She linked her arm through his, resting it on the wool of his coat. Disappointment crept up her spine that he hadn’t agreed, but then again, he hadn’t dismissed her proposal out of hand. Would it be worth agreeing to marriage for the opportunity to paint him? The answer came swiftly.Yes. Though they’d hardly spoken all season, she’d sought his visage at every public event. It was as if he’d been created for the purpose of a painting. He was far too perfect to ignore.
His features were sculpted like Corradini’sAdonissleeping, giving him a youthful appearance. He even had wavy hair reminiscent of the Italian marble but with less curl and with multi-golden tones that made her fingers tingle with the need to grasp a paintbrush. It didn’t help that his whisky-colored eyes and tanned skin reminded her of a lion. He was the perfect animal for her artwork.
“Have you been painting long then?”
His innocuous question startled her. “I have. I exhibited at the London Art Academy just last week.”
“You exhibited at the London Art Academy? I didn’t know they had opened to female artists.” He halted them next to the smallest fountain in the garden, the one with a mermaid, her own nude torso covered by her flowing locks.
“We were the first.” She could feel him studying her, but she kept her gaze on her mother who was just ahead on the path.
“I’m sorry I missed the opportunity to see your work.”
She lifted one shoulder and dropped it. “The exhibit had mixed reviews. There were three other female artists there. I’m not sure how they felt, but I know I could have produced better works if I’d had more notice.” She paused, thinking back to the negative comment she’d overheard about the male figures in the foreground of her “After the Hunt” painting, which in her mind trumped all the complimentary reviews she’d read.
She finally looked at him and rolled her eyes. “My sister, the Duchess of Northwick, says the fact that I was asked to exhibit is a great step forward. She is a champion of anything that appears to place women on equal footing with men.”
He moved them forward again. “And you don’t believe your invitation to exhibit met that criteria?”
She chuckled. “Hardly. I believe it was more that we were an oddity, like a monkey paraded about at court.” She felt his arm tense beneath hers.
“Now I wish I could have viewed your work, so I might comment on your interpretation of the invitation.”
She appreciated that he didn’t dismiss her opinion out of hand nor agree with her too quickly. “It’s of no matter. I exhibited and it’s done. I know I’m no DaVinci or Rembrandt. I studied the masters extensively while abroad. Reaching that level of skill could take a lifetime.”
“But not with natural talent.” He looked at her as they strolled through what just last summer had been a haven for butterflies, but all the stems were simply leafless sticks pointing to the sky now.
She met his gaze, though she didn’t wish to since his eyes were such a warm brown with flecks of gold and spots of dark brown that would make a wonderful study. “My mother tells me I have talent. My Aunt Mabry, though, would tell me talent without discipline is simply dreaming. So she took me about the continent to see all the great works.”
His gaze drifted from hers. “I have collected great artwork for years, or rather what I thought was the masters’ works. I wish I had someone with me at the time who could tell the difference between the authentic and a forgery.” His gaze snapped back to hers, a new tension in his chin. “Can you distinguish between the two?”
At his tone, she studied him, sensing her answer meant more than simply polite inquiry. “I can.”
He didn’t immediately speak, instead he seemed to be contemplating something of great import. He looked forward as he guided her along the pathway. “I recently discovered one of my paintings was a forgery. It was a complete surprise.”
Immediately empathy filled her. Forgeries were common and quite acceptable as long as the purchaser was aware that was what they were buying. Her good friend Lady Spencer had been very embarrassed to discover she’d bought a forgery when assured it was authentic. “I wish I could have prevented you from such an experience. It is one of those practices that I find quite upsetting.”
“I’m pleased to hear you say so. I admit I was shocked. I have a rather large collection and was thinking of selling a few pieces. I’m not one for turning my entire home into an art exhibit, despite my appreciation for it. Now, I am unsure if any of my paintings are originals.”
Seeing they had almost reached her mother who strolled a polite distance ahead, she stopped, pulling her hand from his arm. Clearly, he was more than a little put out by the discovery. She understood that those who truly collected artwork did so with a passion that rivaled the artist’s passion to create it. “Did you purchase them all from the same person?”
He ran his hand through his hair again. “No. I rarely acquired two works from the same seller. My collection is from all over Europe and a few paintings from even farther afield. Each one means something to me.” He paused as if he’d revealed too much. “I never sought to acquire forgeries. Now, I know not what I have.”
Despite knowing she should simply sympathize with him, his emotion at the betrayal connected to the one she’d experienced at the will of Aunt Mabry, though for a completely different reason. Torn between propriety and the desire to help him, she sought a solution that would accomplish both. “Have you had anyone review your collection?”
He shook his head. “I have been unsuccessful in finding an expert who is willing to take the time without the benefit of a possible purchase.”
Of course, that hadn’t occurred to her. Experts would want to buy, and for a lord to be told he had a forgery would be embarrassing at the very least and could damage his reputation, preventing any further sales, never mind becoming fodder for gossip among theton.She understood his dilemma.
“It troubles me enough that I’m having all my paintings taken down at my country estate until I can verify their authenticity.” His eyes seemed to have turned darker with his emotions, now almost the color of the oak tree trunk nearby.
She grimaced. The idea that beautiful works of art would be sequestered in storage until reviewed sent a sharp pain through her heart.
He looked away as if unwilling to let her see how deeply this incident had affected him, but she knew. And there was nothing she could say to ease that burden. This brief insight into Lord Sommerset had her feeling unsettled, like the time she’d rushed out to skate on the pond, ignoring her sister’s warning, and felt the ice shift beneath her just before it gave way. Knowing more about Lord Sommerset than simply his appearance was not in her best interest. It was best to keep any future conversation to the odd weather or the last ball.
Her mother waited for them at the entrance into the house through the library, where her father would no doubt be. It wasn’t hard to discern that her mother hoped Lord Sommerset would wish to see her father.
Before they reached the house though, the earl halted. “It has been a most enlightening afternoon. I have much to think upon, so I will take my leave now. Please tell your mother that I have enjoyed my visit.”
