Page 40 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“Excellent. I’m glad to hear it. I’m going to invite Elizabeth, too. I hope you don’t mind,” he said, and Sebastian shook his head.
“Not at all. I’m pleased for the two of you,” he said, and further arrangements were now made.
But when Sebastian was again left alone with his thoughts, he could not help but think back to the missing cigar case, confused as to what had really happened to it.
“I can’t have mislaid it. I use it all the time,” he said to himself, even as his mind lingered on the possibility of where it had gone and what might have happened to it.
Wanting to distract himself, he made his way upstairs to his studio, shutting himself in and setting up a blank canvas by the window. Sunlight was streaming through the glass, casting rainbows across the bare floorboards, where Sebastian now stood with his palette of paints, waiting for inspiration. He wanted to draw his feelings and the confusion he felt at his apparent forgetfulness. But it was another image he had in mind, one he could not rid himself of, even as he feared committing it with the brush.
“I shouldn’t,” he told himself, closing his eyes, as the image became ever more vivid in his mind.
With a sharp intake of breath, he made a broad brushstroke on the canvas, keeping his eyes closed, and allowing himself to imagine the painting into being. Seized by a sudden frenzy, he gave in to his emotions, only opening his eyes at the moment he felt certain something tangible had appeared.
And there it was, the outline of a form. It was her. It was Rosalind. But this was no formal portrait, no posed image, no respectable outline. She was naked, her head cocked to one side, the hint of a smile playing over her face, her hands cupped to her breasts, her legs cross, sitting, inviting.
“What have I done?” he asked himself, gazing into Rosalind’s eyes, and wanting only to accept her invitation.
Chapter 17
Rosalind was tired of fighting with her parents. She had no desire to be continually at odds with them, and while she could avoid her father easily enough, the company of her mother was less easily evaded. Having refused to go down to breakfast that morning, Rosalind sent Molly to convey to her mother the fact of a megrim, intending to make herself scarce at the first opportunity.
“Oh, my Lady, must I be your go between?” Molly said, after Rosalind had flatly refused to speak to her mother herself.
“You must for now, yes. We can’t speak to one another without an argument ensuing. We’re at a stalemate. I won’t marry the Duke of Northridge, and she won’t let me have anything to do with the Earl of Southbourne,” Rosalind replied.
It was a succinct account of the household’s dilemma, and Rosalind could see no happy solution. At least, not without disappointing one of the parties involved. If she refused to marry Richard, her parents would surely disown her, and if she did marry him, her life would be ruined.
Her dalliance with the earl in the gardens at Lady Clarissa’s ball was not enough to convince her to entirely give herself up to fate, but it had been enough to convince her there was another way, one she had to at least consider if she was not to be subjected to a life of misery.
But one false move could create a scandal, and if she was not certain about Sebastian, Rosalind could easily find herself on the wrong side of the wagging tongues of the ton.
“Then what are you going to do, my Lady?” Molly asked, sighing, as she folded Rosalind’s nightgown.
“I’m going to see Elizabeth. I need a distraction,” Rosalind replied, for she was tired of thinking solely matters of matrimony, and having ensured her mother believed she was resting with a megrim and not be disturbed, Rosalind slipped out into the garden, escaping by the back gate, and hurried in the direction of her friend’s house.
***
“He sent me nineteen red roses, one for every year, and a white one too,” Elizabeth said, showing off the bouquet Lord Cuthbert had sent her.
It was displayed in a large oriental vase Elizabeth had placed on a table in the window of her private sitting room, and the fragrance of the blooms filled the air with a heady scent. They were very beautiful, and Rosalind was pleased to think her friend had found happiness after the failures of her first season, when she had lamented at the thought of forever being left on the wall.
“But what’s the white one for?” Rosalind asked as Elizabeth swooned.
“Oh, it’s the sweetest thing! He wrote a card telling me the white rose was for the coming year still to be dyed with the color of what was to come,” she replied.
Rosalind raised her eyebrows. Elizabeth had always been possessed of a romantic streak. When they were children, they would play at weddings with her cousins, dressing up the younger boys in oversized frock-coats and parading down a makeshift aisle in the nursery. Elizabeth always took the part of the bride, while Rosalind played the role of the minister pronouncing the vows.
“How delightful,” Rosalind replied, and despite her cynicism, she could not help but feel a twinge of sadness that her own apparent suitor had never bothered to send her roses, or anything she could construe as a romantic gift.
“He’s so thoughtful. Really, he is. And the flowers came with an invitation, too,” Elizabeth said, taking out a stiff piece of card from her pocket and handing it to Rosalind who read it out loud.
“The Patrons of Somerset House invite the bearer and accompanied guests to an open exhibition of art,” she read, and Elizabeth clapped her hands together.
“Won’t it be wonderful, Rosalind?” she said, and Rosalind nodded.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” she said, and her friend tutted.
“It’s for both the bearer and the accompanied guests. John wrote to say I’m to invite you, too. He thought you’d like to come. You will, won’t you?” Elizabeth asked, looking at Rosalind imploringly.
