Darius swore under his breath. ‘I should call Aldred Gray out for this. I am sure it was he who put the idea in the reporter’s head. He suspected you were upstairs in my bed that morning. But he has no proof. That’s the damnable part of this.’
‘No duelling,’ Artemisia said in all seriousness. She did worry someone might push Darius’s honour too far. ‘What better way to besmirch a woman’s cause than to destroy her reputation? Men have been doing it for centuries. No one is even thinking about my art any more.’
‘We’ll change that. Come and see.’ Darius took her hand and led her through the house. The place he’d leased for the exhibition was an old half-timbered Tudor-style building that had been a shop, a set of offices and a wealthy man’s house over the centuries. They climbed the stairs to the upper floor where the space widened out into an enormous area. She could imagine it filled at one time with clerks’ desks, but now it was empty and open with windows letting in light and overlooking the Thames. The room was severe, no decorative architectural distractions except the thick black timbers overhead.
‘It’s perfect,’ Artemisia turned about slowly, taking in the space. The plainness of the walls would be an ideal complement to the austerity of her paintings. Even the black Tudor-style ceiling beams favoured the palette of her collection. She smiled. ‘You are perfect, Darius. Thank you.’ She recognised this place for what it was: a gift, a token of how deeply his affections for her ran. She did not think for a moment he’d selected this place because it was the first one he’d found. This place had been chosen with great deliberateness for its location as well as for its other qualities. That deliberateness and what it suggested touched her, scared her.
‘Darius,’ she asked quietly, ‘do you think anyone will come?’ She couldn’t bear to fail so utterly in front of him, not after the lengths he’d gone to. He’d put his reputation on the line for her with his personal friends and his professional acquaintances.
‘They will come. Boscastle’s sponsorship guarantees it, you needn’t worry,’ Darius assured her. But would they come back? What would the show prove? That she could draw attention or that her art was appreciated?
She walked to the windows and stared down at the Thames sparkling beneath them. Seasalter lay at the other end of the river. How she wished she could sail away, to Seasalter or even beyond, perhaps to Italy. ‘Will they come for the art, though, or to gape at the seductress?’ That would be even worse than opening the exhibition to an empty hall.
They’d not spoken of it, but she was well aware in all the gossip columns that she was the villain, not Darius. He was merely misguided, under her spell, but there was always room for him to return to the fold. All he had to do was denounce her, admit his folly and all would be forgiven. It should have angered her, another sign of how unfair the world was. Men simply couldn’t make mistakes. Instead, it gave her hope that, when all this was over, he would have a place when she left.
‘I’ve a surprise for you, it came this afternoon.’ Darius pulled her away from the windows and towards a large paper-wrapped package leaning against the wall. ‘Lady Basingstoke brought it. You just missed her by half an hour.’
Genuine delight rushed through her as she undid the paper. ‘Lady Basingstoke sent the portrait!’ Artemisia tore away the last of the wrapping, revealing Lady Basingstoke beside her champion thoroughbred. She stared at the painting she’d done two years ago, tears stinging at all it meant. The painting had won its category that year at the Academy’s spring show. It usually hung in pride of place at Castonbury Abbey up north, but Lady Basingstoke had brought it to London. For her. This was an endorsement, a reminder to all that Lady Basingstoke and her husband stood with her.
‘Lady Basingstoke is a powerful ally. She defied the conventions of the racing world when Warborne won Epsom. She will want to champion another woman wanting to break down barriers in her own field.’ Darius came to stand with her and study the painting. ‘Perhaps now you will believe me when I tell you people will come for the right reasons. We do not fight alone, Artemisia.’
Boscastle, Newlyn, Basingstoke. No, they certainly did not. The list of allies was impressive. ‘Will your father come?’ Artemisia asked carefully. The Earl of Bourne would be a natural ally, a supporter of his son and a regular feature in the art world, yet there’d been no mention of his participation.
‘I want to do this on my own,’ Darius answered firmly.
Some of the joy she felt over Lady Basingstoke’s endorsement faded. ‘Your father disagrees with your pursuit.’
Darius nodded. ‘We had a frank discussion at White’s yesterday.’
‘Ah, that explains the waltz last night. I thought there was a bit more to it than Lady Cartford’s snub.’ She also thought, although she kept it to herself, that the ‘frank discussion’ was about more than the art show, but about her.
‘He’ll come around,’ Darius said confidently. She didn’t argue the point. It didn’t matter. The Earl of Bourne didn’t need to come around. She would be gone and the point moot. She had cost Darius enough. She would not cost him his family.
Darius took her in his arms and danced her into a silent waltz. ‘It doesn’t matter, as long as the two of us stand together, we can accomplish great things.’ She wanted to believe that. She truly did, but she knew how the world really worked.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When Addy breathlessly informed her the Earl was here, Artemisia’s first assumption was that Basingstoke was calling and Addy had mistaken the title. Basingstoke hadn’t inherited yet. She knew no other. ‘Send him back here to the studio and have Anstruther make a tea tray,’ Artemisia smiled at the prospect of her guest. Lady Basingstoke’s husband was good company. It would take her mind off the exhibition’s opening tomorrow and early reviews.
Darius had held a private showing yesterday for art critics and key newspapers. She was anxious to see what they had to say and being idle was torture on her nerves. If it had been up to her, she would have spent the day fussing over the paintings, arranging and rearranging what had already been decided, checking and rechecking catering details. But Darius had firmly forbade her from the exhibition hall until the show opened.
‘Back here?’ Addy questioned. ‘I thought you might prefer to greet him in the drawing room or in the rose parlour.’
‘I want to show Basingstoke some works.’ Artemisia unbuttoned her smock and set it aside. The best thing about a visit with Phaedra or her husband was that one needn’t stand on ceremony.
Addy shook her head, her voice an aghast whisper. ‘It’s not Basingstoke. It’s the Earl of Bourne.’
Darius’s father. The man who put responsibility above all else, even his son’s painting.
‘The rose parlour, then, most definitely.’ Artemisia gave her wrinkled skirts a worried smoothing, not that it would help. She’d been painting on a rather personal project this morning and hadn’t taken much time with her appearance, thinking she’d be alone. She caught sight of her hair in the little mirror she kept above the brush-washing station. It was a frizzled mess of a braid. ‘Do I have time to change?’ She debated the idea of making Bourne wait another twenty minutes and decided against it.
‘Let me do something with your hair.’ Addy reached for the pins in her own and pulled them out. She made a few expert twists of Artemisia’s plait and pinned it at the nape of her neck in the semblance of a bun. ‘It’s better than nothing.’ Addy smiled nervously. ‘This is good, isn’t it? Darius’s father is here, the show opens tomorrow. He’s probably visiting because Darius wants the two of you to meet.’
Artemisia offered her sister a soft smile. ‘Perhaps.’ She didn’t want to dash Addy’s hopes, but she didn’t think Bourne was calling to become friends. If Bourne had come all the way to Bloomsbury to look down his nose at the Stansfields, he would be disappointed. The Stansfields might not have the Mayfair address of the Rutherfords
, but their cook could lay out a tea tray like no other.
She exchanged a conspiratorial smile with Addy as her sister gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. ‘Bourne will love you. How could he not? You both have a passion for art, that’s something to start with, and you both care for Darius, albeit in different ways,’ Addy offered with her characteristic optimism before she set off to order tea.
How could he not?
Oh, there was plenty not to love about her. Artemisia was all too aware, as she made her way to the rose parlour, of the flaws she possessed in the eyes of a man who had ambitions for his son.
What does it matter if he likes you or not? You’re not marrying Darius anyway, her conscience reminded her. Give Bourne your assurances and send him on his way.
‘Lord Bourne, how nice of you to call. Is there something I can help with you? A portrait, perhaps?’ Artemisia pasted on a polite smile and entered the parlour as if she received earls in her work clothes every day. She wouldn’t apologise for it. Lord Bourne’s call was unsolicited.
Darius’s father turned from the window which overlooked the flower garden, in possession of his own polite smile, a smile that lacked Darius’s warmth. ‘Miss Stansfield, it’s good of you to receive me.’ There was no accompanying apology or excuse for the spontaneous nature of the call. Nor was there any warmth in his words or expression, just neutral, well-mannered politeness. He was a handsome man, nearly as tall as Darius, and well dressed in afternoon clothes: a jacket of blue superfine and a tasteful cream waistcoat embroidered with pheasants. His hair was dark like Darius’s and only just beginning to show signs of greying at the temples.
Artemisia gestured that they should be seated and the tea tray arrived on cue, giving her something to do as she rallied her defences. Bourne had meant to take her by surprise. She didn’t need a lot of imagination to guess why, nor a lot of time. Bourne got straight to the point once he had his teacup in hand.
‘I’ve come about my son, Miss Stansfield. The two of you have become linked in unfortunate ways recently because of the exhibition.’ He carefully sipped his tea, his dark eyes, so like his son’s, were alert as he waited for Artemisia’s response.
The man was a masterful tactician. Darius must have inherited some of his skill there from him as well. Artemisia did not miss the insinuation that the only reason Darius’s name was linked with hers was the art show. There was no other reason—not an illicit romance, nothing that implied the existence of relationship. Bourne would want it that way.
Artemisia replied with silence, saying nothing but calmly sipping her own tea and waiting for Bourne to continue. This time, Bourne opted for a more reconciliatory approach. ‘It is unfortunate that the gossips don’t allow men and women to be business partners or even friends without turning it into something sordid, but that’s the reality. I am sure you will be glad to have the show behind you so you can go on with your life without fearing to open the newspapers every morning.’
‘Thank you for the concern, my lord, but I don’t fear it.’ Artemisia smiled over the lip of her cup. ‘Any publicity is good publicity, after all. As you said, society will make its own gossip no matter what the truth is.’ It was mostly bravado. She did fear opening the newspapers and seeing that someone else had taken another stab at Darius, at her.
Bourne smiled coolly. ‘Of course, it’s different for you, isn’t it? For a lady, her reputation is everything. This kind of scrutiny in the papers would have sunk a debutante.’
Artemisia let the implication that she was no lady pass unremarked. ‘It’s a good thing, then, that I’m not a debutante and I do not go under so easily.’ She selected a little frosted cake from the platter and popped it into her mouth as yet another reminder that she was no debutante. She’d eat what she wanted, just as she’d do as she pleased, not just with tea trays, but with life. Bourne could say his piece, but he could not intimidate her.
‘I’m glad we understand one another.’ Bourne set aside his tea. ‘You know your place, that’s an admirable quality. Sometimes it is easy to forget that place when one is working closely with another. May I assume, then, that you will have nothing further to do with my son once the exhibition is concluded?’
It was not a question, it was a warning. ‘Your son is an adult. I think he can make up his own mind about who he spends his time with.’ Artemisia continued to drink her tea. Darius would be furious if he knew his father had come to interfere. It was because of that fury that Artemisia wouldn’t tell him. She did not want to be the cause of family discord. No good could come of pitting Darius against his parents. Such a situation had already broken him once. She did not want Darius feeling he had to choose between her and his family, his heritage, especially when he didn’t really have choice. She’d already refused his proposal once. This visit from Bourne only reinforced that she’d been right to be sceptical.
Bourne’s mouth compressed as he considered her next move. His eyes narrowed—whatever debate he’d been holding with himself had been decided. ‘Miss Stansfield, you are known for being outspoken. Allow me to be blunt with you. The Countess and I have hopes of our son making a match this Season with Worth’s granddaughter, among other potential girls. I would not want him to be distracted now that spring is upon us.’
There was so much insult in that comment Artemisia wasn’t sure which piece to be offended by first—being labelled a mere distraction, a frivolous whim Darius had undertaken, or that such frivolity was acceptable as long as it was in the winter when no one would notice. ‘I appreciate your concern, Lord Bourne.’ Artemisia rose, signalling the interview was at an end. Never mind that it was rude to do so, never mind that Bourne outranked her. She wasn’t going to win his favour no matter what she did.
‘The concern is not for you, Miss Stansfield, it is for my son,’ Bourne corrected, rising. ‘I am sincerely hoping the scandal has blown over in a few weeks’ time.’ Even that was insulting—she was worth no more than a few weeks’ notice.
‘I am sure it will if I am truly the frivolity you claim I am.’ Artemisia gave a cold smile. ‘If you will excuse me, I have work to see to. My butler can see you out when you’re ready.’ Then she left the rose parlour, her head held high, and returned to the sanctity of her studio and buried herself in that work.
Artemisia put on her smock and laid out her brushes like a surgeon laying out his tools: the fan brush for feathering, the filbert for blending, the rigger for the delicate lines of eyebrow. She smiled to herself, as she considered the painting A Lord at His Bath. She would need the rigger today. She was nearly done with this project she’d worked on in her spare time: Darius at his bath, the way she’d seen him that first night.
What would Bourne say to that? Perhaps he’d like to flash the picture around to all those potential debutantes he’d spoke of. At one time, the idea would have made her laugh. Not today, though. Today, the idea was a reminder of what was to come. She and Darius would part ways. Soon. What other choice did she have? He would go on to marry one of those decent girls like the Earl of Worth’s granddaughter and she would just go on, a notorious artist who’d defied the Academy.
This painting would spend its life at the back of a closet. She would never show it to anyone, not even Darius. It was too bad, she felt she’d done excellent work on it, enough perhaps to even earn a ribbon at the spring show if the Academy wouldn’t hold her ‘poor behaviour’ against her. They would, though. As long as she was an associate she could enter her work, but they could not afford to recognise it without resurrecting the question of why she’d not been named an academician. It was one of the many things she’d lost when she’d chosen this path. It was a silly thing to regret. A ribbon was just silky fabric. Only it was more than that. It represented validation from experts, from peers, that her efforts were good.
Why did she want validation from men who didn’t respect her enough to admit her to their ranks? It was a false val
idation at best, she reminded herself. Is that what she wanted? To settle for a lie? For limits? Those were the very things she was fighting against. She deserved—other women deserved—to be recognised on an equal footing with their talented male counterparts. But the fight was hard and the costs were mounting. Artemisia picked up a brush and determinedly began to paint. There was no room for doubt—she’d passed the point of no return a long time ago.
* * *
Darius found her still working several hours later. Spring twilight was settling outside her windows when he appeared at the studio, carrying a picnic basket. ‘I’ve brought dinner. Your sister said you’d been in here for hours.’
She wondered what else Addy might have mentioned to him. Hopefully she hadn’t blurted anything out about Lord Bourne’s visit. But Darius seemed in too pleasant of a mood for that to have been the case.
He set the basket down before the hearth. ‘I’ll start a fire while you wash up.’ It wasn’t a question. It was his way of deciding she’d worked long enough for the day. ‘What are you working on? I thought you might take a break after the winter collection.’
‘Nothing. It’s private. I’d rather you didn’t see it.’ Artemisia pulled a drop cloth carefully over it and set about cleaning her brushes, the smell of turpentine mixing with the scents of dinner and fire. She pulled off her smock at last and joined him at the low table set before her second-hand sofa. She studied the dinner offerings. ‘Champagne? What’s this for?’
Darius grinned and reached into the picnic basket. ‘For this. The first reviews are in, right on time.’
He handed her a stack of newspapers and let her scan them as he popped the cork. She sat down and gave them her full, nervous attention. The Times, the Herald, the Post, and two other smaller papers, had all liked the paintings. Words like ‘fresh’, ‘evocative’, and ‘thought-provoking’ popped from the pages, interspersed with phrases like, ‘a new direction’, and ‘a blend of naturalism and realism’.
Portrait of a Forbidden Love--A Sexy Regency Romance Page 19
