She needed to make a choice eventually. She would have to decide if the man in her dreams was enough for her or not. But hadn’t she already made that choice? Didn’t she choose the man in her dreams the day she broke off her engagement? She had made it clear to Bellamira that she wasn’t interested in marriage or courtship. And she had meant it. She could have been perfectly happy with just having a man waiting for her to fall asleep if she had never met Auberon. Why did he have to be here? Of all places? Hundreds of miles from where she had grown up. What were the chances that the one man who could shake her resolve would be here?
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Dracoia,” she finally said, and he smirked.
“So, to what do I owe your esteemed presence?” he asked.
“My aunt said you had completed the frame for the painting of the hideous beast,” she said. “She instructed me to fetch it for her.”
He laughed, deep and throaty from his gullet. “You truly do hate it, don’t you?”
“I cannot put into words my disdain for the thing,” she said, making a face at just the thought of it.
“What do you know of it?” he asked. “The artist? The story behind it?” Isoline shook her head, since she knew nothing. He smiled and held out his hand. “Please, come with me,” he said. “I want to introduce you properly.”
She didn’t hesitate to take his hand as he led her toward the cottage. He opened the door, and there the painting sat, in the middle of the room on an easel, sitting inside a large gilded frame.
The rest of the room was quite simply furnished, with only a table and chair for dining, a large fireplace with a pot of something stewing that smelled delicious, a cupboard for plates and bowls, and a door leading to the rest of the house.
“Forgive me,” he said, apparently able to read her mind as she looked around the room—anywhere but at the painting of the beast. “I know my home is nothing compared to the opulence of Thornrush Manor.”
She waved him off. “Think nothing of it,” she said. “There is beauty in simplicity.”
He nodded. “Quite right. But will you dare to see beauty in the painting before you?”
She forced herself to look at the painting, the demon hunched over the woman. Her hand immediately went to her neck as she thought about the night of passion she shared with the man in her dreams and he had bitten into her neck. Is that what the monster in the painting was about to do to the woman? The very idea made her nauseous.
She shook her head. “I cannot…” She wanted to explain further, but she could not find the words. She moved away and turned her head so she didn’t have to look directly at it.
“The painting is called, in my language, ‘Ce Vise Pot Veni,’” he said. “Or in English, ‘What Dreams May Come.’”
Her breath nearly hitched in her throat at the mention of dreams. “As in…from Shakespeare?” she asked.
“You will find that Shakespeare has nearly universal appeal,” he explained.
She nodded. Of course he did. Wasn’t that why he was so beloved? Rich or poor, man or woman, British or foreigner. Everyone could relate to at least one of his characters.
“In your language?” Isoline asked. “My aunt said this painting came from Romania. Is that where you, your family, are from?”
“Yes!” he said, excited. “You have heard of it?”
“Only in passing, occasionally in books,” she said. “But I would not pretend I know anything of it.”
“Yes, I miss it very much,” he said.
“You have been there?” Isoline asked.
“I was born there,” he said.
“Hmm,” Isoline mused. “But your grandfather, he was already renting the land here, you said.”
He shrugged. “Family is complicated, no?”
She couldn’t help but nod. That was certainly true. “So, the painting,” she said, returning to the image that loomed before her. “It is of a dream?”
“It is both of a woman having a dream and the dream itself,” he explained. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her so she had to face the painting squarely. “You see how the woman is sleeping? But in her mind, the man—the monster you see—he is just as real as he is there, sitting on her chest.”
She exhaled sharply and shuddered. It was suddenly so clear to her. It was as though the artist had painted her very life. “Why…why do you think he painted this?” she dared to ask.
“The artist, Iasi Busila, said that his wife, the love of his life, had fantastical dreams all of her life,” he said, causing Isoline’s heart to race. “She often wrote about the dreams when she awoke. Eventually, he started painting what she was writing. He hoped that by bringing the dreams out of her mind and into the real world, they would stop tormenting her.”
“And did it work?” she asked. “Did the dreams stop?”
“We don’t know,” he said. “They lived a long time ago. There have been many wars, much migration, people fleeing, coming back. He and his family were lost to time. But the paintings, they remained in many homes of the aristocracy. That is where Miss Ezerbet found this piece, in the home of a great lord.”
She looked back at the painting and suddenly found it far less frightening than before. If anything, it seemed all too familiar, which created a different sort of discomfort, but at least her fear had dissipated.
“You seem very interested in the dream aspect of the painting,” Auberon said, as usual, seemingly able to get right to the matter closest to her heard.
She nodded. “I…I think I know something of how Busila’s wife must have felt,” she admitted. “I too have had very…vivid dreams of late.”
“Will you share them with me?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I cannot,” she said. “Not yet. Maybe someday.”
He chuckled. “They must be very special dreams indeed,” he said.
“What do you think?” she asked, trying to redirect the conversation away from her and motioning back to the painting. “Do you give any credence to the idea that our dreams and our awake lives may not be so different?”
He crossed his arms and looked at the painting thoughtfully. “I think Descartes said it best when he said, ‘I perceive so clearly that there exist no certain marks by which the state of waking can ever be distinguished from sleep.’”
“Yes!” she said, nearly jumping up and down with excitement. In all her years she had never met a man who knew to what she was referring when she spoke of dreams. “Do we dream only when we sleep? Are we dreaming now? Who can know?”
“The world is a mysterious place,” Auberon said. “I cannot begin to understand it, much less explain it.”
“But isn’t it fun to discuss?” Isoline asked. “To try and see beyond what merely our eyes tell us but the secrets of the mind?”
“Perhaps one day you will tell me your dreams,” Auberon said. “Then we can try to understand the mysteries of the universe together.”
“I would like that,” she said, and she looked back at the painting and realized she was no longer afraid of it, but found a familiar comfort. “Thank you for explaining the painting to me,” she said. “You have changed my perception. Truly.”
“It was my pleasure to share my knowledge with you,” he said.
“Will you show me some of your pieces?” she asked playfully, pulling him toward the door to the rest of the house.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said with a chuckle. “They cannot compare to a great master like Busila.”
“Well, how will I know if I don’t have anything to compare to it,” she asked as she threw open the door. She looked into the other room and froze. Not for the first time, she saw herself staring back at her.
“I…I didn’t want you to see it until it was finished,” Auberon said as he rushed to cover the painting with a cloth, but she moved next to him and stilled his hand. She looked at the painting, into the eyes of the girl standing back at her, and nearly wept for the beauty of it.<
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It was her, truly. It was not a younger version of her aunt. Not her from several years ago when she was merely a girl. But the real her, here and now. But mostly her eyes. In the eyes of the painting, she saw all her own cares and worries, her hopes and desires, and, yes, her dreams. She had never considered herself to be a great beauty. Attractive, certainly. But not exquisite. Not someone anyone would want to paint, to preserve for all eternity. Yet she could not deny that the woman she was looking at was both her and beautiful. Her eyes were dark and large, her skin a pale pink. Her dark hair fell in tendrils around bare shoulders and she wore a dress with a dark red bodice.
“You…you painted this?” she asked, bewildered.
“Well you could certainly say I tried,” he said with true humility. “Trying to paint from memory is not the same as having a sitting subject, but I was doing my best.”
“This is how you see me in your mind?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” he said. “What I see when I close my eyes is only a pale imitation of the woman who is standing here now.”
At that, her heart began to sing. It didn’t matter whether or not she saw herself or the painting as beautiful. What mattered was that Auberon did. And she could tell that his feelings for her went far beyond her superficial looks. He felt something for her, something deep, something strong for him to have put such effort into his rendition of her. She could no longer deny it, force it to hide deep inside of her. She was falling in love with Auberon, and she believed he felt the same even though neither of them could admit it. Not yet.
“Thank you,” she finally whispered. “I love it. What will you do with it when it is complete?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“I think I should love for my Aunt Bellamira to have it,” she said. “She has an older painting of me, but not one made with such skill. It would be wonderful to add to her collection. I could buy it from you, of course.”
He waved away her offer. “I could never accept money from you. I never accept money for any of my work. Lady Payne allows me to live here for free. I have no real use for money.”
Isoline raised an eyebrow. What a charmed life, to have no worry of money. “Still, I couldn’t just take such a magnificent piece of art from you. I must compensate you in some way.”
He took his hand in hers and brought it to his lips. “You have already given me enough, darling Isoline.”
Isoline laid in bed and replayed the day in her mind. She had brought the framed painting of the woman and the beast back to her aunt, who was ecstatic to finally have it ready to hang on a wall. Now that Isoline no longer feared the thing, she was able to help her aunt find the best place for it. Somewhere it would be seen but not overpower the room. They had agreed to hang it in the parlor, but off to the side. A place where it would be seen by visitors but not distract from meaningful discussion.
That evening, Isoline and Bellamira had played cards until dinner. After which, Bellamira retired to her own quarters and Isoline to hers. Isoline tried again at writing a letter to Eunice, but she found herself too excited to concentrate. Isoline told Auberon that she would return to the cottage every day and sit for the painting until it was finished. Afterward, he would frame it and deliver it to Bellamira himself and present it as a gift. The thought of seeing Auberon the next day, and every day after that, thrilled her to the core. She could hardly wait to sleep and bring the next day forth more quickly.
Yet, she knew that if she were to dream while she slept, he might return. Would he know that she was falling in love with someone else? What would he think? Would he be angry? Would her feelings for Auberon suddenly change if she felt herself in his arms again? She didn’t think so. What she was feeling for Auberon was above and beyond anything she had ever felt for a living man before. Stronger than she had felt for the man in her dreams, she was sure. If the man in her dreams was to disappear and never return, she would be satisfied with that. But if Auberon could no longer be in her life, she would be devastated.
She knew she had to face the man in her dreams. She had to get it over with. She finally forced herself to lie down and sleep. She tossed and turned for many hours, but eventually, sleep claimed her.
He did not make an appearance.
In the morning, she woke refreshed. It had been nearly a week since their passionate encounter and he had returned. Isoline was not distraught by this fact. Instead, she was glad of it. He was not trying to stop her from living her life, from finding love among the living. She took his disappearance as tacit approval of her newfound love for Auberon.
She only needed to know for sure if Auberon felt the same way.
When she left the house that morning, she only told her aunt she was going for her morning walk. She did not see a reason to worry her over her unchaperoned visit to Auberon’s cottage until she knew whether or not her aunt needed to concern herself. Even though she was rather certain that Auberon did not merely see her as an art subject, she needed to ask him directly. She did not want any ambiguity between them. She was in love with him, and she needed to know if he felt the same way before she began to tackle larger issues such as whether her father would ever approve.
When she arrived at the cottage, she was surprised to see that he had set up the easel outside, along with his supplies and a chair for her to sit in.
“I thought that we should keep everything out in the open,” he said. “If anyone began to notice you were coming to my house every day, they might think something untoward was happening.”
She nodded and appreciated his foresight on the matter. She sat in the chair and held very still. “How should I hold my head?” she asked.
He shook his head as he began to mix his paints. “Do not worry,” he said. “You don’t need to hold still. I don’t paint that way. Just move however it is natural.”
“Then why do you need me to sit for you?” she asked, crossing her arms in feigned annoyance.
“Is it wrong that I just want your company?” he asked innocently.
She could feel her face blush, so she looked away. “Is it wrong that I only want to be in your company as well?” she asked, unable to look him in the face.
She heard him put his painting things down and walk to her side. “Isoline,” he said as he took her hand, then tilted her face to look at him. “There is no wrong here. Only love.”
“Oh, Auberon,” she gasped, but he quieted her with a kiss. It was a kiss of hunger and need. As If he had desired her for days without measure and could finally devour her without restraint. He nearly growled with passion as he held her tight, groping her with impunity. She was shocked by the near vulgarity of it. So much for preserving her reputation should someone be watching. But she met his every kiss, his every move with equal need. Her night with the man in her dreams had not been nearly as passionate as this. She wanted to tear off his clothes and climb upon him like some wild thing.
“I love you, Isoline,” he gasped. “Have only ever loved you.” He moved to her neck. Kissing. Tasting.
“Oh, Auberon,” she panted. She could not yet say she loved him. In this moment, only lust filled her mind.
He moaned as she said his name, and then he removed her arms from around him and pushed her back, holding her at arm’s length. They were both breathing hard, and she saw his eyes were eager with desire. He finally released her as he turned away. He paced for a moment in frustration, running his fingers through his hair.
“Forgive me, dear Isoline,” he finally said, turning back to her after he had regained his composure. “I…I should not have done that. I am nothing but a dishonorable cad to have taken advantage of you like that.”
“How dare you!” she said, feeling great offense at his words. “You think I would have let you touch me like that if I did not want it? I’m not a girl of easy virtue. I care for you, Auberon.”
“And I you!” he said, rushing to take her hands in his again. “Forgive m
e. I did not mean to offend. I only meant that I should not have done that. If we wish to marry, everything must be proper.”
“You…you wish to marry me, then?” Isoline asked. “So quickly? We barely know each other.”
“I know all I need to know,” he said. “I know that I cannot let you slip away from me. I need you, Isoline.”
She knew that loving Auberon, wanting to marry him was reckless. Foolish. Dangerous. She hardly knew him. Knew nothing of his situation. Knew her father would never approve. Knew that her aunt would have her tossed out if she heard of her wonton ways. And yet she could not resist him. As long as she had Auberon, nothing else mattered.
“What will we do now?” she asked. “I fear we have made quite a mistake in falling for each other. My father will never give us permission to marry. All he cares about is status and title.”
“I suppose that if you were to become a great heiress,” Auberon said, “he might not care who you marry.”
The hairs on the back of her neck bristled. “You think I should try to get money out of my aunt as well?” she asked as she walked to the chair and crossed her arms.
“Isoline,” he nearly scolded, then waved his arm out over the view. “Who needs money when I have this. I should ask you if you would be willing to give up life in the big house, with servants and rich food and fancy carriages, to live in a little shack with me?”
“Of course I would!” she said. “I don’t want or need any of those things. I hate the idea of trying to get an inheritance from my aunt. I only want to help care for her, be her true companion. I never came her for the money. It was my father’s idea.”
“Then give him all the money if you get it,” he said. “We don’t need it. Only each other. But if you give it to him, we can ask only for his blessing in return.”
She laughed. “It would be quite a price to pay for a marriage.”
He kneeled before her and took her hand. “It would be worth it,” he said.
She sighed and realized that the inheritance was probably the only way she could guarantee her father’s blessing.
Dangerous Passions Page 12
