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And Evelyn knew it could not last.

Oh, it was all very entertaining now. But how long could this go on for? This flirting, for that was surely what it was—Evelyn was no expert, she would have to ask her cousin Lilianna—this flirting would eventually resolve itself in one of two ways.

Either he would take a liberty and attempt to seduce her, with more than just a kiss, and Evelyn would be obliged to throw him from her art studio and her acquaintance.

Or… he wouldn’t.

It was rather startling for Evelyn to discover that she did not know which fate was worse.

“The painting, Evelyn,” Richard prompted quietly.

Evelyn stepped forward hastily. “This painting is—well. It is not much to speak of, really. This is the sort of painting you should be looking at.”

She had grasped his hand with hers before she had even considered it. Now she had done so, she was not quite sure how to let go.

It did not seem to matter. They stood instead before a painting that had always been one of Evelyn’s favorites.

At first glance, it was simple. Just a woman, sitting in a chair, looking out of a window. Sunlight crept in but could not entirely vanquish the darkness within the room.

And that was it.

“This is it?” Richard said, mirroring her thoughts.

Evelyn smiled. “ It , as you call it, is one of the greatest paintings ever created.”

He did not look particularly impressed. “It’s a woman sitting in a chair.”

“Look at the light,” Evelyn said, stepping forward with wide eyes, staring hungrily at the oils.

“The shadow, how the firelight in the hearth and the sunlight through the window wage a war over her. To whom does she belong? The home, where she serves and works—or the outside, nature, calling to her? See the folds of her gown, how exquisite the detail.”

“There’s a tear just on the right. Poorly mended.”

Evelyn smiled to hear the interest in Richard’s voice—perhaps even despite himself.

“And her hair is partly tamed, but only just. Everything in her yearns for something more, to escape what could be described as a prison—see the way the artist has made the lead piping of the windows appear to be bars?”

He was looking at the painting far more closely now, and there was a look of surprise in his eyes. “I am impressed. I had not thought there to be so much to find in one painting. Arguably, there is nothing happening.”

“Yet there is everything happening.” Evelyn sighed. “I can only dream to create something so dynamic in such stillness.”

It haunted her, in a way. Paintings like this, they proved it was possible to do something great with such simple structure.

Something she had not managed to master.

“I have heard the Viscount Sempill has another painting by this artist,” she said quietly. “I would give a great deal to see it.”

It was most strange; there did not appear to be anything on the carpet likely to trip on, and yet Richard stumbled. “What did you say?”

“The artist of this painting, he sold another to Viscount Sempill years ago. An elderly man, I think I read,” Evelyn said, her gaze returning to the portrait.

“According to the notice of sale, it was even more impressive than this one. Can you imagine? A man who owns a painting like that would have no need to venture out into the world to see beauty.”

They stood there for a moment in silence, Evelyn highly conscious of the man beside her but unable to drag her eyes away from the painting before her. And then—

“It’s incredible, the passion you have,” Richard said quietly. “I do not believe I have ever experienced such a thing for anything.”

“But you can see the beauty now, can’t you?” Evelyn asked eagerly.

He did not take his eyes away as he spoke. “I can see the beauty now.”

Evelyn swallowed. That had not been at all what she had meant, and she had thought for a moment… Well, it was natural to hope Richard had been talking about her, and not the painting.

Who did not want to be beautiful?

Who did not want someone like Richard considering them so?

“Yes, it’s a very beautiful painting,” she managed.

“That is not what I meant,” Richard returned calmly, as though he complimented women every day.

Perhaps he did. Perhaps he had not been late not because he had been modeling for another artist, but because he had been with another woman.

The thought pained her, a physical lurch in her stomach, and Evelyn stepped back. Being close to him was painful as the image of Richard kissing another woman, calling her beautiful, crowded her mind.

“What is it?”

Richard’s voice was urgent, but Evelyn did not permit herself to accept the hand he now offered. When had she dropped his hand? She could not recall.

“It does not matter.”

“Everything you think matters, Evelyn.”

She blinked, startled out of silence by the calm with which he spoke. “I was wondering why you were late.”

He examined her closely for a moment. Others moved about the art gallery like a tide, gradually moving down the corridors and around the rooms to inspect and to admire. Even Laurent made her way toward the opposite end of the room, her attention on the painting above her.

Only they stayed still.

“Because,” Richard said softly, pink tinging his cheeks, “I was nervous.”

Evelyn stared. “Nervous of what?”

“Of you. Or rather, what I become when I am with you.”

Evelyn glanced quickly down at the floor, and when she looked back up Richard appeared to have regained control of himself.

“Paintings,” Evelyn said firmly, pushing Richard’s admission to the back of her mind and promising herself she could examine it more fully when she had returned home. Without him. “Let’s look at more paintings.”