Page 24

It was a foolish thing to do, she knew. That was the whole point of their connection, was it not?

That she knew almost nothing about him. Yet there was a delicious panic in that absence of knowledge.

She could pretend Richard almost sprung out of the ground on command whenever she needed him and otherwise did not exist…

but her mind could not stop reminding her that Richard probably lived a rich and full life in the many hours he was not with her.

Doing what? And with whom?

“I know I said that I wanted you as a blank slate, and in many ways—I mean, it is what the best and greatest artists do,” she said wretchedly.

A couple entered behind them and, stepping around them, entered the door Richard had been attempting to step through.

Evelyn lowered her head to hide her face, her voice a whisper.

“But I… Richard, you have to know I feel… I feel…”

Evelyn swallowed, her mouth dry. Why is this so difficult?

Perhaps because words were not her forte. Give her colors, give her pastels, give her nothing but a pencil and she could express herself perhaps better than half the people in England.

Depend on her tongue, and Evelyn was a tad worried she would never make herself understood.

“It’s just—I mean, you and I… We… At least I thought we…” Evelyn’s treacherous, unhelpful words trailed off into the distance.

Oh, this is all so humiliating. Richard was smiling now, but he made no move to speak and save her from this utter foolishness.

Well, she was just going to have to say it.

“You’re mine,” Evelyn said fiercely. “I don’t know how else to describe it, but there it is. You… You do understand, don’t you?”

Richard’s smile had not disappeared, but a coldness had entered his eyes as he stepped toward her. When he spoke, it was low—so low, she could barely hear him. “I’m not a plaything, Evelyn. I’m a man, a flesh and blood person, with my own needs and desires.”

Air caught in her throat. “I-I know that.”

“And if you say such things, I will be forced to presume that I can respond in kind,” he said quietly, his gaze drifting to her lips before returning to her eyes.

In kind? What on earth did he mean?

“I could say, for example,” came Richard’s low, thrumming tone, which rippled through her body like thunder, “that you were mine .”

Evelyn gasped, lips parting, and she could not speak. How could she? The way he’d said such a thing, the possessiveness—but had that not been a facet of their interactions from the very first day they had met?

Evelyn knew she needed to breathe, knew not breathing was only going to lead to trouble, but how could she when faced with such a man saying such things?

“So, do we understand each other?” Richard had leaned back, returning to his normal voice.

“Not in the slightest,” Evelyn said helplessly.

He laughed at that and, taking her hand, placed it through the crook of his arm. “Me, neither. Shall we wait for your maid, or are we going to keep up the ruse? Mrs. Richard?”

Evelyn gulped. With her rightful title, there was no circumstances under which she’d be reduced to a “Mrs.”—most certainly not with a man’s given name only. Before she could respond, though, that perhaps for today, she’d just like to pretend, her maid’s voice caught her attention from behind.

“My lady. I see he has joined us at last.”

“Laurent.” Evelyn cleared her throat and nodded slightly over her shoulder at the woman. “Yes… Yes, he has.”

She did not need to tell her maid more than that.

After Richard had acknowledged the maid and waited for her to step a few feet behind them, he turned back to Evelyn. “Come on, then—where is it that you have taken me?”

They were walking forward now arm in arm, and as they passed through the double doors, Evelyn felt a rush of comfort.

Here, at least, she could be on home territory.

“This is my favorite art gallery in all of London,” she said grandly, lifting her spare hand and gesturing about the place.

It truly was magnificent. Evelyn had hardly been able to believe it when she had first found it.

Here was a place that seemed more like a temple than a gallery; its sweeping columns, its high ceilings, the way people automatically hushed as they entered, as though they were entering a place of worship.

And weren’t they?

The high ceilings, painted white so as to give greater prominence to the excellent artwork hanging every ten feet or so, soared upward and made one think of the divine.

And that was before one started to look at the paintings.

“I had no idea this place was even here,” Richard said in wonder as he stared about. “But then I suppose, I have been gone from London for some years.”

Evelyn bit down the questions that naturally arose from such a statement. France, that was surely it—but why had he been there for so long? Had he been trying to escape something here in England?

Someone?

“I thought I should begin your artistic education,” Evelyn said primly, trying her best to ignore the fact that most people began their artistic education when in short trousers, and this man was both taller and broader than herself.

“If you are going to understand what I am aiming for, you need to see the best.”

Richard’s sardonic brow was wrinkled. “And you believe I have no artistic education whatsoever?”

Evelyn hesitated.

Really, he was most provoking. He knew full well she had absolutely no idea about…

No, that wasn’t quite right.

“That—what was that thought?” Richard said swiftly.

Evelyn blinked. “Nothing.”

She had spoken instinctively, without thinking, and he appeared to understand.

“Do not just automatically deny it, Evelyn. You may be the artist here, but I have eyes. What did you just think? A seriousness I have never known in you just overcame your face.”

Try as she might, there was no way she could deny it.

She turned over her shoulder to check on Laurent, who had stayed a respectful few feet behind.

Enough to be regarded as her chaperone while allowing them some privacy, her gaze on a painting to the left of her.

Keeping her voice low, therefore, so they did not catch the attention of the other ladies and gentlemen who were perusing the art, Evelyn said, more than a mite defensively, “It was just… Well, you are right. I am the artist here. And the more I look at you, the more I see.”

Richard’s sardonic eyebrow did not lower. “Not the most impressive statement anyone has ever made, you know.”

“I just meant… Well.” Evelyn inhaled slowly. She could be entirely wrong. But she’d never know. “You are always so closely shaven, Richard.”

For a moment, he just stood there and stared. Then he said, “I… I don’t understand.”

“Well, a man so well shaven is not managing to do that on his own, is he?” Evelyn said softly. She had started to walk toward a most splendid landscape, one that invited one to step into the cool waters of the pool at the base of a waterfall. “So you have a valet.”

“Would you believe I can honestly say I do not, that I go to a barber?”

“Every other day?” Evelyn countered with a wry smile. “I doubt it. And your clothes—”

“You don’t spend a great deal of time looking at my clothes,” Richard said in a quiet voice.

Her burning cheeks did not distract her, and neither did his friendly tone. “Perhaps. But your clothes are of good quality in the main—a little worn, a little old-fashioned… as though you had spent five or six years abroad, perhaps, and were not quite up to date with the fashions here.”

Now Richard was not smiling. “You see all that?”

“I see so much more, yet not enough,” Evelyn admitted, trying to laugh. “It could almost become a game, couldn’t it? Trying to ascertain the truth about you while continually stating that I have no interest in being told. A paradox.”

“You are paradoxical yourself.”

Evelyn halted by the waterfall painting, surprise jolting her into a stop. “I am?”

Paradoxical? She had never considered herself so. It was perfectly natural, was it not, to wish to be an artist? To see the beauty of the world and wish to capture it?

“You are a lady, a true lady, an earl’s daughter, but you fraternize with a man.”

“I am not fraternizing !” Evelyn protested.

It did not matter. Richard meandered along to a portrait of a very severe-looking couple and she followed him. Laurent remained a careful distance behind.

“Fraternizing with a man you know almost nothing about,” he continued. “You spend all your money not on gowns or ribbons—”

“What would I do with more gowns?”

“—but instead on art supplies.”

“I would say that is most logical, not paradoxical,” Evelyn protested, heat creeping across her torso. “I am an artist!”

She had said the words too loudly. People were staring now, turning to see where the noise was coming from.

Evelyn held her head high and refused to allow herself to be cowed. She had said nothing wrong. In fact, she had spoken most truly. Besides, Laurent was moving closer to lend credence to her status as chaperone.

And Richard was smiling. “That you are. And yet you have never exhibited?”

The suggestion was understandable, perhaps, to someone who had never met her father. “No. No, I will never exhibit.”

A flicker of something moved across Richard’s face. “Evelyn, your talent is more than sufficient to—”

“But my father’s permission is insufficient,” she cut across him in a low voice, trying to smile. “And I am not able to change his mind. No one can. Best we do not speak of it.”

Because the pain, the knowledge that no matter how hard she worked, it would only be family who saw her efforts, was truly excruciating.

Perhaps Richard could see that. He glanced at Laurent, who stepped back again with the dispersing crowd, her attention caught on a sculpture nearby. “Tell me about this painting.”

Painting? How could she think about painting at a time like this?

He mystified her. He befuddled her. He made her want to do things, say things, be things no other person ever had.