Page 13 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she? And the way he holds her, firm, and yet…” he said, and Rosalind laughed.
“But she’s in control. He might be holding her firmly, but it’s her face we see. She’s the one allowing him to have his pleasure,” she said.
The masked man turned to her and nodded.
“Yes, an interesting appreciation. Are you something of a critic?” he asked.
Rosalind blushed, though of course the man could not see her do so. She was no critic, but she knew what she liked, and she was not afraid to venture an opinion.
“Oh, yes. I think we misunderstand a lot of paintings by not seeing them from the feminine perspective. Take depictions of classical myths. The Greeks had a very different view of how women might behave. The women depicted were powerful creatures; goddesses,” she said, and the man nodded.
“I’m inclined to agree with you. And it seems we’ve both grown tired of masquerading,” he said, taking a step back, so they stood together in front of the portrait.
It felt strange to be discussing such things with a man… with a stranger. Rosalind rather liked it, though she knew just what her mother would say if she knew what was happening. To look at nude pictures alone was one thing. But to view them in the company of a man, to be alone and view them in the company of a man… a shiver ran through her, and she smiled to herself, feeling suddenly rebellious.
“I can’t stand it. My parents forced me to come. I don’t want to be here. I want to be at home with my easel and paints,” she said.
He turned to her and nodded his approval.
“You’re a painter, too, are you? Do you paint nudes like this?” he asked.
Rosalind shook her head, though she had every intention of doing so now.
“I don’t, no. But I paint classical scenes, with lovers, and romance. I could paint something like this, though,” she said, imagining Ariadne in the throes of Dionysian ecstasy.
Again, the man nodded his approval, but now his attentions seemed drawn by her dress, and Rosalind suddenly remembered she was covered in wine stains.
“Did you have an accident?” he asked.
“I…I…” Rosalind stammered, embarrassed by what had happened.
But to her surprise, he drew out a handkerchief, offering it to her, and pointing to the stains.
“Here, let me help you,” he said, but as he leaned forward, his hand brushed against her breast, causing her to gasp.
It had been the briefest of touches, but with her senses heightened by the allure of the pictures, Rosalind’s heart skipped a beat, as now she took the handkerchief from the stranger’s hand and dabbed at her stained dress. But there was really nothing to be done.
The stain was set, and the peacock blue dress was irreparably damaged. But it was not the dress she was now preoccupied with, but the stranger’s touch, its memory lingering, her desires aroused.
“I think I’ll need a new dress,” Rosalind said, as she handed the handkerchief back to the man, who was still to introduce himself.
But a masquerade ball invited mystery. There were no introductions, no dance cards, only the allure of what lay behind the mask, and Rosalind, her mind used to creating pictures out of nothing, now pictured the man standing before her. She could see his hair, dark and disheveled, and just the slightest outline of his face, a chiseled jaw, and a high neck.
He was well built, and she imagined his muscled torso beneath his shirt, like something of a Greek god. He was of average height, but strongly built, and he could easily have been any of the men in the paintings on the walls around them.
“It’s a pretty dress. Perhaps your maid could do something with it,” he said, and Rosalind laughed.
Molly was a loyal and faithful friend, but her skills were often lacking when it came to the finer points of service. Wine stains were notorious, and Rosalind feared there was little hope of salvaging the damaged dress.
“I suppose I should be getting back,” Rosalind said, glancing towards the door.
But her gaze was held by the paintings, and the man now pointed out another, exclaiming as to the quality of the brushstrokes.
“Don’t you feel you could just reach out and touch the flesh?” he said.
A shiver ran through Rosalind, and she nodded, holding out her hand, and allowing her fingers to caress the torso of the man depicted. For a moment, she was there again, held in his embrace. Except now she imagined, not just any stranger, but the stranger standing by her side. It made her blush as she recalled the brief touch of his hand against her breast. Had it been an accident?
“It feels like it. Yes, as though you could climb into the painting and be a part of it,” she said, turning to the stranger, who nodded.
