Page 27 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
Sebastian felt terribly sorry for her. She was trapped, and he, too, knew just how it felt to be trapped.
“You shouldn’t have to feel like that. These arranged marriages, it’s wicked,” he said, as the dance came to an end, and they stepped out of the throng.
Sebastian had purposefully led her to the far end of the ballroom, where the three Zurbaran paintings hung, away from the sight of her mother and the Duke of Northridge. He had no doubt the duke would be looking for her, and he wanted to give her the chance to feel she could be herself. Rosalind smiled at him.
“It’s all right for men. They don’t have the same expectations placed on them. I’ve only just made my debut. It’s my first season. I should be allowed to dance with who I like, to make a few mistakes. But…oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be speaking like this. We hardly know one another,” she said, but Sebastian shook his head.
It was true, they hardly knew one another, and yet he already felt a sense of intimacy between them. The knowledge of a shared passion, and the ease with which their conversation flowed, solidified his feelings. He wanted to know more about her, even as he felt torn as to his own fears for the future.
He, too, was trapped. Not by the expectations of society, but by the certainty of a future he could do nothing to prevent. Like Rosalind, he faced the prospect of a life dictated by something he could not control, a madness waiting to strike; a madness already creeping over him.
“But we can know one another. We’re getting to know one another. Look up at the paintings. What do you see? I want to know. I want to hear what you think of them,” Sebastian said, determined to make Rosalind realize she was worthy of true attention, and not just the superficial self-entitlement of the Duke of Northridge.
Rosalind blushed, looking up at the paintings of the three sisters, whose imperious gazes met at a point at the other end of the ballroom.
“I’d say the three of them are miserable. Perhaps they’re spinsters, none of them married. The three separate frames suggest a separation. They’re similar, but it’s as though they’re distant from one another. There’s nothing sensual about them. Their clothes are drab and dull, their faces shadowed. I told you I often imagine myself in the paintings I see, but I wouldn’t want to in this case. I don’t like any of them,” Rosalind said, and Sebastian smiled.
“Did you imagine yourself in the paintings at the masquerade ball?” he asked.
Rosalind blushed, glancing at him and smiling.
“Perhaps I did… they were… alluring,” she said, and Sebastian laughed.
He did not have her imagination. When he looked at a painting, he could not immediately imagine himself entering its frame or being part of the scene depicted. But the paintings at the masquerade ball had been alluring, and he had found the thought of Rosalind as the subject of one quite something.
“They certainly were. It’s strange, isn’t it? In classical scenes, it seems perfectly acceptable to paint the nude, to depict the orgies of Bacchus or the romantic excesses of Eros, but to place such scenes in a contemporary setting would be the cause of scandal,” Sebastian said.
Rosalind nodded.
“You’re absolutely right. One can look at such scenes from mythology without blushing. They hang in every aristocratic home, but those like the ones we saw at the masquerade, they’d be accused of offending morals,” she said, shaking her head.
Sebastian knew it was rare to find a woman of such enlightened opinion. Scandal was something to be avoided, rather than courted, and the thought of paintings such as those they had viewed together at the masquerade would have elicited cries of protest from most of those gathered for the ball that evening. But Rosalind was a kindred spirit. She understood what art meant, and in this, and so many other ways, she was different from any woman Sebastian had known before.
“Absolutely. It’s quite extraordinary. I paint a little myself. I might’ve mentioned it, but nothing of the skill you suggest of yourself. I’d so very much like to see,” Sebastian said, and Rosalind sighed.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get to see my work displayed in an exhibition. My mother wouldn’t allow it. She’d accuse me of offending morals, and I’m sure the Duke of Northridge would have something to say about it, too,” she said.
“But you can’t let them hold back your talents. Perhaps there’s a way the paintings could be smuggled out of the house, exhibited under another name. A lot of women authors do the same, don’t they? A different name to disguise the fact of their sex,” Sebatian said.
It seemed a tragedy to think Rosalind’s talents would go unrecognized, even as Sebastian knew it was folly to think otherwise. A woman was not an artist, or a writer, or a poet. Not one that is taken seriously, at least.
Her opinions were not even welcome, and no woman ever made a living from such pursuits, as far as he knew. He felt sorry for Rosalind. He knew her lot was to follow the course laid out for her and marry the Duke of Northridge and give up any pretension at self-betterment.
“I don’t know… I don’t know if my paintings are even any good. Elizabeth says they are, so does my maid. But until someone who really knows, tell me,” she said, looking up at Sebastian, who smiled.
“I’d like the chance to. What are you working on at the moment? You told me, perhaps, but I can’t remember,” he said.
“I don’t think I did. I’m painting Ariadne and Dionysus, from the mythology. Dionysus flung Ariadne’s jewels into the sky to make the constellation Corona. It seemed such a beautiful image. I wanted to paint it for myself,” she said, and Sebastian smiled.
He had seen similar depictions of Ariadne and Dionysus on the continent, and the story of the jewels was one he found quite beautiful to behold. He looked down at the sapphire necklace Rosalind was wearing, and imagined what it might be like to slip his arms around her neck, unclasping it and holding it up to the light.
“How beautiful,” he replied, speaking as much of her as of the image of the painting.
“It’s taken me some time to get the figures right. I can’t very well criticize others and get it wrong myself. I’ve painted over Ariadne a dozen times. But I think I’ve got it right now,” she said, and Sebastian smiled.
“Did you model them after your own eyes?” he asked, and Rosalind blushed.
“I did, actually. I realized I had a model in myself. I could look in the mirror and paint my own eyes. It was far easier than copying those from a book of prints. One has to be able to see the eyes, the movement, the light, the depth,” she said, and Sebastian nodded, uncertain whether to ask the question now playing on his mind.
