‘Guilty.’ He smiled, but offered little more explanation. ‘I was up late last night and needed to do something before I could sleep.’
It was the ideal opening for a naughty rejoinder. Too perfect and Artemisia was too smart to take the bait. She knew he would talk about last night’s intimacy if given the chance. She’d rather talk about his sketching, his secrets. ‘Why did you stop painting?’ She’d seen his sketches, they were more than proficient. He had not given himself enough credit when she’d first mentioned it. Instead, he’d brushed off the compliment, but that was last week. It seemed a lifetime ago. So much had changed between them. There was a new closeness between them now, even if it couldn’t last.
‘Other things needed my attention. University. The earldom. There simply wasn’t any more time. I suppose, in a way, I outgrew it.’
She shook her head and made a dissatisfied frown. ‘That’s what you said last time. I want the real answer, Darius. Someone who has your talent doesn’t simply just stop. I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted to.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ Darius prevaricated. ‘It hardly matters. It’s not who I am any more or who I will be again.’
‘You miss that person. I can hear it in your voice. He needn’t be gone. You can start again.’ Artemisia stopped at the edge of the water. Their little camp was coming into view. ‘I could teach you, help you refine your skill. We could start today.’ She gave his hand a tug, already imagining them sitting beside the campfire drawing together.
‘No, Artemisia.’ His voice was firm and it dampened her spirits as he likely meant it to. ‘Those days are gone for me. I don’t want them back.’ He paused. ‘They were troublesome times.’
Because of the painting?
‘But you’re sketching again,’ she argued.
‘To pass the time. Nothing more.’ His dark eyes were shuttered. She would get nothing further from him. She let the subject drop as they set out their lunch and enjoyed the small fire, but her mind kept working the puzzle. He might not have told her more today, but she knew more today than she had last week. She took out the pieces of him and fitted and refitted them into different configurations throughout lunch, a picture slowly emerging as they ate.
She finished her bread and cocked her head to one side, seeing him through the new lens she’d constructed from all the pieces and parts she knew of him: Darius as a young artist, a young heir, a boy born into one of the most privileged families in England. Not many great artists came from great privilege. The privilege always seemed to get in the way. Responsibility, Darius had said, that had been the root of his rearing and education. Responsibility for others, for the land, to the title, to a father he adored. There would be little room for putting oneself first.
‘It’s me wanting a penny for your thoughts this time.’ Darius gave her a slow smile, catching her lingering perusal.
‘They might be worth more than that,’ she replied in all seriousness. ‘Perhaps I should keep them to myself. You might not thank me for them.’ It was enough that she knew, that she’d figured out his reticence to discussing his artistic past.
‘Tell me, or you’ll be thinking about it, whatever it is, all day, and then I’ll be thinking about it, wondering. It will distract us both. Besides, you know what curiosity did to the cat.’
‘You won’t like it,’ she warned once more. He shrugged as if liking was of no consequence. ‘Very well, if you insist on knowing. I’ve been thinking about why you gave up painting. I’ve had to generate my own answers since you won’t tell me,’ she reminded him.
‘You mean why I stopped.’ Darius’s tone was sharper now, a definite sign that he did not like the topic despite his curiosity. Perhaps he thought, wished, she’d been thinking of something else. Goodness knew there was plenty she might have been concerned with: London, the Academy, whether or not they should make love again. But he had trumped all that. Perhaps that should be a surprise in itself, one she should examine later as proof she was getting in too deep with Darius Rutherford. She was caring about the person, forgetting about the issues.
‘No, I mean quite deliberately “give up”. Stopping and giving up are two very different things,’ Artemisia corrected. To stop was to separate from something, to depart from it intentionally. But to give up was done with resignation, a surrender to overwhelming circumstances. ‘You gave up painting for your father.’
There was nothing but the soft sound of lapping water and the occasional squawk of water fowl in the silence that followed and the hard, dark stare of a man whose fortress was under siege.
* * *
Damn her. She hadn’t even bothered to do him the courtesy of making it a question, of at least the pretence of enquiry. She was that certain she was right. Of course she was. Artemisia Stansfield never suffered doubt. She wore her boldness as her armour, he’d known that from the start. She made no secret of it, whereas so many others wore boldness as a façade—once penetrated, it crumpled, nothing more than an illusion. Not so with her. Artemisia’s boldness was real.
‘A man likes to keep one or two secrets to himself,’ Darius said drily. ‘But you seem intent on wanting to strip me bare.’
‘I want to know you, Darius, not expose you.’ She tilted her head to the other side and he braced himself for another barrage of insight. ‘It embarrasses you, doesn’t it? That you gave up your painting. That’s why you don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Can you blame me? As a fellow artist, I am in your shadow. Your skill overwhelms my meagre talent. You fight for what you want, what you think you deserve, and I gave up at the first hurdle.’
Artemisia stretched her legs out on the blanket, a worrisome sign that she was settling in. She would be relentless. She patted her lap. ‘Come lay your head and tell me about it. Tell me your story, Darius.’ A siege indeed and a sensual one at that. But he did as asked, recognising that this was a different type of lovemaking. Perhaps by telling his story, she might, at some point, tell him hers. These were real stories, real truths about who they were, the things they hadn’t told another soul. If there was to be genuine intimacy between them, genuine trust, perhaps it started here.
‘Painting is not a fit enterprise for an earl’s heir,’ Darius said, looking up into her grey eyes. ‘It didn’t matter when I was younger. It seemed natural that the son of a great art collector would pursue the arts as a means of educating himself about the family collection. My father hired several art tutors and I continued to paint when I went away to Eton. I had an instructor there who was exceedingly encouraging. He felt I had real promise.’ Darius paused. This part was harder to tell. Artemisia’s hand stilled in his hair.
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ she coaxed.
‘It would be if he’d been telling the truth. Maybe he was. I’ll never really know. People tell earls’ heirs whatever they want to hear in the hopes of currying favour.’ He blew out a breath. ‘The instructor in question was removed from his post before I returned from the summer recess. He’d made the mistake, you see, of writing to my father about my talents. I was fifteen, a most pivotal year with university looming. My father and I fought over my art, over the instructor’s dismissal, over my future—I wanted to do a grand tour before university, just a short one to study in Italy. We fought constantly until the day I left for Oxford.
‘I thought about running away, but I never could bring myself to do it. It would have killed my parents. I was angry with my father, but I didn’t want to destroy him, so I gave up my painting. It was the only path to peace.’
‘That doesn’t make you weak.’ Artemisia’s voice was soft but firm. ‘I think it makes you stronger than any man I know. Sacrificing oneself for another’s happiness is a rare form of bravery. But I am sorry for what it cost you.’
He sat up. ‘That’s just it. Maybe it cost me nothing. Maybe I was no good. I might have risked my family, my future, for something that never existe
d. I’ll never know just as I’ll never know if I would have had the tenacity to see it through. Perhaps I’d have crumpled in the face of adversity. I think it’s the uncertainty I dislike the most.’
Something moved in her eyes. ‘Is that why you’re an art critic, so intent on giving everyone the truth?’
The question filled him with a certain relief, a certain satisfaction that she saw him so clearly when others did not. She understood his painting was not a gentleman’s pastime, but a calling that went far deeper. ‘It is and it’s why I want to tell the truth for you, because you should know you are brilliant, Artemisia. Everyone should know.’
The sharp planes of her face softened, her voice a quiet whisper. ‘I could kiss you for that, Darius Rutherford.’
‘Then perhaps you should. We have a little time left before we have to return for the party.’
Artemisia gave him a slow smile. ‘Then let’s not waste it.’
Chapter Fourteen
Owen Gann had wasted no space in turning the floor of his oyster fishery into the largest dance hall in Kent. A stage had been built for the musicians at the far end and groaning refreshment tables lined the other while overhead the balcony that housed the managers’ offices was decorated in garlands of dried reeds hung with shells and other tidal bits. ‘How inventive,’ Darius complimented appreciatively as they looked around, getting their bearings in the crush.
They’d got home slightly later than expected from the marshes. Artemisia had rushed to change, but as a consequence the party was well under way when they’d arrived, the fishery already crowded with people excited for a break in their winter routine, Mrs Harris and Adelaide among them. The two had left them at the door to join various groups of their acquaintances. ‘We won’t see Addy again until it’s time to go home,’ Artemisia laughed, searching the room. ‘There is someone I want you to meet—Owen Gann, our host.’
Artemisia steered him through the room towards the men gathered at the ale kegs. ‘I think you’d like him and he’s the only person I really know here.’ She nodded her head towards the dance floor where Adelaide was already in a set forming for a country dance. ‘My sister is far more social than I am.’
‘Why is that?’ Darius snatched two mugs of ale off a passing tray and offered her one.
‘I like my privacy.’ Artemisia took a healthy swallow and frowned as she studied the dance floor. ‘I don’t like that at all.’ She was aware of Darius’s gaze following her own.
‘What is it?’ Darius asked.
‘It’s that fellow she’s with. Bennett Galbraith. Something’s off about him. He’s just too much, everything about him is too intense, too perfect. It’s hard to describe. I don’t like him, but Addy’s smitten so I suppose he must be tolerated for the time being. He’s up at the farmhouse all the time. That’s one thing I won’t mind leaving behind.’ She wished she hadn’t said it, wished she hadn’t given life to the one topic they’d assiduously avoided today: London and March and all the decisions Darius wanted them to make, although she suspected he wasn’t looking for her input as much as he was looking for her agreement, that he’d already made his decisions.
She didn’t agree with them, which meant to discuss them would only lead to more argument and to more questions. What did he want from her? As an artist? As a lover? On those grounds, the situation between them was confusing and complicated. She didn’t want to talk about any of that tonight. She far preferred other, more simplistic grounds: sketching, painting, picnicking on deserted beaches, kisses before early evening campfires, even lovemaking beneath the stars without expectations. Those were things she could commit to, things that could exist in the vacuum of Seasalter. Those grounds were comfortable. She could navigate them with a clear beginning and a clear end and, in between, she could have the company of an incredible man.
Artemisia caught sight of a tall, blond-haired man weaving his way towards them through the crush and gave thanks for perfect timing. ‘Here’s Owen, now.’ There’d be no chance for Darius to bring up difficult subjects.
‘Miss Stansfield! What a pleasure to see you here tonight and you’ve brought a guest.’
‘This is Mr Darius Rutherford. He’s come to look over some of my paintings.’ Artemisia made the necessary introductions, leaving out his title. Owen shook Darius’s hand and she watched as the two men sized one another up, Darius’s dark eyes meeting the blue-grey gaze of the factory owner. The two men were at once a study of contrasts and similarities; both were tall, muscular men, but Owen’s blond Saxon good looks were a rugged foil to the polished Norman darkness of Darius’s features. There was no mistaking who was the nobleman and who was the oysterman, even without titles.
‘This is an impressive facility,’ Darius complimented. ‘I would like to come and see it in operation some day.’
‘You are welcome any time,’ Owen offered graciously. ‘We are the largest processor of oysters on the Kent coast. We supply the finest restaurants in London and the markets. We also pickle them here to transport inland.’
‘He’s being modest,’ Artemisia put in. ‘He even exports his oysters to the Hapsburg Court.’
Owen Gann shrugged. ‘You are too gracious, Miss Stansfield. We are just a humble business. I regret there’s not much to see at the moment. Winter is quiet here, but in the spring and summer, we run at full tilt, almost sixteen hours a day when the fishermen are out.’
They talked a few moments longer before someone needed to consult Owen on the state of the kegs. ‘He’s an interesting fellow,’ Darius remarked as Gann took his leave.
‘He’s a self-made businessman.’ Artemisia led the way to the refreshment table. They hadn’t eaten since lunch and she was hungry. ‘He’s grown up here. I knew him when we were children and spent our summers here. I was too young for him to take note of—seven years’ difference in age is a lifetime apart when you’re children. He was fifteen when I was eight and of course later there were other differences too.’ She’d been the daughter of a newly minted knight of the realm, from a family of some substance, while he went out every day to the seabeds with the men to harvest the oysters.
‘When the son of an oysterman turns sixteen, they earn the right to farm their father’s beds. He started to see the possibilities of what he calls vertical business integration.’ Artemisia waved a hand, ‘I don’t pretend to understand all of it, but it was quite ingenious and his rise has been rather meteoric. He’s elevated himself and the town.’
‘You admire him.’ Darius began to fill a plate from the table.
‘Yes. He’s turned oyster farming into a personal fortune and given back to his community.’ Artemisia slid a sideways glance at the handsome man beside her. Was that jealousy she heard in his tone? ‘He’s admirable in an objective sense. I don’t fancy him, if that’s what you want to know. He’s married to his work.’ She nodded upwards. ‘He spends his days in those offices. Some people gossip he has a bed up there and he sleeps here five nights out of seven during the oyster season.’
She pointed to a tiered tray of chilled oysters. ‘Get plenty of those for our plate,’ she advised. ‘I thought you’d like to meet him. He is like you, responsible for the livelihood of others.’
When their plate was full, they refilled their mugs and found a quiet place on a step where they could eat and talk and watch the party going on around them. ‘It’s not as quiet as the beach.’ Darius laughed as she leaned forward repeatedly to hear what he had to say.
‘Nor as private.’ Artemisia smiled, thinking of how they’d made use of that privacy last night, and this afternoon. Two very different uses for privacy, each one delicious in its own right. She leaned close, her voice low for him alone. ‘Thank you for today, for telling me. I know it was difficult.’ There would be no more exchanging of deep truths or surprising revelations here among the noisy revels. She suddenly wished they were alone in a firelit dining parlour, i
n her studio or on a beach. She watched as he took an oyster on a half-shell and slurped it down and reached for another. ‘Go easy on those,’ she cautioned.
‘They’re delicious. I hear they’re also an aphrodisiac,’ Darius whispered wickedly.
Artemisia laughed, allowing herself to enjoy the evening and the company, even as her mind whispered its usual cautions. Darius was entirely too easy to be with when they weren’t arguing or carefully dancing around the other. It was something of a comfort to know those arguments would return, would remind her of the realities between them. That this evening, that last night, could not last. They weren’t meant to. They were just meant to be enjoyed in the moment.
‘I think aphrodisia is a mental concept.’ She picked up an oyster, locking eyes with him to demonstrate the point. She smiled, running a tongue over her bottom lip, and then sucked down the oyster. She gave a throaty chuckle at the sight of Darius’s gaze turning obsidian at the sight of her. ‘See? It’s your imagination that makes the oyster sexy.’
‘Hmm? Is it? What about your imagination, my dear?’ Darius’s gaze stayed locked on hers, hot and searing, his eyes a seduction unto themselves. Good lord, she knew too well how that gaze could arouse with just a stare. He took another oyster from the plate, his gaze hot on hers over the shell as he swallowed. ‘Remind you of anything, my dear?’ His voice was a sensual husk.
Oh, indeed it did, of a rainy afternoon on a couch, of his mouth on her. The too-familiar warmth began to unfurl low in her belly at the remembrance of his mouth, his tongue, how they’d pushed her towards unspeakable pleasure, a pleasure she’d not dared to let herself claim in full last night on the beach. She took another oyster, determined to not be outdone.
* * *
‘If you put another oyster in your mouth, be warned you are playing with fire,’ Darius growled, desire riding him precariously hard at the moment. Dear lord, certain parts of him had become granite in the middle of a country party watching Artemisia Stansfield seduce him with oysters. Not that he was alone in the arousal—this was a rather mutual game of public seduction between them. It was unfair, though, that her arousal was less obviously displayed than his. He didn’t dare stand up for a while.
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