythm and Artemisia began to relax. Perha
ps Darius, too, had decided it was best to leave well enough alone. Last night didn’t need to be dissected or analysed or understood if it was meant to be another moment out of time. She could live with that.

  * * *

  The day was overcast and likely to stay that way, but there was brightness behind the clouds and the light was good in the marshes when they arrived. Darius found them a spot out of the wind and went about making a camp for them while she wandered in search of the ducks. She found the pintail on the edge of the marsh, paddling in still waters with others. She retreated to a discreet distance and began to draw.

  ‘I can see why you wanted to sketch him, he’s a very handsome duck.’ Darius came up quietly behind her, his voice a mere whisper, careful not to startle her or her model. ‘His colouring is ideal for your collection.’

  She nodded abstractedly, making notes for later reference lest she forget the details: the chocolate head of the duck, the black-tipped wings, the white underbelly, the perfect colours for her palette without any need to improvise. It was more than colouring, though, that drew her to the idea of the pintail. It was what the duck in winter stood for, a symbol of her own retreat, her own refuge, waiting until spring to return. She finished and closed her pad. ‘Do you want to walk on the beach?’ It wasn’t much of a beach, just a strip of land at the edge of the tidal pools, but the view was clear and the length was long enough to stretch one’s legs.

  He reached for her hand as they walked, their fingers interlocking of their own accord. The ease with which their bodies gravitated towards one another was something of a marvel to her, a marvel she could carefully enjoy with limitations—always with limitations. There was safety in boundaries. She brought his hand up to study it, her fingers stretching the length of his and coming up short. She turned his hand over in hers. ‘You’ve been sketching again. You’ve got smudges.’