Usually he did not pay much attention to gowns and such, noticing a color, appreciating the curves of bosom, waist, hips, and noticing the face, an expression, a light in the eyes. He had barely noticed that Amy wore pale blue that night, that Meg was in green, and Amy’s sister Sarah was dressed in a flowery creation that swallowed her whole, poor girl. Lady Balmossie, of course, wore her preferred black.
But here was Christina Blackburn clothed in the colors of twilight, indigo and gray and black with touches of cream like starshine. Somehow, she was prim and seductive all at once, fresh and alluring as a starlit evening. He craved her like he did sustenance.
Clearing his throat, he looked around, hoping MacGregor was ready to announce the meal. Then he smiled in response to whatever John Blackburn had just said to him.
“Er, aye.” He hoped that applied to the remark.
“And I want to thank you again for inviting me to work on the mural, sir,” John went on. “Miss Stewart showed me the painting. It would have been a grand thing. A pity the fellow could not finish.”
“He began after talks with my father, painted some, but died quite suddenly. Very sad, of course. Please feel free to decide if you want to complete his design or start over.”
“I’d like to incorporate his work with my own ideas. I’ve made some sketches.”
“We do not want to rush you, sir. I’m grateful that you happened to come here. We despaired of finding an artist tofinish the mural. I am especially thankful that you are so talented.” He indicated a framed painting by John that his father had acquired years ago.
“Thank you, sir. I would like to take a closer look at that painting. I haven’t seen it for a long while.” He strolled with Aedan across the room, nearing Christina, who stood chatting with the Stewart sisters and Lady Strathlin.
“Chrissy, come see myIsabella,”John told her as they passed.
She excused herself to glide between the men, her wide skirt swaying, her gloved hands riding on the swell. Aedan repeatedly glanced down at her.
What the devil was happening to him? First secretly smitten by the painted image of a girl, he had been smitten a thousand times more by the model herself. Schooling his expression, he stood with the Blackburns to study John’s gilt-framed painting.
Jewel colors caught the firelight’s glow in the room, illuminating a knight in armor kneeling before a young woman who stood over him, her long blonde hair shining. In uplifted hands, she held a gleaming gold crown over his head. A halo of light suffused them with mythic ambience.
“Robert Bruce Crowned by Isabella of Buchan,”Aedan said, reading the brass tag on the frame. “My father particularly loved this one, Mr. Blackburn. I understand you trained in the Pre-Raphaelite circle for a time. Any work of art out of that group has rising value.”
“I stayed in London for a time after I left university,” John said. “I studied first with Mr. Rossetti, then with Mr. Millais, and began to form my own style. I had trained originally with my father.”
“Our papa is best known for history paintings in the grand style,” Christina told Aedan. “John leans toward historical and mythological subjects, but I think his pictures have lessoverblown pageantry in favor of a quiet emotionalism that is almost palpable.”
“Indeed,” Aedan murmured in agreement. He looked up as Rob Campbell, his engineering assistant, came to join them.
“What an excellent piece, Mr. Blackburn. May I ask if the female figure is intended to resemble your lovely sister? Or is that my imagination?”
Christina stilled, and Aedan sensed her tension. He too had noticed the resemblance and had wondered about it.
“Christina did model for Isabella,” John said.
“A wonderful likeness, Mrs. Blackburn. Aside from the hair color, you are quite recognizable. It is a testament to your brother’s skill and your own loveliness.”
She had gone pale, Aedan noticed, rather than blushing with the compliment.
“Thank you,” she said. “But it was years ago, Mr. Campbell.”
“My sister has classic features that any artist would love to paint. She modeled for my father too. But I kept her away from Rossetti and that lot. She sat for her late husband as well.”
“He was a painter too?” Rob asked.
Again Aedan noticed how passionately she colored at the question. “Aye, an artist as well. A distant cousin. I often sat for him. It gave me an excuse to do nothing but daydream.” She laughed softly, shrugged a little.
“Miss Burn” was accurate, Aedan thought. She blushed like a living ember, searing heat just below the surface of her perfect translucent skin. Yet she displayed an elegant composure.
“Is that the call to dinner?” she asked, turning, as the butler opened the door.
“Rob, if you will escort the Misses Stewart,” Aedan said, “and if Mr. Blackburn will escort Lady Balmossie, I will take Mrs. Blackburn in.” The men nodded and walked away.
He extended his arm and she accepted, her gloved hand light on his forearm, her silken skirt rustling against his thigh. Just that, and desire struck through him like lightning.
