it The Dark Angel. Her mother would destroy it. She would call it A Saint In Repose.
She could not calm her heartbeats, but inspiration came at the strangest moments, and one should relish them, hold them close, hug them to one’s heart.
But she could not touch him again. He was the forbidden fruit. The crevasse that could swallow the as-yet-unmade creations that were inside her and turn her into nothingness.
‘Art is my passion.’
His mouth parted. ‘You could have more than one passion, perhaps.’
‘I do. Oils, then watercolours.’
‘Oils?’ he spoke, moving so close, and somehow he’d turned the word into something else. Something intimate.
Her scrutiny never left him and her hand escaped again. She had to study him. She retraced his jawline. The linen cravat. The rougher wool. She stopped where she started, trapped in some trance that he had spun around her.
Her love of shape and form and inspiration travelled from her fingertips to deep inside her.
He stepped away and her fingers followed, lingering at his waistcoat.
‘No.’ His voice roughened.
‘Your brother would not refuse my touch.’
‘No.’ The word destroyed the magic. ‘I am telling you no for both of us.’
He touched the hand at his chest, took her fingers, kissed above the glove and released her. ‘And you must stay away from him.’
‘Really, Lord Grayson?’
‘Yes.’ He brushed a touch across her cheek and she swayed towards him.
She whispered, ‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘You are creating an accident and it is your choice.’ Grayson took her shoulders and moved inches from her, hinting at things both darker and softer. ‘Do you prefer my brother?’
She didn’t speak.
He whispered at her ear, his voice becoming even richer. Fingertips touched her chin. ‘He is wrong for you.’
She turned away, pulling from his grasp.
He increased the distance between them, using his voice to make a barrier, but a barrier that could be moved. ‘Say it, Miss Catesby. Say whether you prefer me over my brother.’
‘Why should it matter? I hardly know him.’ She examined Lord Grayson again. ‘I know even less of you.’
‘I feel I have known you for ever.’ He paused. ‘Please call me Marcus.’
‘This is the first occasion we’ve met. Truly.’ Yet he stirred something deep inside her. She wanted to tell him the energy he inspired within her. How fortunate she’d been to have the opportunity to approach him and to feel the sensations. She gave him her greatest compliment. ‘You would make a lovely portrait.’
In that second, he retreated, turning the night cold.
His head tilted back and, even in the dim light, she could tell he scrutinised something in the distance. He flexed his jaw. ‘I hope you enjoy the soirée.’
‘And you as well, Marcus.’
She couldn’t force herself to leave him, but he turned and moved back to the light.
She took her glove from her hand and touched her lips. Marcus. So much better than Michelangelo’s David. David was almost a child. Marcus was a man.
Unable to move inside, she waited in the darkness, listening to the muted music and the laughter. Her aunt had a book with an engraving of the sculptor’s Moses. Marcus was not bearded or old, but she imagined him as a likeness of that sculpture. Oh, the arms. They were magnificent in the engraving.
She touched her chin, retracing the movement of his hand. She must stay away from Marcus.
To create was one thing. To love that moment was glorious. But to be swallowed inside one piece of passion could destroy the creator.
Look what Michelangelo had done to Moses’s head. No matter what the protuberances truly were, they hinted at a darker side of inspiration. The face warned her. The same man who had sculpted David had created Moses. Moses, with the glare, the judgemental regard and the condemnation within him.
Marcus condemned her. His voice, his movement and his face did.
Then she paused. He condemned her. When he was not staring at her as if she were the only woman in the world.
But she wasn’t a woman. She was an artist. And she’d been born to be alone and to create.
Then she thought of Marcus. But what if she must experience deep feelings in order to reflect them in her paintings? What if she must have a tortured soul in order to paint with depth…?
Or perhaps she had heard that somewhere and it was nonsense. Perhaps she just needed a roof for her studio, an imagination and paints.
Yes, she decided, thinking back to her struggles with paints.
Art provides all the torture an artist requires.
She would ask her aunt if that were true. She could imagine Beatrice’s laughter.
For now, she wanted to observe Marcus.
She preferred Marcus as a subject. She preferred him to speak with. She preferred him far above Mr Westbrook. But Westbrook was the safer of the two. He thought her name Amelia and she had no desire to correct him.
Marcus watched her as his brother twirled Emilie around the room warmed by all the people moving about. Their second encounter of the night, but neither one a waltz.
Nathaniel appeared entranced with Emilie, but then Nathaniel was taken with every woman he spoke to. It did him well.
The violins stopped and the musicians raised their bows with a flourish. The talk surrounding Marcus faded into nothingness while he watched his brother and Emilie. Never before had he been jealous of his younger brother, but Nate was looking at Emilie so.
Marcus had no reason to be envious. None at all. In fact, he’d felt guilt for being the eldest and the one who would inherit the title.
He enjoyed verbally jousting with his brother. He loved Nate. Loved him, but if his brother did not stop making eyes at Emilie, Marcus would take him aside after the evening ended and throttle him.
Emilie was not another conquest. She was a country girl and not used to the soirées and light talk his brother excelled at.
Both Nathaniel and Emilie went their separate ways without hesitation. Marcus exhaled. Perhaps they were both wiser than he.
He went to his mother’s portrait now that the guests were beginning to leave and stared at it. It was a fine painting, but no different from any of the many others in the family gallery, except it was of his mother.
‘Lord Grayson.’ Instantly he recognised Emilie’s voice. He turned to her and saw that her mother was behind her.
‘It is an amazing picture,’ Emilie said.
‘True.’ In those seconds he meant it. His mother liked the painting. Everyone said it portrayed her well. And anything that could bring such raptness to Emilie fascinated him.
‘You do appreciate some art?’ she asked.
‘Occasionally.’ When it appeared before him as Emilie did.
‘Most everyone does, even if they don’t know it. Usually if they don’t like paintings or sculpture, it is because they haven’t seen the right work. Something that stirs them.’
He took in the tendrils of her hair that trickled from