to her. ‘His name is Jack Vernon.
Ariana gaped at him, ‘Jack Vernon!’
Tranville looked apologetic. ‘I realise he is not as fashionable as Lawrence or Westall, but he did have some paintings in the Royal Exhibition, I’ve heard tell.’
How well she remembered. She’d used her admiration of Vernon’s paintings to brazenly approach the tall, handsome, solitary young gentleman whose inner struggle of some sort had fascinated her. Sadly, she had never learned who he was.
She resisted another sigh. What good was it to dwell on what was gone? Here was an opportunity to meet the artist and be painted by him.
‘I will do it, my lord,’ she told Tranville. ‘But there is no need for you to escort me such a short distance. Merely give me the exact direction and tell me the time I am expected.’
His lower lip jutted out. ‘I would be delighted to escort you.’
Her hand fluttered. ‘Do not trouble yourself.’
‘But—’
She gave him a level look. ‘I prefer going alone. It is daylight. The streets are full of people. No harm will come to me.’
‘I insist.’ He persisted.
Her brows rose. ‘Is your escort a condition of this agreement? I will not do it if there are conditions to which I must comply.’ Ariana knew better than to make herself beholden to any man.
‘No, no conditions—’ he blustered.
‘Good.’ She rearranged her skirt. ‘Tell me when I am expected.’
An hour later Ariana stood at Mr Vernon’s door, her heart thumping with anticipation. She looked down at herself, brushing off her cloak, pulling up her gloves, straightening her hat. She took a quick breath and knocked.
Almost immediately the door opened.
Framed in the doorway was the handsome gentleman she’d met in Somerset House, the one she’d thought she would never see again.
‘You!’ She gasped. T—I have an appointment with Mr Vernon.’
He looked equally surprised. It took him several seconds before he stepped aside.
As she brushed by him she felt a flurry of excitement. She’d found him, the man who’d so intrigued her at the Summer Exhibition. He was taller than she remembered, and his sheer physical presence seemed more powerful than it had been in the crowded exhibition hall. In the light pouring through the windows, his brown eyes were even more enthralling and every bit as beset with private demons.
‘Is Mr Vernon here?’ she asked.
He slowly closed the door behind her. ‘I am Vernon.’
‘You are Vernon?’ The breath left her lungs.
His frown deepened. ‘I—I did not know you would be coming.’
He did not seem happy to see her. In fact, his displeasure wounded her. ‘Forgive me. Tranville said I was expected at this hour.’
He stiffened. ‘Tranville.’
She began to unfasten her cloak, but stopped. Perhaps she would not be staying. ‘Did you desire him to accompany me?’
His eyes were singed with anger. ‘Not at all.’
He confused her with his vague answers. She straightened her spine and put her hands on her hips. ‘Mr Vernon, if you do not wish me to be here, I will leave, but I beg you will simply tell me what you want.’
He ran a hand through his thick brown hair and his lovely lips formed a rueful smile. ‘Tranville told me to expect an actress. I did not know it would be you.’
His smile encouraged her. ‘Then we are both of us surprised.’
His shoulders seemed to relax a little.
He stepped forwards to take her cloak, and as he came so close she inhaled the scent of him, bergamot soap and linseed oil, turpentine and pure male.
He seemed unaware of her reaction and completely immune to her, which somehow made her want to weep. Only once before had she wanted to weep over a man. He took her cloak and hung it upon a peg by the door, moving with the same masculine elegance that had drawn her to him when she first caught sight of him. He had been the first man to ignite her senses in years, a fact that surprised and intoxicated her even now.
He faced her again, and she hid her interest in a quick glance around the studio, all bright and neat, except for where an easel stood by the windows, a paint-smeared shirt hanging from it. She removed her hat and gloves and placed them on a nearby chair.
He did not move.
So she must. She walked to him. ‘Let us start over.’ She extended her hand. ‘I am Ariana Blane.’
He shook it, his grasp firm, but still holding something back.
Her brows knit. ‘Why did you not tell me, that day, that you were the artist? That you were Jack Vernon?’
He averted his gaze. ‘I intended to, but the moment passed.’
‘Come, now.’ She tried smiling and shaking her finger at him. ‘You allowed me to rattle on for quite a long time without telling me.’
He turned his intense brown eyes upon her. ‘I wanted your true opinion of my paintings. You would not have given it, had you known I had painted them.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, yes, I would. I am never hesitant to say what I think.’
Indeed, she had half a mind to ask him why he scowled when looking at her. He made her senses sing with pleasure. She longed to feel the touch of his hand against her skin, but he seemed completely ill at ease with her.
There had been no unease between them in that first, fleeting, hopeful encounter.
She cleared her throat but disguised her thoughts. ‘What happens now, Mr Vernon? This is my first time having my portrait painted.’
He walked over to a pretty brocade upholstered chair and held its back. ‘Please be seated, Miss Blane. I will bring tea.’
She sat down, very aware of his hands so near to the sensitive skin of her neck. When he released her chair, she swivelled around to see him disappear behind a curtained doorway to a small galley in the back. A moment later he returned, tray in hand.
He placed the tray on a small table in front of her chair.
She touched his arm and his gaze flew to her face. ‘Allow me to pour,’ she murmured, as affected by the touch as he appeared to be. ‘How do you like your tea? Milk and sugar?’
He lowered himself in the chair on the other side of the table. ‘I grew accustomed to going without both on the Peninsula.’
‘You were in the war?’ she asked as she poured his tea and handed him the cup.
His gaze held. ‘In the infantry.’
Her voice turned low. ‘Now I comprehend why your history painting had such authenticity.’
He looked away.
Ariana poured her own tea, adding both milk and sugar. She gazed at him when she lifted the cup to her lips. A barrier had risen between them, one that had not existed when they had met at the exhibition. That conversation had been exhilarating; this one dampened her spirits.
She placed her teacup on the table. ‘So, how do we proceed with this portrait?’
A crease formed between his brows. ‘I need to know what you would like it to be.’
She waved a hand. ‘I have no notion. I first heard of this idea an hour ago.’
He glanced away and his brooding expression intensified. ‘I first heard this morning.’