What A Lord Wants

by Anna Harrington

  “No. I need the painting to be finished by mid-January.”

  He barked out a laugh. “You’re daft!”

  “I’m wealthy.” She arched a brow. “And I will pay you well for your time.”

  Without invitation, she crossed to his worktable. The wooden bench was covered in spilled paint, with pre-made colors carelessly arranged in coarse stoneware containers and other painting supplies scattered haphazardly across it. Ignoring it—and trusting in Lord Alfred’s assurances that this man was the best forger in London—she turned toward him to make certain that he was watching as she removed one of the gold rings from her hand and placed it onto the table.

  That would surely prove how serious she was.

  “I understand that you have certain highly crafted skills that make you unique among London’s artists.” A polite way of saying that she knew he made forgeries to supplement his living. From what she’d seen of his work, he had excellent technique but no sense of creativity. No vision. He couldn’t compose compelling subject matter on his own, but he could mimic the masters. Which was exactly what she needed. “I want to hire those skills.”

  He approached her warily. “For what?”

  “An original painting in the style of Domenico Vincenzo. Thirty-six inches by forty-eight. A nude, similar to his more scandalous compositions. You know the ones I mean.”

  “Aye. His old Venetian works.”

  “No. I want it to look as if he created that painting new, right here in London.” She removed a second ring and held it up the way a stable groom would use a treat to train a dog. “So recent that the paint isn’t yet cured.” Then she placed it onto the table. “Understand?”

  He gave a curt nod, his attention on the jewelry.

  “That should be enough to get you started.” She tapped a finger to the table to indicate the rings. “You’ll get the same amount when you finish. If you’re late finishing, you get nothing.”

  “Agreed.” He reached for the rings.

  Constance placed her hand over them, pinning them to the table. “And I want you to sign the painting as Vincenzo.”

  He stiffened. “That’s fraud.”

  “That’s work,” she countered, removing her hand.

  He hesitated only a moment before snatching up the rings with a glance over his shoulder at the door to make certain no one was there, watching.

  She untied her bonnet and set it aside with her reticule and parasol, then reached up to begin to unbutton her dress coat to remove her clothing. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

  Chapter 22

  Dom frowned at his new model as she lay reclined across the chaise longue, then glanced at the canvas on the easel in front of him to gauge her image as it came to life.

  The painting wasn’t working.

  Heedless of the paint on his hand, he rubbed at his nape and the knot of tension growing there. There was no spark, no glow, no life—that indescribable essence that separated masterpieces from all other paintings, no matter how fine the technique, no matter how compelling the composition. It was missing. And he had no idea how to find it.

  Sensing his frustration, Sally called out helpfully from the chaise, “Do you want me to change positions?”

  “No, stay as you are.” Moving wouldn’t make any difference.

  He raked his fingers through his hair. The painting should be working, should be exactly the same as the one he’d created with Eve. The same pose, the same lighting, the same background…Damnation! Why wasn’t it working?

  Sally was beautiful. There was no problem there. She was a striking woman with sultry curves and long flowing hair, one who did exactly as she was told and who had no inhibitions about removing her clothes to be painted. A woman who Dom had made certain this time wasn’t a society miss.

  But the same qualities that made her so cooperative in posing nude were the same ones stopping him from finding the sublime in her. There wasn’t an innocent bone in her body, and instead of the look of subtle invitation that he’d wanted to capture, he was back to seduction. The same mood produced by every other artist since Boucher who had made their nude Venuses more courtesan than celestial, more doxy than divine. The same expression he’d experienced with Constance and every one of his models.

  Except for Eve.

  The irony was biting. He’d spent weeks cajoling her into baring herself to be painted, and on the only night when she did, they’d created a masterpiece. With her, his vision had come to life on the canvas so easily, like a dream.

  But this woman, this painting…flat and lifeless. And gnawing at his gut with growing aggravation that he couldn’t make it work.

  He clenched his jaw as he studied the painting and how much he’d managed to complete so far. Very little, considering how many hours he’d put into it during the past two months. But then, this was his fifth try, and done after countless sketches, hoping just once to stumble upon the look he wanted. But it hadn’t happened. So he’d been forced to go on, and in reverse of how he’d painted Eve, starting with her body and leaving a blank spot on the canvas where her face should have been. He’d fill that in when Sally gave him the perfect expression.

  If she ever gave it.

  “Try turning your head just slightly to the right, but keep your eyes on me.”

  She did as instructed, but instead of portraying the shyness he wanted, she looked pained.

  Blowing out a hard breath, he wiped off his hands on the towel thrown over his shoulder and approached her. Frustration burned inside him, and he was certain she could feel it. Certainly Jacopo did as he watched Dom from his spot in the corner, having spent enough time in the studio to know when to keep silent. This was certainly one of those days. Dom’s patience already hung by a thread, and each day that came and went without any significant progress only wore that thread thinner.

  “Turn back just a bit—right there. Hold still exactly like that.”

  His gaze narrowed on her. Maybe he could make her lashes longer and create a look of innocence that way. After all, he’d already called upon other illusions in his painter’s bag of tricks to make her more alluring. Unlike with Eve, who possessed an inherent softness, he’d had to make Sally appear soft by draping gauzy fabric over one of her thighs and placing rose petals alongside her body on the velvet chaise. During the past fortnight, he’d even attempted to paint her by the glow of lamplight, thinking it might soften her lines. That hadn’t worked at all. Instead of moving away from the image of a harlot and back toward a goddess, he’d still had a harlot, and one with shadows in all the wrong places.

  So he’d put that painting aside and went back to a previous version. He had to make this one work. The exhibition was only a month away. There wasn’t time to start over again.

  He knelt beside her, balancing on the balls of his feet as he brought his face level with hers. “I’m attempting to capture an expression of demureness.”

  She gave a faint laugh. “I’m naked as a bobbin’ robin!” A teasing lilt colored her Cockney accent. “No good wood gained wi’ demure.” She drew out the word, reminding him of those society ladies with their useless drawing room French, then she wiggled to make her breasts jiggle. “Maybe some ol’ lusty busty, eh?”

  Summoning all his patience, he explained, “I want you to look shy but unashamed to be caught like this, with a curiosity about the man who’s gazing into the painting at you. As if you’re wondering if he’s going to be a gentleman and leave, or if he’s going to stay and approach you, perhaps to make love to you, if you decide to let him.”

  She blinked. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  He bit down an impatient sigh. “Because in this painting you’re still an innocent. Can you do that for me?”

  “I’ll do anythin’ for you, Maestro,” she purred out the sexual innuendo.

  Dom’s jaw clenched in irritation. This was why he’d requested that Jacopo be present at all times when he was with Sally. Not that he was tempted to stray from Eve, but t
o prevent any kind of uncomfortable situation should Sally attempt to seduce him.

  “Then try to look innocent.”

  She gave him a flirtatious smile. “But you know I’m not.”

  He muttered as he stood to move away, “More than you—”

  A figure caught the corner of his eye as he turned back toward his easel. Eve. She stood in the open wicket gate, her eyes fixed on Sally.

  His heart stopped. She’d overheard the woman’s offer, and a look of betrayal darkened her pale face.

  “Eve, what are you doing here?”

  “I need to speak to you.” Her voice was soft but surprisingly calm, given the scene she’d accidentally walked into. But her eyes never left Sally.

  Dread instantly replaced his frustration. “Is something wrong at home, or with your family?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  He eased out a relieved breath. Thank God. Yet an interruption was the last thing he needed. “Can we talk later, then?” He glared at Jacopo for not having the sense to hand Sally her robe and bit back a curse. “Coprire la ragazza.” He inhaled a deep breath as Jacopo scrambled to put Sally into her robe. “I’m in the middle of things here.”

  “So I see,” she drawled quietly when Sally waved away both Jacopo and the robe.

  “Put it on,” he ordered through clenched teeth. “And take a few minutes’ rest.”

  With a piqued sniff, Sally pushed herself off the chaise, then paused for a moment as she stood there naked, in a posture that was purely territorial. She took the robe from Jacopo’s hand and slipped it on but didn’t bother to close it. Not at all embarrassed, she sashayed forward to greet Eve.

  “I’m Sally.” She proudly waved a hand toward the painting. “I’m the model. Maestro has promised to make me beautiful.”

  “He has, has he?” Eve smiled tightly. “I’m sure he will. He’s very good at that.”

  That was not a compliment.

  Sally finally closed the robe and cinched the tie around her waist. Thank God. He could feel the tension pulsating between the two women with every uncomfortable heartbeat.

  He gestured for Jacopo to take Sally aside. But she refused to move, except to trail her gaze over Eve. “And who are you?”

  “His previous model.”

  Not his wife. But of course, she wouldn’t introduce herself that way. Not here, where he was still Vincenzo. Yet her answer inexplicably cut him to the quick and reminded him of how important this new painting was, how it needed to be finished on time.

  Eve arched a brow. “He promised to make me immortal.”

  Sally’s confidence withered. “Did he…make you immortal?”

  “In every way,” she answered.

  Dom had the peculiar feeling that she meant far more than just the painting, although for the life of him he couldn’t have said what.

  Her gaze swung to him, with a haunted expression that took his breath away. “I would like to speak with you please. Now.”

  Cold unease slithered through him. “All right. Let’s go upstairs, shall we?” As he led Eve toward the stairs, he grimaced at Jacopo and jerked his head toward Sally as he warned, “Non toccarla.”

  The last thing he needed was for Jacopo to seduce Sally. Or more likely vice-versa. That would bring a whole new set of complications. Although he wouldn’t be surprised if just that happened. Nothing related to this painting was going well. Eve’s arrival only punctuated that.

  He led her upstairs, not to the bedroom where they’d spent their wedding night but purposefully to the other room beside it. His frustration over the painting and with himself was mounting, and he was behind schedule. The last thing he needed this afternoon were distractions. Or a reminder of how wonderful it was to make love to Eve, not when he was trying to create a painting to convince the world that Sally was the most alluring woman ever created. And failing miserably.

  “She’s very pretty,” Eve commented when he shut the door so that they could speak in private. But she remained apart from him, not coming to kiss him in greeting as she usually did. “Not at all hesitant to pose for you.”

  He grimaced. Sally had stripped out of her clothes and practically sat herself on his lap the day he’d interviewed her. “That’s not necessarily a good thing.”

  “I would think it would be a grand trait in a nude model.”

  He didn’t need this argument. Not today. “Not when the artist wants a model to project innocence.”

  “She wants to bed you, you know.” There was no anger behind that. Simply a quiet statement of fact.

  “She wants the fame and fortune she thinks I’ll bring her,” he corrected in a careful dodge. He couldn’t deny it without sounding like an idiot, especially since she’d overheard the blatant offer Sally had made. One of many she’d been making for the past two months. Not one of which he was interested in accepting.

  “She wants more than that.”

  Christ. He ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to dispel the frustration and aggravation pounding inside him. The worst possible timing for Eve to appear and—

  “Is she a good model?”

  He approached her and cupped her face in his hands, to give her a lingering kiss of reassurance. “No one could ever be as good as you, mia bella.”

  “Not even Elena?”

  He froze, for a moment unable to do anything but absorb the jolting thud of each stunned heartbeat.

  Then slowly, he shifted back from her, to search her face. “How do you know about Elena?”

  “I was approached by Constance Devereaux in the park. She mentioned her.”

  Worry flashed through him. “Are you all right? Did she threaten you?”

  Shaking her head, she stepped away from him and out of his reach. The distance between them felt like miles. “Who is Elena?”

  “A former model, from a long time ago.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “She was more than just that.”

  “Yes.” There was no point attempting to dissemble.

  “What was she to you?” When he hesitated to answer, she pressed gently, “Was she the love of your life?”

  Thank God that all of him had mercifully turned numb, or this conversation would have killed him. “No.”

  Disbelief lingered in the amber depths of her eyes. “Your muse, then?”

  “I thought so once,” he answered with brutal honesty. “But in the end, she wasn’t.”

  “Did you put her before your art?”

  “Yes, I did. But—”

  The look of betrayal that flashed across her face ripped the air from him. He reached for her, but she stepped further away, leaving him to grasp nothing but air.

  “But it was a mistake, and both she and my art suffered,” he finished firmly. “So I ended our relationship. I haven’t seen her in ten years. And I damn well wouldn’t wish her here in place of you, as a model or otherwise.”

  The sadness in her eyes told him that she didn’t believe that, but he had no idea how to convince her. Yet he knew not to reach for her again and instead rubbed at the knot of tension at his nape, now pounding in a brutal headache.

  “I know that I haven’t been home much during the past few weeks, and I am sorry for that. But I have to be here, with my focus on the painting. It’s the most important piece I’ve ever created,” he explained, regrettably with more aggravation than apology. “The art has to come first. You knew that going into our marriage.”

  She gave a jerky, little nod and began to pace. Typical Eve, unable to sit still. She found solace in motion.

  “You did say—” She choked on the words, then drew in a ragged breath and began again, “But I thought…”

  “You thought you could live with being second,” he finished grimly when her voice trailed off. But even as he said it he knew that she wasn’t jealous of Elena or any of his models, not even jealous of the art itself.

  No, what he saw in her was desire. A yearning to discover where she fit into
his life with his art and what that would mean for their future.

  God help her, because he didn’t know himself. Except that he had to finish this painting if they had any chance at all of living in happiness.

  “I was so much more foolish than that.” She gave a distraught little laugh and placed her hand on her hip. “I thought I could make you love me as much as you love your painting, or at least make it so that you wouldn’t split your heart. As long as you do, I will always lose.” Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I tried so hard to give you every bit of myself. Not just physically, but in companionship, too, in simply talking with you about art and philosophy…or when not talking at all. Because you spark that passion in me, Dominick, in all things.” She shrugged sadly, as if it were obvious. “You always have. And I wanted you to feel the same way about me.”

  That soft admission sliced through him. She stood so close that he could touch her by simply reaching out his hand, yet she was half a world away.

  “I want a real marriage, in every way.” Her voice was a breathless whisper. “But I cannot have that if my husband keeps a mistress.”

  She meant his art, not another woman. “It isn’t the same at all.”

  “You’re right. It’s worse.” Her eyes glistened. “Because I could fight against a real woman. But how do I fight against a muse? How do I win against someone who doesn’t exist?”

  Unable to answer that without wounding her further, he took her shoulders and drew her gently back against him. But his heart tore when she flinched.

  He lowered his mouth to her ear. “Do you love me, Eve?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes.”

  A breath of a word, barely any sound at all. But he heard it, and her answer seeped through him like liquid warmth. She loved him…but he’d known that since their wedding night. She was incapable of hiding her emotions, or the way her face lit up whenever she looked at him. He simply hadn’t been able to accept everything that meant. Until now.

  “Would you love me differently, or even less, if I wasn’t an artist?” Or maybe not love me at all…