Eve watched Constance only long enough to make certain that she was truly gone before she turned back toward Dom. The deep concern on his face nearly undid her, and she reached for his arm to steady herself. Oblivious to the mumbling crowd around them, he focused all of his attention on her.
“I don’t know where she got that painting,” he said, “and I don’t care. What matters is that she can never harm us again.”
Eve choked back her tears. “But Vincenzo…” She couldn’t put voice to it, still unable to believe what he’d just done. Because if she spoke of it, then the words made it real, and Dom’s career as the great Italian artist was over.
He cupped her face between his hands. “You are my muse, Eve. I know that now. I spent my entire adult life searching, never knowing if I would ever find her…only to discover that she was right here in front of me. In you, my love. I plan to dedicate the rest of my life to pleasing you, and I will never again pretend to be anything except the man I truly am—the one who loves you.”
Joy filled her. Yet her heart ached for him and all he’d just lost as she reminded him softly, “You’ve also endangered your reputation as Ellsworth.”
“I don’t care about me.” His face darkened. “But I’ve ruined you by association.”
“That doesn’t matter.” When the worry on his face didn’t lessen, she lifted up onto her toes to kiss him in front of the entire gallery, proving in that scandalous gesture how little she cared about what society thought of them.
She placed her hand against his cheek and felt the strength and resolve inside him, all the happiness he brought her, the joy of all the years to come. Together.
“Tell me again,” she whispered.
He slipped his arms around her. “I love you, Evelyn Mercer.”
“No.” She smiled, oblivious to the fresh whispers rising around them in the crowd. “The other…”
He murmured, his voice filled with love and admiration, “You are my muse.”
She sighed as he lowered his lips to hers. A tear of happiness slipped down her cheek.
Epilogue
Venice, Italy
One year later
* * *
The warm afternoon breeze wafted through the open balcony doors of the palazzo. The briny scent of salt and seaweed from the Grand Canal below mixed with the lingering odors of pigments and linseed oil in the third-story studio that was awash with sunlight. The soft tolling of bells from the campanile in San Marco drifted over the rooftops and canals, mingling with the sounds of ships and boats, the occasional burst of muted laughter, and calls between the gondoliers as they guided their slender, black boats through the city.
From behind his easel, Dom applied careful brushstrokes of color to the canvas, the form taking shape before his eyes. This was the moment he loved most, that miraculous change when the paint transformed from simple brushstrokes into a true vision.
He simply couldn’t imagine a more beautiful vision than the one unfolding before him.
“How is it coming?” Eve called out from where she sat on the gold brocade settee positioned in front of the three sets of French doors. The sunlight fell over her shoulders and lit her face, and her hair shined like flames against her white cotton dress.
“Nicely,” he murmured and used his thumb to subtly blend the paint.
“Just nicely?”
He grinned as he glanced up at her, taking in the way the thin gown fell off her shoulders and billowed over her breasts, how it revealed the curves beneath in soft shadows and the long stretch of smooth neck gliding into her bare shoulder. She sat with her legs drawn up beneath her, one elegant calf revealed to the light. Dear God, she was beautiful.
“Very nicely,” he amended dryly.
In the past year and a half since they married, he’d learned exactly how to bait her and loved doing it, because he thrilled at seeing the fire in her. He loved that expression of exasperation she gave him—like she was doing right now. He prayed he’d never grow tired of it.
She carefully stood, then crossed the top floor of the palazzo they’d purchased for their Venetian home, where he could spend his days painting. He still had to return to England when Parliament was in session, still had estates to look after there. But they planned on spending as much time here as possible, in the city she’d come to love as much as he did. A city full of adventure.
She came up beside him and peered down at the painting.
“Oh, Dom,” she whispered, awestruck.
He paused in his brushwork and stepped back to evaluate the emerging image. The golds of the sunlight and the settee, Venice in the background, the beauty of Eve’s shining face…and their baby son whom she cradled in her arms.
This painting encapsulated all that he held dear in his heart, everything he loved most in the world. A true masterpiece.
“Do you like it?” he murmured, taking one last assessing glance at the painting.
Then he looked at Eve. The joy he saw in her stole his breath away.
“It’s simply wonderful, my love.” She touched his cheek. “You are simply wonderful.”
The baby gurgled soft sounds of agreement. A knot of emotion tightened in his throat. Unable to speak, Dom cupped his son’s head in his hand and placed a kiss to the baby’s forehead.
She raised up onto tiptoes to kiss him, and on her lips, he tasted far more than love. He tasted the promise of a happy future, the joy of more children to come, the excitement of more paintings and more adventures. They would grab life by both hands and never let go. Together.
Historical Note
The Royal Academy is truly the premiere art organization in Britain, not just during the Georgian period but throughout its entire 250-year history. The RA was founded in 1768 to promote not only the understanding and appreciation of art but also its practice. The RA still works to support artists by maintaining a collection of artistic treasures, hosting several exhibitions and events throughout the year, and running Britain’s longest established school of art. Just as Dominick Mercer proudly explains, the RA is comprised only of practicing artists who are elected by their peers in recognition of their work and who share a commitment to art and to the invaluable contribution that artists make to the world.
The RA is famous for its spectacular Summer Exhibition, which is filled with traditions, including a quirky one known as varnishing day. Although originally a chance for artists to apply final varnishes, it also provided a preview in which artists, critics, and celebrities could see and discuss the paintings before the exhibition opened to the general public. Varnishing day remains a beloved tradition, although now its purpose is to celebrate the artists—they gather in the courtyard of Burlington House, parade down Piccadilly led by a steel band, and then attend a blessing at St James’s Church.
Although vanishing day was changed to varnishing night in the novel, the details are correct—historically, it became a free-for-all of artists scrambling to make last minute adjustments to their paintings. One of the most infamous partakers of varnishing day was J. M. W. Turner, who significantly altered or even finished incomplete paintings. Although stories of Turner sending in a nearly bare canvas, only to paint an entire picture right there in the gallery, are most likely apocryphal, an incident did occur on varnishing day in 1832 between Turner and John Constable that lives in infamy. Constable was busily putting the final touches to The Opening of Waterloo Bridge, when Turner—his greatest rival—entered the gallery. Turner noted that his own seascape looked pale in comparison, so he added a bright red buoy smack in the middle of his canvas, stealing the show from Constable, who had spent fifteen years working on his painting. (Constable, however, wasn’t innocent in their ongoing feud. The previous year, he had schemed to have one of Turner’s paintings removed from its prominent position on the gallery wall and replaced with one of his own.)
For 250 years, the RA has continued to host its summer exhibition—through both world wars and the falling bombs of the blitz. As t
he world’s largest open-submission exhibition, it provides an unparalleled democratic and artistic experience. Over 13,000 entries were submitted in 2018, and those pieces accepted for the exhibition featured artists of all skill levels, from leading artists to those who paint in their garages between work shifts…all of them creating their visions one hopeful brushstroke at a time.
If You Enjoyed this Romance
If you enjoyed this book, you won’t want to miss the other books in the award-winning Capturing the Carlisles series…
IF THE DUKE DEMANDS – Sebastian Carlisle, Duke of Trent, is in pursuit of a proper wife who can help him run the dukedom. The only thing stopping him, however, is Miranda Hodgkins, an overly energetic woman with trouble in her wake who is the most completely wrong woman in the world to be his duchess…but also the woman he cannot push out of his mind, or his heart.
* * *
WHEN THE SCOUNDREL SINS – Annabelle Green must marry by her twenty-fifth birthday or lose the only true home she’s ever known. But the only man who can help her is Quinton Carlisle, the scoundrel who accidentally ruined her reputation seven years earlier. Tasked with finding her a proper husband, Quinn soon discovers a terrible problem—he wants her for himself.
* * *
AS THE DEVIL DARES – When Robert Carlisle is given a partnership in the largest shipping company in England in exchange for finding a husband for the owner’s daughter, he jumps at the chance. After all, how difficult can it be to find a husband for a beautiful shipping heiress? But this isn’t just any heiress. Mariah Winslow is the woman known as the hellion, and she has other plans for the partnership, including winning it for herself.
* * *
HOW THE EARL ENTICES – Ross Carlisle, Earl of Spalding, is forced to commit treason and race to London to catch a murderer. But when seeking refuge during a storm, he meets Grace Alden, a widow who is keeping her own deadly secrets. Soon, he is fleeing for his life, and the only person who can save him is a dead woman.
* * *
The romance continues in the Secret Life of Scoundrels…
* * *
DUKES ARE FOREVER — Edward Westover, Duke of Strathmore, vows revenge against the man who killed his brother and will not stop until he possesses everything his enemy holds dear—including his daughter. To his surprise, Kate Benton is no child but a beautiful, impetuous, and utterly irresistible woman. As battle lines are drawn, do they dare trust the other with their heart? Maggie Award Winner for Best Historical Romance 2016!
* * *
ALONG CAME A ROGUE — When Major Nathaniel Grey’s best friend is gravely injured and asking for his little sister, Grey will move heaven and earth to bring her home. But the gangly girl he remembers has become a stunningly beautiful woman who utterly captivates him. Although she once loved him, Emily is now a widow with deadly secrets who needs to disappear before they’re revealed, but Grey offers protection unlike anything she’s ever known, tempting her to risk everything…even her heart.
* * *
HOW I MARRIED A MARQUESS — Thomas Matteson, Marquess of Chesney, excelled at espionage—until a tragic accident cost him his career. Now to salvage his reputation and return to the life he loves as a spy, the marquess must find the criminal who’s been robbing London’s rich and powerful. He’s no fool—he knows Josie Carlisle, with her wild chestnut hair and rapier-sharp wit, is hiding something and he won’t rest until he unravels her mysteries, one by one. But he never expected to be the one under arrest—body and soul. RITA Award Finalist!
Be the first to receive news about new releases, special offers, contents, and more, sign up for Anna’s newsletter at https://bit.ly/2m7zWF0 and follow her on all her social media at:
https://www.annaharringtonbooks.com/follow
How the Earl Entices Excerpt
SPECIAL BONUS! Enjoy this glimpse into the first chapter of How the Earl Entices by Anna Harrington — Ross Carlisle, Earl of Spalding, is forced to commit treason and race to London to catch a murderer. But when seeking refuge during a storm, he meets Grace Alden, a widow who is keeping her own deadly secrets. Soon, he is fleeing for his life, and the only person who can save him is a dead woman.
Grace Alden lay in her bed, staring at the dark ceiling and listening to the storm raging around her. The wind and rain roared so loudly that she couldn’t hear her own heartbeat. But she knew it was racing because it jumped into her throat each time she heard something bang against the cottage. The wind howled like a banshee over the cliff tops, screaming through the eaves and bringing with it a torrent of black rain that fell with the force of a hurricane.
“Please God, let the roof hold.”
Around her, the old limestone and timber cottage groaned beneath the fierce battering of the storm.
“And the walls, too,” she whispered in afterthought, “if not too much trouble.”
After ten more minutes of staring at the ceiling, she slid out from beneath the covers. Sleep was proving impossible tonight.
The cottage was dark as pitch as she made her way slowly across the main room to the hearth, where a bed of coals hissed and snapped angrily against the few drops of rain that found their way down the chimney from the force of the wind. She stirred the ash bed with the iron poker to raise a flame, tossing in a few more chunks of coal to feed the fire enough to last until morning. Normally, she never would have burned a fire through the night, but tonight, she sought its comfort.
Taking a brass candleholder from the mantel, she bent over to light the wick in the flames and let out a soft sigh when it caught hold. After nearly ten years of fearing things that bumped in the night, would she ever grow comfortable in the darkness? But the most frightening things weren’t the unseen. She’d learned the hard way that the worst were the ones a person knew well.
She lifted the candle to read the storm glass fixed to the wall. The water in the spout had been rising during the past two days, and now it stood higher than she’d ever seen it. She bit her bottom lip. It could be hours before the water level dropped and the temperature fell, before the clouds rained themselves dry.
Before she could bring Ethan home.
Her chest tightened with aching worry. Sending her son into the village to spend the night with Alice Walters at the apothecary shop had been the right decision. She knew that. But oh, how much it hurt to be separated from him! For the first time in his life, too. But the sailors who had come ashore all day predicted that tonight’s storm would be the worst in memory. Ethan was safer within the shop’s thick stone walls, while she had to be here to rescue their belongings in case the roof caved in. Holding everything she owned in the world, this cottage had been her own safe port over the past stormy decade, where she and Ethan had been safe since he was born.
But he wasn’t a babe anymore. He was nine years-old now, and growing so fast that it pained her to think of it.
He’d soon reach an age when he should be going off to school. Instead, he’d have to stay here. Guilt gnawed at her. He deserved better, was born for better—fine schools, hundreds of books, private tutors, trips across England and the continent to see in person all the wonderful things that the world had to offer. Instead, they had to make do with the few books she could scrape together enough money to purchase and the tutoring sessions with the local vicar she’d negotiated in trade for cooking and cleaning the vicarage.
But he could never have that other life. As far as Ethan knew, his father was a sailor who died at sea, and she fully intended to keep it that way. Because if Ethan ever discovered the truth, if he ever got the foolish notion into his head when he was older to pursue what was due him…She shuddered.
At least now, he would have a life. She would never regret what she had to do to keep her son safe.
A loud banging shot through the noise of the storm. She jumped with a small scream, her hand going to her throat.
The pounding came again. This time she recognized it—a shutter had broken loose and was banging wildly against the
side of the cottage in the howling wind. Her chest sagged. She had to fix it. If she didn’t, not only would it continue to bang all night, but it might also smash through the window it was supposed to be protecting.
Setting the candle onto the table, she moved toward the door, where she pulled on a pair of fisherman’s boots and an oilskin coat. The last thing she wanted to do tonight—oh, the very last thing!—was go out into the weather and be soaked, chilled to the bone, and battered about. But she had no choice, because she couldn’t afford to replace the window if it broke. At least she could brew up some hot tea when she returned. Taking comfort in that, she threw back the bolt and opened the door, only to have her breath ripped away by a burst of icy cold wind and rain that slammed into her.
Pulling the old coat tighter around herself, she shouldered her way into the wind and along the front of the cottage. It took only a moment to close the shutter and fasten the hook that had somehow come undone.
She turned to scurry inside—
A strong arm went around her waist and swung her back against the side of the cottage. She screamed, but the sound was lost beneath the noise of the raging storm. A forearm pushed against her upper chest, pinning her against the wall.
Another scream ripped from her throat. She kicked and punched with all her might at the man who’d grabbed her, who now held her a helpless prisoner as he leaned into her, his muscular legs forcing hers to still. With one large hand, he grabbed both her arms and pinned them over her head, while the other pressed the barrel of a pistol beneath her chin.
What A Lord Wants Page 27
