“Thank you,” he said softly.
“But how—what—?”
He smiled. “I know you have many questions. Women in Society are meant to be accomplished, but the men are not given such leeway.”
She pondered that. It was an opinion she’d never considered. “I suppose you are right. I’ve never known a man who painted, especially one who did so this proficiently.”
Rowan moved forward, his gaze sliding over the works as he murmured, “I showed a talent with paint at a young age,” he explained. “My father and mother both encouraged me in the work and even brought in masters to teach me. Of course, it is complicated. My father’s name could be sullied by such a thing. And I didn’t want to trade on it at any rate. About five years ago, I began to try to sell my wares, under another name.”
He motioned to the signature, and she leaned in to look closer. “W.R.?” she asked.
“William Reynolds,” he explained. “Mynom de plumeof sorts.”
“I like Rowan Sinclair better,” she said, daring to hold his glance.
His pupils dilated slightly, his lids lowering. It was a possessive look, and her stomach clenched with desires she was beginning to accept were undeniable.
“Would you like to see my latest piece?” he asked as he pointed to the easel in the center of the room. “Not another soul has looked at it but me.”
She blinked. “You would give me such an honor?”
He didn’t respond with words, but by taking her hand and drawing her close. He pressed a gentle kiss to her lips and then moved her to the piece. He took a deep breath, and she saw his uncertainty in that moment. This man who was always so sure and centered and all too arrogantly perfect was nownervous. About her. A role reversal if there had ever been one.
With another little sigh, he pulled back the cloth. Sophie stared at the picture, her hand coming up to her mouth in shock. The painting was of her.
She was seated on a bench in a garden, her body half-turned, as if she’d had her name called by the painter. Her hair was loose, framing her face, and her gown was beautiful, the same color as her eyes. The portrait version of herself had a wide smile and bright and expressive eyes.
“Rowan,” she murmured. “I don’t know what to say!”
He pursed his lips. “Is that good or bad?”
“It’s wonderful,” she whispered. “I’ve had portraits commissioned by my aunt over the years, but never one so special and wonderful as this. You make me look far more beautiful than I am.”
His brow knitted as he looked from the picture to her and back again. “No,” he said. “Youare far more beautiful than I could ever capture, even if I painted you a dozen times. A hundred.” He moved toward her, his fingers threading through hers slowly. “And I would very much like to paint you a dozen times. A hundred. A thousand.”
She blinked. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”
He drew another deep breath, his face still taut with uncertainty. “I know.”
Then his mouth was moving to cover hers and she lifted into him, opening when she knew she shouldn’t, sighing with relief and pleasure when his tongue breached her lips.
He pulled away, stroking his fingers over her cheek lightly. “I know you don’t want passion—”
She jolted. “No, it isn’t that I don’t want it. I want you, Rowan, I do.”
“Then what?” he asked, so gentle. As if she could let her walls come down at long last and he would be there. That she could surrender all her nos and at long last say yes and know she would be protected. He touched her cheek again. “Tell me.”
She drew a shuddering breath. He’d been so honest, so open to show her this glimpse into his life. His art. If she wanted him to understand, the time had come for her return that honesty. “I suppose it’s because of why I became Lady No,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’ve always said it was because I did not want to play with fortune hunters, and I suppose that is partly true. But the real reason I’ve hesitated is because of my—my father.”
He wrinkled his brow. “You’ve mentioned him before. The strain of your relationship, even though you were very young when he and your mother died.”
She nodded. “Yes, I was a child, but I wasn’t a fool. My mother adored him, but he was a liar and a philanderer. He dangled love just out of her reach, giving her just enough that she felt she could catch it. Snatching it away the moment it was in her fingers. I saw what that did to her. How it broke her. She was willing to do anything to keep him, to capture him. She would say yes to anything he asked. Even go riding in the park when he was blind drunk after a night of carousing.” She dipped her head as she recalled watching the two of them stagger into her father’s fancy phaeton that fateful morning.
“She said yes to anything. And so you decided to say no to everything,” he whispered.
She nodded, the pain of those words like a stab to the heart. “Yes. Until…until you.”
He moved closer. “But you and I are not your parents.”
