Page 30 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“I’d like that. I’d like you to see my paintings, though I can’t promise they’re any good,” she said.
“I was wondering…who did you base Dionysus on?” he asked, and Rosalind laughed.
“It was you, actually. Your eyes…I could recall them, after last night, seeing them through your mask. They were perfect,” she said, no longer feeling shy in telling him, even as he seemed somewhat taken aback.
“Then I certainly want to see it,” he said, and she nodded.
“You will, though I’m not entirely sure how,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder, just as a call came from across the terrace.
“Rosalind, are you out here?” her mother said, and Rosalind could see the duchess’ outline silhouetted in the doorway.
She felt angry at this interruption, for she would gladly have remained in Sebastian’s company the whole evening long.
“You should go. I could wait here for you,” Sebastian said.
Rosalind’s heart skipped a beat. She wanted to stay, even as she knew her mother would be relentless in her search. No doubt the duke was demanding her company, but if she was to dance with him again, perhaps she might be able to slip away once more. The draw of returning to the earl’s company was enough for her to take the risk. And she nodded, smiling at him, as her mother’s voice called across the terrace once again.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Rosalind whispered, and leaving Sebastian’s side, she hurried across the terrace, calling to her mother, who gave an exasperated cry.
“Oh, Rosalind. What have you been doing?” she exclaimed, and Rosalind smiled.
“I was just taking the air, mother,” she replied, hoping it would not be long before she could return to the terrace and the company of the man whose eyes she had immortalized for Ariadne, and whose gaze had captivated her, too.
Chapter 13
Sebastian watched Rosalind disappear across the now dark terrace, her footsteps echoing on the marble, as her mother’s shrill voice called out to her. He smiled, watching her for as long as he could, until she disappeared in a silhouette at the door.
He sighed, turning back to look out over the moonlit garden beyond. From the shrubbery below, he could hear giggling and the whispers of couples. He sighed, wondering if Rosalind would return and knowing, even if she did, the limitations of her doing so.
“Why can’t it just be simple?” he asked himself. He was doing the one thing he had promised himself he would not do; fall in love.
But it was always the same for Sebastian. His feelings got carried away. He felt things more intensely than other men, or so it seemed. He had known those who could seduce a woman, then forget her the very next day, leaving her devastated at the apparent void in their emotions. Sebastian was not like that.
The thought of simply casting off a woman with whom he had developed a bond was unthinkable, and in Rosalind, that bond had already been created. He had never expected to find a woman who shared his passion for art and poetry, a woman as beautiful and vivacious, so filled with life and charm. She was everything he might have dreamed of, and yet.
“How could she feel the same about a madman?” he asked himself.
His passionate edge was surely a symptom of his greatest fear. The artists, poets, and philosophers were all possessed of a madness. It was the creative genius, and Sebastian reminded himself not to fall into the trap of comparison.
He was not a genius, nor was his art anything great to speak of. But he was so often consumed by passionate outbursts, in which his creativity gave rise to canvases covered in paint, or paper covered in words.
“But none of it means anything, does it? I’m no artist. She’ll soon discover that,” he told himself, fearing Rosalind might think him to be something he was not, and expect great things of him, when all he had to offer was himself.
She was the artist. There was no doubting her talent. The way she spoke, her evident passion, and Sebastian felt sorry for her that she was unable to realize her talent. Her mother would not allow her to exhibit, and if she married the Duke of Northridge, that talent would be extinguished, along with everything else she was and could be. It was a terrible thought, one Sebastian felt angry contemplating.
For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to read one of his poems to her, or to gaze at the painting of Ariadne and Dionysus. It seemed extraordinary to think Rosalind had chosen him as her model.
He thought back to the dances they had shared, to the depth of her eyes, imagining what it would be to hold her in his arms, to bring his lips to hers. Ariadne and Dionysus were lovers. Did that mean Rosalind had imagined the same for her and Sebastian?
“Ah, there you are, Sebastian. I was wondering where you’d got to. I just saw Rosalind with her mother. Did she catch you in the act?” a voice behind him said, and Sebastian turned to find John grinning at him in the moonlight.
“Oh, don’t. It wasn’t like that. We danced, we came out here, we talked. Then her mother came calling. Where have you been? Aren’t you with Elizabeth?” Sebastian asked.
He would have preferred to have been left alone with his thoughts, but his friend now lit a cigar, drawing in the smoke and blowing it out, before offering one to Sebastian.
He took it, though he did not make a habit of such things, preferring snuff, though the scent of the cigar was pleasing, and wreathed in smoke, the two of them leaned on the terrace, as shadowy figures moved together in the garden below.
“She went to the powder room. You know what these women are like. But she’s an utter delight. We haven’t stopped talking. I’ve invited her on a picnic by the river tomorrow. I know a spot along the Thames, where a glade of weeping willows sweeps down to the water’s edge, perfect for a picnic, and…” John said, his words trailing off, before he drew in a puff of smoke.
