“Mr Allen, this is Lord Dante Cynfell.”
Mr Allen, Mr Allen... now why did that...? Oh yes, something to do with art. Damn it. Not only was he handsome and affable, but was knowledgeable about art. How was Dante meant to compete with that?
“Dante, this is Mr Robert Allen. He works at the National Gallery.”
“I just came by to see how the latest masterpiece was coming along,” Mr Allen explained.
“Masterpiece?”
She unlatched her arm from his and pressed her hands together. “Yes, my latest painting. There has been some interest in my older pieces and Robbie believes I could make quite a name for myself.”
He snorted inwardly. It was more likely Robbie was interested in spending more time with a beautiful woman than viewing her artwork. Josephine was talented, he’d never doubted that, but there were thousands of talented artists out there and very few of them were women. A man of his standing would know that it would be hard to sell a woman’s work.
Josephine fished in her handbag for the house key and offered Dante a smile. “Thank you for earlier, I don’t know...”
He waved away her thanks and her dismissal of him. She wouldn’t cast him away that easily. “I’d love to see the painting,” he said with a smile.
Her lips parted and a tiny furrow appeared between her brows before she responded. “Oh, yes, of course. Won’t you both come in?”
“After you,” Mr Allen offered genially as they followed her in.
Dante tried not to grind his teeth.
Josephine led them into a small room at the rear of the house where the light streamed in through the windows.
“Good lighting,” he commented, feeling wise indeed.
She offered him a bemused look and nodded. Mr Allen stepped forward and peered at the canvas. As far as Dante could see, it was a lot of dark splodges and not a lot else.
“Wonderful brushwork,” the man commented, and Dante bit back a curse of frustration.
He peered at it but couldn’t make head or tail of it. Josephine must have seen his confusion. “It’s a study of the living conditions of the working man,” she explained.
No, he still didn’t understand it. Did people even want to buy such things? Who would want to see poor people on their walls? He was used to lavish portraits and generous landscapes. Now there had to be money in portraits. Perhaps he could encourage her in that direction. If she continued painting poor people, she’d be one of them before long.
Still, he supposed she might come dashing back to him then.
Except that wasn’t what he wanted. Their arrangement might have begun because she needed looking after, but their passion had driven it to last as long as it had. He wanted her to come back to him because she wanted him, not because she needed him.
“I’m sure it will be wonderful,” Dante said diplomatically.
“She’s a splendid talent,” Mr Allen declared. “Though I’m sure you know that, my lord. Of course, when we met in France I could only guess at how good she would become. Many people have talent but few have quite the eye that Josephine does.”
Bitterness rose up in his throat. Hearing her name on his lips made him want to curl a fist and ram it into those very same lips so that he would never utter it again. There he had been proud to note that she had seemed a little impressed by his venture into the working world, and now he was ready to be that outrageous rake once more, calling out a man for uttering a woman’s name.
Dark pink splotches coloured her cheeks. “Coming from you, that is very flattering indeed.” She glanced his way. “Mr Allen is highly regarded and his paintings sell for a fortune all over the world.”
“Not that I paint much these days mind,” the chap said with a grin. “I seldom have the time now. Though I would love to paint you one day.” He ran his gaze over Josephine. “We shall have to make time for it.”
“We shall indeed,” she agreed.
Like hell, he was tempted to declare before recalling he had no say in the matter. He pictured her draped in some kind of silk sheet, her back bare and her legs curled up beside her while Allen practically slathered over her as he painted. It took all his restraint not to grab the man and escort him bodily out of the house.
“Well, seeing as you have company, I shall bid you a good day, Josephine.” Allen retrieved his hat from under his arm and gave her brief dip of his head. “Pleased to meet you, my lord. I hope to see you again soon. Perhaps when our talented Josephine has her first exhibition?”
“Indeed, I look forward to it,” Dante managed to press out.
“I’ll check up on your progress again soon,” the man commented.
“Good day, Robbie.” Josephine escorted him to the door, giving him a moment to stare at the brown splodges on the canvas and stew about this Robbie Allen fellow.
It wasn’t fair or logical for him to be so angry at a man he’d never met. In truth, he wondered if he was not angrier at himself. He’d never realised her desire to paint for a living was so strong. He had thought it a charming hobby. Some mistresses sang, others did needlework. His painted. And how very good she was at it too. But he’d merely considered it something to keep her occupied. Now it seemed even this art expert knew more about her than he did.
He’d have to change that. For Christ sake’s, he’d taken a job, had he not? He could best this chap too. He certainly wouldn’t let some dandy take Josephine from him.
Chapter Eight
With Diana’s arm looped around hers, Josephine entered the assembly hall. Her stomach churned, and she gripped her friend’s arm more tightly. She had agreed to come several weeks ago, expecting to attend with Dante but even then she hadn’t been sure she would accompany him.
“I wish I had stayed at home,” she muttered to her friend.
Diana, radiant in blue silk with her pale brown hair coiled high on her head and scattered with blossoms, gave her arm a squeeze. “You cannot spend all your days hiding away and painting. Besides, none will speak of Lord Dante. It’s old gossip now.”
“No one has said anything to me anyway,” she replied dryly, glancing around at the splendour.
Glistening chandeliers caught the light sending shards of fairy-like sparkles around the room. Feathers bobbed and skirts swished while the odour of a little too much cologne reached her. Dancing had already begun.
She spotted several noblemen and women in the mix as well as the odd shipping magnate and mill owner. This was certainly not your usual casual gathering, and it never had been. Every summer since it’s opening, the well-to-do flocked Northumberland Avenue as a means of making connections and arranging business deals.
Josephine suspected a few other deals would be arranged tonight too—marriages perhaps and the odd tryst too.
She peered around to try to catch sight of Robbie. He’d said he would attend and introduce her to some important figures in the art world. It was really the only reason she had agreed to attend. She hardly felt in the mood for dancing. Her mind was a whirl, much like the dancers cutting paths across the floor. Painting had become difficult for the first time in her life. When she should have been gathering inspiration and putting paint to canvas, she found herself peering out of the front windows in the hopes of catching a glimpse...
She sighed. Apparently moving on from Dante was going to be harder than she had hoped.
“I do hope Mr Lonsdale is here,” Diana said in an aside. “I haven’t seen him in several months.”
Josephine forced a smile upon her face. Mr Lonsdale was leading Diana on a merry chase as far as she could see. Her young friend was in danger of becoming a spinster if she continued to pine for the man who was as elusive as a bat during the day.
A tall, dark-haired figure caught her eye as he moved between the Corinthian columns. She couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to. Her body told her everything she needed to know. Like a frightened dormouse, aware of the bird of prey above, every part of her tensed.
Had
he seen her? Would he come her way? If he did, everyone would watch them, curious as to how they would react to one another.
Before she could find out, Robbie approached, giving her a little wave. She smiled at her friend and forced her attention away from the column Dante had seemed to have vanished behind.
“You look splendid,” Robbie commented. “As do you, Miss Barlow.”
“And you, Mr Allen. You do cut a fine figure,” Diana replied.
“I do try my best,” he said with a smile. “There are several people I’d like you to meet, Josephine. One in particular, a Lord Whitby—you may have heard of him—is quite the art buyer. He enjoys investing in new artists and considers himself at the forefront of the art world.” Robbie’s lips twitched.
They had discussed before how the backing of a rich lord might help her career. These men had more money than they knew what to do with and often threw it at even the most untalented or unusual pieces of artwork. Josephine had been reticent about hanging her hopes on fickle men but without help, she wouldn’t get far. She fingered the ruffle on her shoulder and adjusted it a little. If felt a little too much like her newfound independence had been quashed before it had started.
“How very exciting for you, Josephine,” Diana commented. “Do you think she’ll become very famous, Mr Allen?”
“I am almost certain. Josephine was one of the more talented artists I met in France and she has only improved with time. I believe her eye for the unusual will mark her out from her contemporaries.”
Heat warmed her cheeks. As a young girl in Europe she’d been in awe of Robert Allen, who at the time had been teaching and travelling while he painted for some of the richest families. She had even developed a tiny infatuation with him, but that had been quickly crushed once she realised he wasn’t at all interested in her or any other woman.
“Oh look, there’s Mr Lonsdale.” Diana nudged her arm. “Do you mind terribly if I...?”
“No, not at all.” Josephine had barely uttered the first syllable before Diana bustled across the ball to accost the tall gentleman.
She grimaced inwardly. Diana was a fine looking woman, but she didn’t have much wealth. Her connections to a wealthy aunt might bring her some prospects, however, it was clear Mr Lonsdale was after a much bigger fish.
“Would you like to dance?”
She nodded her thanks. “Yes, that would be lovely.”
It had been a while since she’d danced. She tried not to recall the last event she had attended and how it had been on Dante’s arm. Damn him. Too many of her memories involved him. No wonder it was so hard to let him go. Where was the man anyway? She had continued to survey the large ballroom in the hopes of at least being aware of where he was, but he appeared to have vanished.
Robbie took her into his arms and they slipped in amongst the other dancers. He whirled her around with such grace that she knew many women would be envious of them. Perhaps they would think he was her new lover. How wrong they would be.
This also bothered her. What if people assumed her success was simply down to her becoming Robbie’s mistress? She tried to ignore the burning frustration building in her stomach. How hard it was to become successful without a man. For all the progress they had made as the fairer sex, too many women still depended on a man to even survive.
“May I cut in?”
The tap to Robbie’s shoulder came near the end of the dance. Josephine hadn’t even noticed Dante approach, too lost in thought was she.
Robbie bowed out, ever the gentleman, and smiled. “Of course.”
And with that, she was handed over to her old lover. Aware of people watching, she made no protest and found herself firmly ensconced in Dante’s arms. His cologne surrounded her in a blanket of familiarity whilst his powerful arms and warm hands sent a thrum of excitement down to her lower body.
“You look wonderful, Jo-Jo.”
“Thank you,” she replied huskily.
His eyes crinkled at the corners while their dark depths searched her face. Would it always be this way, she wondered. Would he forever affect her like this, leaving her feeling as though her knees were sponges and her limbs had detached themselves from her body?
Dante danced as he always had. With less grace and more recklessness. She remembered the first time he’d taken her into his arms how thrilled she’d been by it. No more staid dancing for Mrs Josephine Beaumont. Here was a man with whom she could indulge in her artistic, outrageous side.
“How are you?” he asked, leaning close to be heard over the music and swishing skirts.
“Very well.”
“And your paintings? Have you sold anymore?”
“Yes, actually. Robbie has arranged the sale of two more. It is his hope that we might be able to put on a small exhibition at some point.”
“Robbie has?” His expression hardened. “Of course he has.”
While his face grew hard, so did his body. Hard and unyielding. He clamped her to him as though fearful she might stumble and fall, or perhaps even escape him.
“How is everything going with the coffee business?” she prompted—anything to bring back the admiring look in his eyes and erase that clouded one.
“Well.” A smile returned to his face. “You’ll be astonished to know that I have been putting in a full day’s work every day this week. Julian couldn’t quite believe it.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not astonished. You’ve always worked hard when you’ve put your mind to it.”
He had just never had the option, she supposed. It was common for second sons to become useless wastrels because they had no aim in life. She didn’t count Dante as a wastrel, however. Just a little lost. Maybe this separation had been good for both of them. It seemed he might have found his way if the slight straightening of his posture was anything to go by.
“You’re proud of yourself, are you not?”
His grin widened. “How can I not be when I have saved my brother a small fortune?” he said smugly. “Now my grumpy stick of an older brother will be indebted to this wastrel of a rake.”
“Dante,” she exclaimed. “You are a tease. I did not mean it as a bad thing. Pride in one’s successes is only human and you have much to be proud of.”
“I will confess to finding a sort of unique thrill in negotiating these contracts. It is a little like gambling except I’m far more likely to win. Of course—” his gaze locked onto hers “—I am no stranger to pride.” His fingers stroked her back ever so lightly. It wasn’t enough for anyone to notice but the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled. “Now, for example, I have the most beautiful and talented woman in the room in my arms. And—” he leaned closer, his breath brushing the shell of her ear “—I have tasted every inch of her.”
She gasped. Those inches had to be bright red by now. The way he held her now no longer spoke of gentleness or even hard imprisonment. No, it spoke of possession. His hand to her back, his other curled around her fingers, the breath across her ear. They all said mine. Mine, mine, mine. And, Lord help her, this sort of possession seemed nothing like that of a man trying to dictate her life or that of some art connoisseur, hoping to show himself as the cleverest of men by sponsoring an unknown female artist.
Perhaps, the distinction was that she wanted him to be hers just as much. Mine, said her fingers on his shoulder. Mine said her palm against his.
But he would never be hers. Not in the way she wanted or needed. Marriage, a stable life, the opportunity to carve a career for herself without being known as that man’s mistress. Instead she would have to be a mistress to the many men who would help her. She might not be offering them sex, but she would be offering her artwork, her charm, and her time.
She let him whirl her about the dance floor in the hopes of detangling the web of confusion clouding her mind but it was not to be. Instead, she was more confused than ever. Her plans had been clear when she’d left him. Gain independence, become a renowned artist.
None of
that had been as easy as she’d hoped.
When the dance finished, Dante kept a hold of her. The air thickened between them and though they were close, the tiny distance felt impassable.
“I miss you,” he admitted softly, the words shattering the fog dividing them.
At that moment, she longed to throw her arms around him and let him have her. Let him keep her and do whatever he would with her. That seemed the easiest option. Give her heart back to him and be at his will. But, regardless of how hard it might be to succeed alone or how painful it could be, she knew she had to try. Without knowing, Josephine would not be doing either of them justice.
“I have to go,” she said, her voice as thin as a reed.
Sorrow clogged her throat. She was done dancing around him—or even with him. This had been drawn out too long, and she was exhausted. She ripped out of his arms and hurried from the ballroom. He called her name and people turned to watch her go. For once in her life, she didn’t care. Let them speak of her.
Before he could catch up with her, she stumbled out into Trafalgar Square and managed to signal one of the waiting cabs. She allowed herself a glance back as the cabriolet rattled across the cobbles. Josephine didn’t know whether to be thrilled or heartbroken that Dante was standing on the steps of the building, watching her leave.
Chapter Nine
Handing over the last of the letters to Will, Dante scrubbed a hand through his hair and realised his mistake. His fingers were still covered in ink. Perfect. Now he’d have ink everywhere.
“Is that everything, my lord?”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday, my lord.”
He laughed at himself. “Of course it is. See you on Monday then.”
He watched the boy leave and debated his ink-stained fingers. They weren’t rough like those of the men who worked on the ships or hauled the containers around, but they certainly had a look of hard-work to them. What would Josephine make of that, he wondered.
Perhaps he should go to her. He walked past her house on the odd occasion. Really, he had thought he might run into her as he took his lunch near the docks. But no, she had remained hidden away. Perhaps she was spending time with that bloody Robert Allen.
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