Page 26 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“What does my stepmother have to do with it?” he asked, for it seemed a curious thing for his friend to say.
John returned his look pointedly.
“She encourages it. I’ve heard her. She’s forever making you out to be an invalid, forgetful, in need of reminding. The more she does it, the more you’ll believe it,” he said.
Sebastian was about to reply, but now he caught sight of Rosalind and her friend, Elizabeth, emerging from behind a pillar, arm in arm. He glanced over to where the Duke of Northridge was in conversation with Rosalind’s father, the Duke of Lonsdale, knowing he had to make his move immediately, or see Rosalind subjected to another dance with the man whom she so clearly detested.
“There they are,” he said, and John turned, catching Elizabeth’s eye and making straight for her.
Sebastian had no choice but to follow, even as he caught sight of the Duke of Northridge doing the same. As he approached Rosalind, she smiled at him, falling into a slight curtsey, as Sebastian bowed.
“My Lord,” she said, offering him her hand.
“Lady Rosalind. I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to speak yet. You were otherwise engaged,” Sebastian said, feeling suddenly embarrassed for having been so reticent in his approach.
There was surely no harm in a dance, a flirtation, a dalliance. He was not asking her to marry him.
“Did you enjoy the dinner?” she asked, as John and Elizabeth now stepped away arm in arm.
“I did, though I’m no gastronome, unlike my friend,” he said, and Rosalind laughed.
“Then he and Elizabeth will get on very well. I’m the same, though. Food doesn’t really interest me. But you know that. You know what interests me,” Rosalind replied, glancing across the room, to where a set of portraits hung at the far end.
They were a set by the Spanish painter, Zurbaran. Sebastian had earlier admired the portraits of three sisters, hung in individual frames, and acquired by Lady Clarissa’s husband during their grand tour.
“Do you like them?” Sebastian asked, but Rosalind shook her head.
“I don’t like the shadowing of the faces. When I paint, I like the face to be prominent, and the background shadowy and suggestive. I want to really know the person I’m looking at. Don’t you think so? I mean, it’s the eyes that draw you, isn’t it?” she said, looking up into Sebastian’s eyes, as his heart skipped a beat.
It was her eyes. Her deep hazel eyes and their gaze locked. He smiled at her.
“Eyes are the windows to the soul,” he said, and she nodded.
“And isn’t a painting so often a glimpse of the soul? Of a moment captured?” she asked.
He was about to reply when Rosalind’s gaze was distracted by something behind him. Turning, he found the Duke of Northridge looking angrily at him. But Sebastian was not about to be intimidated by another man, not when he was enjoying his conversation with Rosalind so much.
“Might I have this dance?” he asked, addressing Rosalind, who nodded.
“You may,” she replied, and the duke gave an angry exclamation.
“Rosalind.” he snarled, but there was nothing he could do.
A woman had every right to decide with whom she would dance, and Sebastian had asked first. He offered her his arm, and she took it, before he led her off into the throng, the musicians now striking up their next waltz.
Across the ballroom, Sebastian saw the duke returning to Rosalind’s mother, who had fixed Sebastian with an angry gaze, the two of them muttering to one another, as Rosalind slipped her arm around Sebastian’s waist, and they began to dance.
“I don’t think your mother’s too happy with me,” Sebastian said, and Rosalind laughed.
“She’s never happy with anything, not really. They want me to marry him. I don’t have much choice in the matter,” Rosalind said, and Sebastian looked at her sympathetically.
She was still so young, flushed with the innocence of her debut. It seemed terribly wrong for a man liked the Duke of Northridge to seize on her as he had done. There was jealousy in his look, and Sebastian felt a sudden protectiveness towards Rosalind, fearing she was to be forced into a life of misery, with no choice but to do as she was told.
“But you should do…you’re…everything he’s not. Does he even know of your interests? Your talents? Have you shown him your artworks? I’ve been thinking about what you said to me about your paintings,” Sebastian said, stammering over his words, as Rosalind sighed.
“He wouldn’t be interested. I don’t really tell anyone about my painting. I tried to once. My mother even encouraged it for a while. But young ladies are supposed to paint landscapes and the occasional dog or horse. When I started painting more interesting scenes, she forbade me from continuing. I paint in my bedroom with the door locked.
My maid brings me the things I need, and I hide everything under the bed. I dream of an exhibition, of others seeing my work. But it won’t ever happen,” Rosalind replied.
