What A Lord Wants

by Harrington, Anna

  “I can’t tell him, not right now.” She inhaled a deep, trembling breath, knowing how terrible the timing of her pregnancy was. “The winter exhibition is opening soon, and he’s responsible for making all the arrangements.” Half the paintings in Mercer House had already been placed on loan for it and shipped to Pall Mall. “It’s a very special event for him.” No, not special—displaying the painting under his own name meant everything to him. “I don’t want to add to his burden.”

  “This baby is not a burden, and he would never see it that way.”

  Perhaps not. But would it be as important to him as his art?

  “And how do you feel about it?”

  “It’s barely a bump in my belly,” she whispered, unable to keep from smiling happily, “but I love it.” With every ounce of her being. The thought of being a mother excited her and made her feel more alive than any other thing in her life. She no longer feared the darkness, no longer felt alone—all of that changed with the baby. Her smile faded. “I only wish I knew how to tell Dom.”

  Mariah leaned forward to place a kiss to her forehead. “You have to trust him, Eve.”

  She gave a jerking nod, knowing Mariah was right, even if it changed not one thing between them. “I’ll tell him once the exhibition has been launched, after preview night.”

  Mariah hugged her tightly. “Make certain you do, so that we can share your good news with everyone.” She kissed her cheek. “You deserve to be happy about this. You deserve to be spoiled and to make all kinds of wonderful plans for your baby…and you’ll get five months of being able to drive your husband mad without having to explain yourself.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You didn’t!”

  Mariah smiled like the cat who’d gotten into the cream. “I once sent Robert to fetch me a lemon ice from the park. He had to run to have it home before it melted.” Mariah handed her a handkerchief. “Ellsworth will be just as attentive to you. I know it.”

  Thinking of Dom working away in his studio, Even wasn’t at all certain of that.

  Either way, she would go forward. She might never have a real marriage now, but she would find a way to make her home into a loving one for her child. She only wished Dom would be part of it.

  Chapter 24

  A fortnight later

  Dom bit out a frustrated curse. His finished painting wasn’t at all a masterpiece.

  Oh, the technique was fine, he supposed, despite the Rococo brushstrokes he’d been forced to use to soften Sally’s hair. So was the composition. He’d managed to find a pose that made her appear alluringly languid, and her physical beauty carried it off.

  But it lacked spark, that indefinable something that would make a viewer pause long enough before it to be drawn into the scene. To make them want to be drawn in. It wasn’t at all the vision he’d dreamed of creating, that feeling of spying on a sleeping Venus whose sexual temptation was tempered by human innocence and curiosity.

  With an angry snap of the sheet, he covered the painting, less to keep the dust off the half-dried paint and more so that he wouldn’t have to look at it any more tonight. He didn’t need this reminder that his art wasn’t working. Or the reason why.

  Eve.

  Even now, when she was half a city away, he couldn’t push her from his mind. Dear God, how much he missed her!

  He hadn’t seen her at all in the past month, except for a shadowy glimpse of her at Mercer House, watching him from the first-floor window as he walked to his carriage. He’d gone there to fetch papers he’d needed for the exhibition— a damned lie. He’d gone there because he’d wanted to see Eve, because for one desperate moment he’d wanted to tell her how much she meant to him. He wanted to carry her away to his bedroom and make love to her until she forgave him, until she’d never again question his feelings for her and her place in his life.

  But in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Right now, his art—and the future that would come from it—demanded all of him. How could he make her understand that?

  The exhibition preview was tomorrow, and he’d sent her a personal invitation. He wanted her by his side when this painting was revealed, when he would put the last touches on it and sign his own name to the canvas. He couldn’t deny that it most likely would change nothing between them. Yet he wanted her to know how much she meant to him, how much this painting belonged as much to her as to him.

  But she hadn’t replied, and the uncertainty of what she would do gnawed at his gut.

  Needing to keep busy so that thoughts of Eve didn’t overwhelm him, he crossed to his worktable to straighten the tools and notes left in utter disarray during the past few months, along with most everything else in the studio. Chaos seemed to reign in Sally’s wake.

  The irony was biting. Everything in his life had suffered upheaval. But unlike brushes and pigments, his life couldn’t be so easily put back into place.

  He snatched up the leather satchel that had arrived at the studio this afternoon from his art seller in Rome that he’d dropped onto the pile of clutter to deal with later. His usual monthly dispatch. He never looked forward to sorting through the paperwork and handling the business end of his art, usually leaving it to his personal secretary to deal with.

  But tonight, dogged by Constance’s threats and tormented by how badly he missed Eve, he felt just self-punishing enough to do it himself.

  He tore loose the leather tie and spilled the contents across the table, caring nothing if any of them were stained by spots of still-wet paint or oil. The usual invoices fluttered to the tabletop, along with sales receipts and his updated inventory log. But a letter also fell out of the satchel, one addressed to him in elegant handwriting at the Rome address and secured in a sealed envelope.

  He blew out a harsh breath as he sliced open the envelope with a knife. In his experience, a letter in an envelope never portended good news.

  When he removed the letter, a second piece of paper inside dropped to the table and fell open onto its fold.

  His heart stopped as he stared down at the pencil sketch and the woman who looked back at him from the page. A distant memory pierced him with such force, such surprise that he lost his breath. For a moment, he couldn’t move a muscle, yet he was transported hundreds of miles away, and nine years into the past.

  Elena.

  She’d aged well, her face still as beautiful as he remembered. She wore the same smile, too, although the lines around her mouth cut slightly deeper now. So did the ones at the corners of her eyes. Her hair, which she’d loved to cascade freely over her shoulders and down her back, was gathered into the loose chignon of a matron. But her eyes were as mischievous as ever.

  He read the letter, unable to sort through the questions and emotions churning inside him.

  My Dearest Domenico,

  As I write this, I am in Rome with my husband on business.

  Husband. He would have expected that news to stab him with jealousy, but oddly enough, it didn’t. While he would always hold affection for her, what he felt now was simply a fleeting grief at the passing of years.

  I had hoped to find you here, mio caro, but the owner of the gallery where you sell your paintings tells me that you have done the unthinkable and left Italy. So you must settle for this letter. I hear that you are still as handsome as you were when I knew you.

  His eyes strayed over the sketch. “And you are just as beautiful.”

  My husband is a pompous fool who does not deserve me. But I love him, and we are happy. We have two children. Unfortunately, they both look like Niccolo. Fortunately for them, we are wealthy.

  He laughed. Still the Elena he knew.

  I am so pleased to hear that you’ve become a celebrated artist. Niccolo and I own two of your paintings, but he does not know of our past. Not that he would care.

  Dom grinned. “Well, he is Italian.”

  But he would tell everyone that I had once been the lover of the famous Vincenzo, and I could never suffer another one of his boring
stories.

  She was like Eve that way. She’d never tolerate boredom.

  But it is with sad heart that I must write to tell you that Giuseppe has passed away.

  A small piece of him died at the news. For a moment, he could do nothing, staring down at the letter as the handwriting blurred.

  That was why she wrote the letter. Her story about the gallery was only an excuse to save her pride at contacting him again, after being wounded by the selfish bastard he’d once been. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret ending their relationship. He’d cared for her deeply, but not enough to be the husband she deserved. Ultimately, he would have made the same decision and left her, even if he hadn’t spoken to Giuseppe that night, but its delay would have only caused more pain.

  I know what he meant to you. He was your maestro.

  And always would be.

  But you, Domenico, you have become a master in your own right. You are to be congratulated on your achievement. It is everything you wanted.

  Not quite everything. He’d been so close to having it all, as if he could simply reach out his hand and find it just beyond his fingertips—only for fate to cross him again. He’d lost his masterpiece, he’d lost Eve, and for the past six weeks without her, he’d been lost himself.

  Angelina passed away several years ago, and Papa remarried, just a few years before he died.

  Dom hadn’t known that. He hadn’t been in touch with Giuseppe for years and now dearly regretted it.

  He married a woman named Sofia, who loved him dearly but refused to pose for him. Repeatedly he asked, always she refused. Yet she was his muse. He spent the rest of his life pleasing her and died a very happy man. I hope the same will be said about you.

  I know in my heart that you have found your muse, that she is with you even now, guiding you, loving you, inspiring you to greatness…

  His muse. His sketchbook had been left lying open on the worktable, and he glanced down at the drawing. Eve. One of the sketches he’d made of her when he was deciding how best to pose her for the painting.

  She loved him. Her feelings were evident in her eyes even then. There was no denying it.

  His shoulders sagged with overwhelming remorse. And he loved her. There was no point in denying that, either. Not any longer. These weeks apart had him aching to be with her so badly that it nearly consumed him.

  Yet she wasn’t here with him. Because he was a damned fool and destroyed their marriage before it even had the chance to begin.

  Eve was special. She’d restored his passion for creating, stirred inside him a curiosity borne from seeing art through her eyes, inspired him the way that no other woman ever had. He’d never felt more connected to his art than the night when he had finished painting her, never more swept up in that indescribable euphoria that made what emerged from beneath his brush feel divinely guided. As if he were merely the tool through which the sublime manifested itself.

  It took Giuseppe a lifetime to learn the most important lesson of all. That he needed to lead with his heart. So lead with your heart, mio caro, and your art will follow.

  Dear God, he prayed it could be that simple! Desperately wanted it to be.

  But he knew better. Eve wanted his heart, and the thought of giving it to a woman when it had always belonged to his art simply terrified him. If he gave over that last bit of himself, how would he find his way? It would be so easy to become distracted, to slip and plunge…

  Would Eve still love him after the fall?

  He turned toward his worktable and grabbed up his sketchbook, turning to the last page. Eve…the sketch he’d made of her on his wedding night. Even now the sight of her captivated him, so lifelike that he almost expected to see her breathe. A stolen moment in time. Perfection.

  One look at that sketch revealed everything he’d been denying but suspected from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her…

  Eve was his muse.

  He picked up a penknife with trembling fingers and carefully cut the page from the book, rolled it up, and slipped it beneath his waistcoat.

  Then he turned back toward the covered painting on the easel that had given him such fits during the past few months. The one he could never seem to make just right. He’d failed with this piece because he’d been seeing Eve only as a woman and model, using her as a comparison rather than how he should have been seeing her—as his inspiration.

  As he flung the sheet away to reveal the painting beneath, the vision he held of it in his mind’s eye cleared. A new enthusiasm and energy gripped him, a new spirit and determination. Driven by thoughts of the woman he loved, he reached for his brush.

  Chapter 25

  The fierce pounding on the front door reverberated through Mercer House, waking the entire household. It would have woken Eve, too, except that she was still wide awake, halfway through yet another sleepless night.

  She slipped on her wrapper and tied it around herself as she hurried out of her room and through the dark house. She reached the first-floor landing just in time to see a sleep-dazed footman open the front door and a man stride into the house. In the dark shadows his face was completely hidden, but from the breadth of his shoulders and his exuberant confidence, she knew—

  Dominick. Her heart skittered.

  “Where’s my wife?” he demanded excitably, throwing his coat, hat, and gloves at the startled footman.

  When he glanced up the stairs and saw her, he froze.

  For a moment neither of them moved, becoming just as still as the pre-dawn house around them. But she could feel the energy pulsating from him, even from so far away, as he stared up at her, as if she were an apparition. A nervousness fluttered low in her belly.

  Something had happened. He’d changed.

  Not moving his gaze from her, he stalked slowly up the stairs toward her.

  Each step that brought him closer only made her heart race faster, and she held her breath, the uncertainty for why he’d returned too much to bear. If he wasn’t here to give her his heart, if he’d reached the end of his patience and was no longer willing to live with the ultimatum she’d given him—a tremor jarred through her, so hard that her hand rose to her throat in a reminder to keep breathing.

  “I’m home.” He stopped in front of her, so close that she could smell the familiar scent of him, of linseed oil and turpentine, and all of it mixing with the delicious scent of man. “You told me that when I finished the painting I could come home.” Slowly, he reached out to touch her hair, to caress a curl between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m finished.”

  Her stomach clenched, so hard that she couldn’t breathe. As if knowing how much that small touch made a pained yearning swell inside her, he released the curl, but only so he could brush his fingers through her hair, sinking them deep into her tresses.

  She squeezed her eyes closed against his touch. Her desire for him was strong, fueled by so many weeks apart. But her pride was stronger. “I said that you could come home only if—”

  His hand lowered to her breast. Not a touch of passion or heated desire, but of affection and tenderness, and such gentle caresses that the reminder that had been poised on her tongue melted into a soft moan.

  Despite the tightening of her nipple beneath his teasing fingers, she managed to catch back both her breath and her senses and forced out, “Only if you were willing to give me your heart.”

  His hand stilled. For a terrible moment, he didn’t contradict her, didn’t try to argue with her—the faint hope inside her turned to ashes.

  Gulping in deep breaths to fight back desolate tears, she pushed at his shoulder to make him step away.

  Instead, his arm snaked around her waist and drew her against him.

  “I’m home, mia bella,” he repeated, stroking his knuckles across her cheek. In the shadows, his resolute gaze never left hers.

  Her shoulders slumped. Nothing had changed. He’d finished his painting and no longer needed to focus all of his attention on his art, that was all. H
e was free to return to her and have no fear of splitting his passions, because his painting no longer needed him.

  She was still second, and always would be. Even now he smelled of his art, the same way a man might smell of his mistress’s perfume.

  She pushed at him, to turn to walk away—

  His arms tightened around her, pulling her back against his front, to cocoon her in his embrace. “I am home where I belong. With you.” He lowered his mouth to her ear and murmured, “I love you, Eve.”

  All the tiny muscles in her belly clenched hard in response. She didn’t dare turn to face him. Instead, she kept her gaze straight ahead and concentrated on simply remaining on her feet and not crumpling to the floor.

  “You are beautiful and vivacious. The most spirited woman I’ve ever met, full of life and passion.” His heart beat a fast rhythm against her back, so strong and intense that she couldn’t separate his heartbeat from hers. “I cannot for the life of me understand why such a precious creature like you would love me.” His voice ached with uncertainty. “But I pray to God that you still do.”

  She admitted in a breathless whisper, “I do.”

  “Then give me the chance to earn your love.” His arms tightened around her, although she couldn’t think clearly enough to decide if from relief or from fear that he might yet lose her. “I’m asking for your forgiveness, Eve.”

  At what cost? Even now desolation pulsed inside her to know that while he might love her, he would always love his art more. She whispered with anguish, “But nothing’s changed.”