He stared down into her eyes. “I’d rather stay right here with you.”
A warmth blossomed in her chest. He should have been here this morning, in fact, when the doors were open and varnishing day began, when the artists all had their first glimpses of the competition. Instead, he’d remained at home with her, bringing her breakfast in bed. That small gesture did more to reassure her that he was serious about the role she would play in his life going forward than all his words from the night before.
She slid her hand down into his and affectionately squeezed his fingers.
They watched together as the artists fussed over their paintings, applied last bits of color and glaze, and touched up the sheen of their varnishes. Eve noticed with pride how all the men’s gazes kept returning to Dom’s painting to gauge it against their own, and she smiled with a stifled laugh of happiness every time one of them read the signature and was startled to discover who had painted it.
Of course, she was biased, but Dom would surely win. He would be established as an artist in his own right, and Vincenzo could quietly disappear, with all the scandalous gossip right along with him. No more secrets. Finally, they could have the future she’d dreamed of having with him, in a loving home surrounded by family, with Dom free to paint openly and receive all the accolades he deserved. She would be by his side, loving and being loved in return.
She leaned closer to wantonly murmur, “When we take that carriage ride home tonight, I think—”
A flash of red at the rear of the gallery caught her attention. Constance.
Eve stiffened. What the devil was she doing here?
In a gown of red satin, she lingered at the rear of the long gallery, alone. Lord Alfred Wembley was nowhere to be seen. She kept herself apart from the other guests, yet she gazed around the galley with confidence.
Dom frowned at her with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Constance is here,” she whispered.
That familiar mask came down over his face as he glanced around the gallery. Eve knew the moment he saw the woman, because his eyes narrowed for just a beat. Then he forced a smile and turned back to watch the porters bring out the paintings for the auction. Each canvas was covered with a sheet, ready to be revealed one by one when they were presented for bids.
“So she is,” he drawled impassively.
He wasn’t at all surprised, which meant… “You knew she would be here.”
“I had my suspicions. But don’t let her presence bother you. Tonight is about us.”
How could she not let this horrible woman bother her? Unable to ignore the sharp squeeze of her chest in alarm, Eve glanced at Constance, who was now making her way toward them, watching Dom closely. And very interestedly. Every inch of her reminded Eve of a lioness on the prowl, especially her claws that she apparently wanted to dig into Dom.
“I don’t trust her.” She tightened her fingers in his as the memory of all the threats that Constance had made that day in the park rushed over her. Including how she expected to become Dom’s lover again.
“It’s all right. She’s nothing but a nuisance.”
Oh, she desperately wanted to believe him! But… “If she’s here, tonight, then—”
“Our first painting of the auction is a very special donation,” the supervisor of the Institution called out above the noise of the crowd to get their attention. He gestured for the first painting to be maneuver into place.
Dom squeezed her fingers. “I would never let her do anything to hurt you.”
She nodded and fought to keep down the rising dread inside her.
“A new, never-before seen work…by Italian artist Domenico Vincenzo!”
Dom startled. Her hand slipped through his fingers as he spun around to face the supervisor. “What do you—”
The supervisor grabbed the sheet and whisked it away.
A startled gasp went up from the crowd at the sight of the painting, and Eve’s hand went to her throat. The room pitched and rolled beneath her. Every beat of her heart came as an agonizing thud.
Everyone else in the room stared wide-eyed because of the scandalous nature of the composition, because of the brushstrokes and colors that were undeniably Vincenzo’s, because they’d heard of the man’s wicked reputation and were now finally seeing proof of it for themselves.
But Eve stared because it was a painting of Constance. A new painting. One so recent that the paint hadn’t yet cured.
She lay naked across the same velvet chaise from Dom’s studio, and in the background was the studio itself, right down to the work tables with their rows of pigments and supplies. Her long hair draped over the rolled arm of the chaise, and her hand rested suggestively between her legs. The look on her face wasn’t at all the one of innocent allure that Dom had wanted for his masterpiece but one of a woman who had just been thoroughly ravished and wholly satiated…by the artist who had painted her.
Eve’s startled gaze darted to Constance.
The woman smiled back triumphantly.
Chapter 27
Bewilderment surged through Dom as he stared at the painting. A new Vincenzo…impossible.
Yet there it was, right before his eyes. Every inch of it was exactly as he would have painted it, right down to the minimal use of line and the scandalous nature of the composition.
He knew damned well that he hadn’t painted it. Not recently. Not ever.
But Eve didn’t. Even now the blood drained from her face and left her as white as a ghost. When she began to tremble, the desperate need to protect her overwhelmed him.
“I did not paint that,” he said quietly to her as whispers and embarrassed giggling went up through the crowd. He took her arm, but she pulled away. “You have to believe me.”
Her expression of uncertainty shattered him. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“You can damned well believe this.” He clasped her arm, this time refusing to let her move away. There had been enough distance between them in the past several weeks. Now it was over. For good. He called out loudly, “That is not a Vincenzo!”
The scandalized whispers of shock that had gone up from the guests turned to outright utterings of surprise and disbelief. The crowd craned their necks to garner better views, not of the painting but of Dom as he stepped toward the Institution’s superintendent, leading Eve with him. They glanced from the painting to Dom and back again, recognizing Vincenzo’s style.
It was a forgery, yet Dom was the only one in the world who knew that for certain.
He gestured at the painting as he announced loudly enough for the entire gallery to hear, “That painting is a fraud!”
More and louder whispers went up, then fully-fledged murmurs and hushed voices. A few of the gentlemen called out Bollocks! beneath their breaths, believing the lie and supporting their institution’s leader, while the ladies tittered, more embarrassed by Dom’s accusation of fraud than by the shocking way that Constance was draped across the canvas.
The superintendent blinked with bewilderment. “Of course, it’s a Vincenzo. Look at it!”
“That is not a Vincenzo,” Dom protested, as much to Eve as to the crowd. “I own several pieces by Vincenzo, and believe me, that is not one of his.”
The superintendent exchanged puzzled looks with his assistant as the man hurried forward to double check the signature on the canvas and match it to his list of auction paintings.
The guests didn’t bother speaking in whispers now as they began to argue with each other over the painting and Dom’s protests. Many of them pushed in closer to gain a better look.
“It’s a fraud—granted, one that mimics his composition and brushwork, but most certainly not an original.”
That sent up a new ripple of confusion through the crowd, and Dom was certain this little display would only deepen the rift between the Institution and the Royal Academy, which was already tenuous at best. For him, as a leading member of the Academy, to call out the superintendent of the Institution for not k
nowing an authentic painting when he saw one—this alone was enough to ruin his reputation in the English art world. But he didn’t give a damn about that now.
“Dom,” Eve whispered, attempting once more to pull away. She turned her face away, but not before he saw the glistening tears welling in her eyes. “Please stop.”
She didn’t believe him…Damnation, she didn’t believe him!
“Look at it, Eve.” He took her arm and gestured at the painting. “The composition is too overconfident, the colors too garish—and look at the lines, firm when they should be created with color and shading. That painting is not one of mine.” Aware of the almost two hundred pairs of ears eavesdropping on them, he added loudly to the superintendent, “You’ve been had.”
“It’s my painting,” Constance interjected as she wove her way forward through the crowd.
Dom’s gaze narrowed murderously on her. That lying little shrew…But the crowd believed her, giving way to move aside as she sauntered forward. Whispers and pointing rose in her wake as the guests realized that she was the model in the painting. The same woman who had recently been Lord Alfred’s mistress. A society pariah on both fronts. But Constance relished in the notoriety.
She gave Dom a sideways glance as she glided past him to hold out her hand to the superintendent and drop into a curtsy. “Vincenzo gave it to me, and I donated it to the Institution.” A self-amused smile curved at her lips. “I’ve always been a dedicated patroness of the arts.”
The superintendent’s eyes flared wide in surprise. “Well—I—I—”
“You donated this?” Dom demanded. That explained how she received an invitation without him knowing. He’d had nothing to do with the auction, and Constance had somehow discovered that. This was how she was seeking her revenge.
“Yes.” She sent him her most flirtatious smile. Beside him, Eve tensed. “And I can definitely say that I know without a doubt who painted it. Because I was there in his London studio posing for it, as you can see.” A heartbeat’s pause as the crowed tittered at that reference to her naked image. “As late as yesterday afternoon, in fact.”
Eve flinched, and Dom tightened his hold on her arm. He would not lose her. Not now. Not to lies and fraud.
“You can see for yourselves that the paint isn’t yet completely dry from where Vincenzo put the final touches on my…” She waved a hand at the painting and censored herself. “My canvas.”
“Vincenzo was nowhere near your canvas,” Dom replied, his anger seething, but Eve’s pallor only deepened with each attempt he made to disavow the painting. “I don’t know who created that, but it wasn’t Vincenzo.”
“Oh?” Constance challenged with exaggerated innocence, stealing a fleeting yet pointed glance at Eve. “And how, exactly, do you know that, my lord?”
Her simple question stopped his heart, and around him, his world came to a grinding halt. In that moment, he took it all in—Eve’s betrayed expression, the knowing gleam in Constance’s eyes, the confusion and growing anger pulsing through the gallery—and he knew what Constance’s endgame had been all along for this painting, for tonight…for him. It was a calculated shot across the bow of his career, and an orchestrated destruction of his marriage.
His gaze darted to Eve, who stood still as a statue, completely stunned and barely able to hold in her scream. Pain seared his chest as he looked at her, helpless to ease the churning betrayal she felt. The painting might have been a warning shot for him, but it had caught Eve directly in the heart.
“Yes, my lord?” Constance pressed with a flirtatious fluttering of her lashes that indicated a familiarity they hadn’t had since he met Eve all those months ago. Then she turned toward Eve, and the underlying threat was clear— “My lady?”
He was trapped. The only way to challenge her was to reveal his identity as Vincenzo and, with that, destroy his reputation and all he’d worked so hard to accomplish as Ellsworth, both in the Lords and for the title’s legacy. More, destroy his career as an artist.
But if he didn’t, if he gave in to her demands and remained silent, he’d lose the love of his life.
Eve or his art…The snare closed in upon him.
Dragging in a deep breath, he admitted quietly, “I know because I am Domenico Vincenzo.”
He’d never before dared to utter those words publicly as the Marquess of Ellsworth, but what mattered was his marriage, his love for Eve and their baby, for all the babies they’d yet to have. All the future days and nights he wanted to spend only with her.
The rest be damned.
“I am Vincenzo,” he repeated, this time loudly enough for the entire gallery to hear. He pointed at the canvas. “And I certainly did not paint that.”
Eve stared at Dom, stunned. She didn’t dare believe that she’d heard correctly. He was exposing his secret. No, he was destroying it, along with his art…what he held most dear in his heart—
Not what he held most dear. Her hand went to her belly. Not anymore.
Her soul warmed to realize it.
Gasps went up, along with laughs and disbelieving guffaws. The superintendent and his assistant stared at him incredulously, so did the other artists who had paused in their last-minute touches to gawk and gape. Everyone glanced dubiously from Dom to the painting and back. Then again. And again, until they didn’t know what to believe—their own eyes as they stared at a painting that was clearly in Vincenzo’s style, or Ellsworth’s untarnished reputation.
Only Constance kept her gaze fixed on Dom, just as stunned as everyone else that he’d revealed himself. Her eyes narrowed into furious slits.
“This is absurd!” Constance grabbed the superintendent’s arm. “This painting is a Vincenzo. I posed for it, for heaven’s sake! Are you telling me that I do not know the man for whom I removed my clothes?”
That sent up a new round of embarrassed whispers and tittering from the scandalized ladies, more loud opinions from the confused men.
The superintendent’s face flushed scarlet at the pandemonium unfolding around him. “Enough!” He waved his arms in the air to silence the crowd. “Ellsworth! What is the meaning of this?”
Dom reluctantly released Eve’s hand, and she felt the loss of his touch as if a ribbon that had been connecting them had been cut. She caught her breath and resisted the urge to grab for him. Dread and panic still pulsed inside her over the game Constance was playing, and how far Dom would go to prove himself to her.
“When I lived in Italy before I inherited, I studied art with Giuseppe Carracci,” he explained. “And I became a painter.”
“A great one,” Eve whispered. Although he didn’t turn toward her, he reached to affectionately squeeze her arm.
“But you all knew my brother.” He directly addressed the crowd pushing in around them. “How well would Timothy have taken the news that I wanted to paint, and paint nudes at that? So I took the identity of Domenico Vincenzo, the Italianized version of my Christian names. There I was an artist. Here I was Lord Dominick James Mercer. The two men never crossed paths.”
Until tonight. Tonight, his entire life had been changed. Again.
“I intended to live out my life in Italy as an artist. But then my brother died, and I had to return to England. I refused to give up painting, so I set up a secret studio in Chelsea.” His shoulders remained firm beneath the revelation of his identity and the murmurs and whispers of doubt increasing around them. “Miss Devereaux was one of my former models whose employment was terminated last spring. That painting”—He gestured at the canvas—“is not one of mine. It’s nothing but a very good forgery.”
“Look at the painting!” Constance cried out. “He’s lying.”
“Why would I do that?” he challenged.
“I don’t know, but—but you are!” She charged up to him and lowered her voice. “Stop this! You are ruining everything. Your career, my future—do you understand?”
“Oh, I understand completely,” he said, folding his arms over his chest in that
imperious way of his. “And I don’t give a damn.”
Her mouth fell open, stunned.
The superintendent waved back the crowd as it pushed closer to gain a better look at the painting and at the unfolding spectacle it had caused. “Ellsworth, this ludicrous story of yours—”
“Is fact,” he interjected. “And I have evidence to prove it.”
He reached beneath his waistcoat and withdrew a small, rolled up sheet of paper. He held it up.
“Here is the most recent work by Vincenzo.” He unrolled it. “And his last.”
He held it open and lifted it over his head, then slowly turned in a circle for everyone in the gallery to see. Including Eve, whose hand went to her chest at the sight of it.
A sketch of her sleeping in the bed in the studio, made on their wedding night.
“This one is in the pure style and technique of Vincenzo. A sketch of my wife in our bed.” He slapped it against the superintendent’s chest. “How could Vincenzo have created this if I’m not him?”
The startled whispers and arguments among the onlookers increased.
He arched a brow, no trace of amusement visible in him anywhere. “Unless he’s been breaking into my bedroom at night to watch my wife sleep. In which case, he will be the great—and late—Vincenzo.”
Hoots of laughter howled through the gallery. Thoroughly embarrassed, the superintendent attempted to regain whatever control he could by signaling for the porters to remove the painting and muttered something beneath his breath about sorting through all of it tomorrow.
But Constance was so infuriated that she stabbed her finger into Dom’s shoulder and hissed out, “You’ve ruined everything!”
“No, I haven’t,” he said with impossible calmness. “I found salvation.” Then he dismissed her completely from his life by turning his back on her.
Constance cried out a furious half-snarl, half-growl of pure frustration. She spun on her heel and stormed out of the gallery, this time having to shove through the stunned crowd that didn’t bother to move out of her way.
What A Lord Wants Page 26
