“That’s to be expected. I’m looking forward to the birth of my second grandchild, but the first one in line to be a duke.” He clapped his hands together with a giddy chuckle.
“You already have a grandchild?” Jo asked, incredulous.
“Just one,” he said proudly. “A girl.”
Jo and Ellis exchanged glances of disbelief and humor.
“My child may well be a girl too. I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
He waved his hand. “Bah, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of children, or at least until you have an heir. That’s your duty now, my dear.” He winked at her before he started toward the door. “Come along, Ellis. May I call you Ellis?” he asked. “I would be very happy if you called me Papa.”
Ellis didn’t think she could do that. Solomon Dangerfield had been her one and only “papa.”
“I think I would prefer to call you Rowland, at least for now,” she said.
He gave her a solemn nod. “I understand. We mustn’t rush things. We should get to know one another.” He held his arm out. “Come, take my arm.”
She walked to his side and took his arm as he guided her from the room and upstairs to the second floor.
“I apologize, for my studio space is even more cluttered than the drawing room,” he said sheepishly.
Ellis wondered to herself how that could possibly be but would soon find out. The studio was very large, as it encompassed the entire front of the house.
“The morning light must be excellent here,” she said. That was all she could think to say about her surroundings. There were easels and paints and brushes and buckets and cloths strewn just about everywhere. There were a few empty canvases, but far more that were in various stages of completion. Against the walls, he had stacks of finished work. It looked as though the completed ones were on the far wall. The walls were also covered with his paintings.
“I enjoy painting.” Ellis startled as he clapped his hands.
“Splendid! Two of my other children are also talented in the arts. Poor Jo can’t even draw a rudimentary flower.”
For the next several minutes, he showed her the room and many of his works. They ranged from landscapes to still lifes to portraits. Those of his children adorned the space between the front windows. They included a very pretty Jo from several years ago.
“How old is Jo in this picture?” Ellis asked.
“Seventeen, I believe.”
Ellis had to admit he was very talented. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen your work before.”
He shrugged. “You might have, but sometimes I go many months or even years without painting. I paint for a while, then I write for a while, then I tinker with experiments for a while. My laboratory is back through there.” He pointed through a doorway. There was another door near Ellis. It stood ajar, so she poked her head inside. “What’s in here?”
“That’s my special studio.”
A wide, dark-blue velvet-covered chaise longue stood in front of the hearth. There were several silk pillows, both on the chaise and the floor. Various kinds of lighting, including candlesticks, candle branches, and standing torches were scattered about. But none of that compared to the portraits covering these walls. They were not like the ones in the main studio—they were intimate, sensual portraits of women in various states of undress and abandon. There were also a few portraits of men in the same manner.
“I hadn’t meant to show you this room,” he said with a nervous laugh. “You being an innocent young woman, of course. I’m rather proud of them, though. These are all people for who I cared deeply at some time. A part of me still loves them all.” He turned his gaze toward Ellis. “I assume Jo told you of my debauchery. If not, I suppose our conversation downstairs would have informed you.”
“Yes, I was aware.” Ellis couldn’t help scanning the room. Suddenly, her focus fixed on one of the portraits near the hearth. She recognized the subject. In fact, Ellis had seen the likeness at the Laceys’ house the other night.
It was Clarissa, Roman’s wife.
Ellis walked toward the portrait. “Who is this?”
“That was one of my students,” he said. “She was quite talented. With a brush, I mean.”
Assuming his last statement alluded to some other skill, Ellis stared at him. “Was she also your mistress?” It seemed likely, given the portrait’s presence in this room.
“Oh, yes,” he replied nonchalantly. “As was everyone on the walls in here. Clarissa was one of my longer attachments. I’m proud to say we had a deep and abiding love.”
Love? When she’d been married to Roman?
