Her brow wrinkled. Somehow she had expected a more enthusiastic response after his questioning and gentle teasing. Lord, but this was difficult. She’d never had to read a man before, judge his interest. It was unendingly frustrating.
The carriage made a wide turn and she pushed back the curtain. “We’re arriving,” she said, happy to change the subject.
Soon they would have art to discuss and hopefully she wouldn’t make an awkward mess of herself while they did so. Hopefully.
* * *
Roarke had hoped that when he and Flora were walking the halls of the museum, staring at portraits together, that he would be less taken by her. After all, they would have more space between them than they’d shared in the carriage. But now they had been roaming the halls for twenty minutes, looking at the portraits collected for the Ezra Pembroke exhibit, and he found himself even more aware of her.
They felt more alone together, for one thing. The museum was not busy on this day and her lady’s maid had stepped away, no longer right between them. Taking in art felt more intimate than he’d expected. He could hear Flora’s intake of breath whenever she looked at a piece that moved her. See the intensity of her stare when she leaned closer to look at a particular brush stroke.
He cleared his throat. “What do you think of his work, Your Grace?”
She pivoted toward him. “It’s everything I’ve heard and more,” she gushed, her hands lifting to her heart. She looked just as enraptured as she had when she talked about nature in the carriage, and he was just as taken by her enthusiasm.
“Not only is he a talented artist who can capture the true look of a subject—some of them almost look alive, like I could have a conversation with the piece as easily as the person—but there is emotion there,” she continued. “Sometimes that’s missing in these types of work.”
“I tend to agree. It’s what sets Pembroke aside. Like this one.” He pointed toward a portrait of the Duke and Duchess of Abernathe, a golden couple of the day. Together they moved to it.
Flora let out a sigh. “It really does look like her.”
“You know her?” Roarke asked.
“Just a little,” Flora said. “She’s very kind, and that kindness is reflected in her expression here. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
He nodded, looking at the composition of the piece. The lady was seated, cat winding around her feet. Her husband stood slightly behind her, his hand on her shoulder. A pose like a dozen others, but for the details Pembroke had added.
“Look at how his fingers are slightly curled in the areas where they touch her skin,” Roarke said softly. “And how he’s turned a little toward her.”
Flora’s breath was short. “And she’s looking up at him, isn’t she? Her expression has a…a…”
“Heat,” he said. “There is a heat to it. And one grounded in reality, if the stories of the great love match of the Abernathes are to be believed.”
“It is.” There was a wistfulness to her voice when she said it. “No one who met them could deny it. It’s a wonderful portrait. So special, I’m glad they agreed to let it be displayed for this exhibit.”
They stood together in front of the portrait for a moment longer and then Roarke cleared his throat. The room felt a little warm now. His clothes a bit too tight all of a sudden. He was about to move on to one of the singular subjects for a bit of a break from the intimacy of what he and Flora had discussed, but she said something that stopped him short.
“I wonder if the same comes through in his…his other work.”
She said it so softly he might not have heard it if he were a foot further way. But he wasn’t and every word hit him in the gut. A little lower than the gut.
“His other work,” he repeated slowly. “Yes, you said something about his public pieces a few days ago, as well. What do you know about Pembroke’sotherwork, Flora?”
She glanced up at him, blue eyes holding his, pupils dilated with…oh, he recognized that flare of desire. It called to his own wildly inappropriate draw to her. He didn’t want to take advantage. And yet she made it very difficult not to…to touch her. To pull his glove off, finger by finger, and drag those same digits down her bare arm until she sighed. Until she melted.
What would she look like if she melted?
Her cheeks flared with color. “People whisper,” she said, her voice low, shaky. “I’m a widow, you know. They don’t feel such a drive to protect me from delicate subjects. Scandalous ones. I know that Pembroke does a very different kind of painting for special clients. Have you…have you ever seen that work?”
He swallowed hard. She was talking about Pembroke’s erotic work. Most of it was never displayed, but created only for clients willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of posing at their most intimate. But a few of his pieces had been shown in exclusive clubs like the Donville Masquerade. They were shocking and powerful. Over time more and more people had wanted to look at the erotic mingling of bodies, most of their owners unidentifiable in the portraits Pembroke chose to put on display.
“You know…” he began, and then cut himself off with a shake of his head.
She stared at him. “What were you going to say?”
Oh, he was going too far. And it had nothing to do with the horrible bargain he’d made with his cousins, nothing to do with protecting his mother. No, what he was about to say…suggest, was only about her.
“There is a small collection of those pieces here, as well,” he said.
