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Richard had arisen from his chair—when, she did not know—and now strode over to her. There was such power and confidence in his air. How had she never noticed? Like a gentleman. Like a baronet, a man with a title and a place in the world.

He took the proffered painting.

Evelyn stared at it upside down. It was not, perhaps, her best work, but it exemplified the artistic principle well, and she had greatly relished painting it—which, she was starting to realize, was half the challenge in and of itself.

And Venice was a wonderful study. The water, the curving canals, the golden buildings, the way light moved and the people congregated around the edges…

“Was this painted from life?”

“‘Life’?”

“Did you go to Venice, paint it there?” was his quiet question, his eyes not leaving the canvas.

Evelyn laughed awkwardly. “No! No, my papa would never consider going to Venice for such a thing. No Grand Tour for us. I have never traveled, despite desperately wishing to do so.”

“But you painted this?” Richard asked quietly.

Evelyn’s heart twisted. Ah. It is not very good, then . That was the trouble with being a lady artist, she wanted to shout from the rooftops. It is so much easier for men! They have more tutoring, more classes, more opportunities to travel, to exhibit.

“I know it is not that impressive,” she said hastily, reaching out a hand to take it back. “But as you can see, the perspective shifts along here demonstrate—”

“It’s not that impressive,” said Richard quietly, holding on to the painting firmly.

Evelyn had not intended for her fingers to brush past his own, she told herself, and that was surely why her stomach had turned over. Not because Richard, of all people, had confirmed what she had hoped never to hear: that her painting was bad.

“Yes, I know,” she said dully.

“‘It’s not that impressive’?” repeated Richard, his voice rising a little. “It’s very impressive. How did you get the light to look as though it is illuminated within the painting?”

Evelyn stared. “I… I beg your pardon?”

Her studio was spinning. That wasn’t right. It was a building. Buildings weren’t supposed to spin.

“And the perspective is truly amazing,” he continued, his eyes focused not on her, but on the painting. “I feel as though I could step into this painting and walk along here—and here. You are gifted, Evelyn.”

“No, I’m not,” she said instinctively, her stomach now not so much lurching as tying itself into a knot that would never be undone.

“I have seen a great amount of art in my time,” Richard said quietly, finally meeting her eyes. “Good art, too. Yours ranks among that level. Evelyn, you are truly gifted.”

It’s your ego being stroked. That’s why you like standing here, so close to him , Evelyn tried to tell herself. Your pride is being massaged and that is why such happiness is clouding your judgment.

Oh, such happiness.

“You flatter me,” she whispered.

“I hope so,” Richard said with a laugh, “because you richly deserve it. Why have you never exhibited?”

“‘Exhibited’?”

It had never been an option for her. Why would it?

Evelyn knew her limitations, and they were numerous.

The very idea of showing anyone her artwork before she had mastered the human form…

It was unthinkable. Besides, her father had been most clear.

No daughter of his would ever do something so scandalous as exhibit.

“I would greatly love to have one of these on my walls, at any rate,” Richard was saying, his focus flickering to the cupboard behind her. “How many of these have you? Of this quality, I mean?”

Evelyn swallowed. Lots , she wanted to say. Lots, and far better quality, indeed .

Only then did something he had said nudge the back of her mind. “What do you mean, have one of my paintings on your walls? Do you own much art?”

It was a strange thing for him to have said. Though Evelyn was not intimately acquainted with the working classes, it had always been her impression that it was nobility who could afford to have art on the walls.

For some reason, Richard would not meet her eye. “I meant figuratively, Evelyn. Do… Do you think I am the sort of man who owns Gainsboroughs?”

Her cheeks burned. “N-No. No, of course not.”

And that was the real shame, wasn’t it? Evelyn liked him—liked him far too much. If they had met at a ball, or a card game, or at one of her family’s picnics… Well, perhaps they would not have talked and she would not have felt close to him. But perhaps she would.

As it was, Richard was no doubt untitled, out of her social class, and in a way, her servant. She was paying him, after all.

Paying him.

“Oh, goodness, I have used up your time most selfishly,” Evelyn said, hastily returning to the table where her purchases lay. “Where is my reticule? I must pay you for your time.”

“Evelyn.”

“No, it is unfair of me to—”

“Evelyn,” Richard said softly, and he was behind her, taking her hand.

His hand, clasping hers. It was a liberty, most certainly, but one she was reveling in.

“You don’t have to pay me for all our time together,” he said quietly.

Perhaps that is part of the attraction , Evelyn thought wildly as she looked up at the man with whom she most certainly should not have been falling in love. He was wrong for her—probably entirely out of her social class and with nothing to offer her.

It was intoxicating.