Page 12 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“Oh, we couldn’t stay in there any longer, it was stifling,” the woman exclaimed, as Rosalind picked herself up from the floor, looking down at her dress, now stained with red wine.
“But it was fun, wasn’t it?” the man said, pinching the woman’s bottom and causing her to shriek with laughter.
“Oh, you naughty thing. If it weren’t for your mask, I wouldn’t let you get away with it,” she exclaimed, and they went off hand in hand, offering no words of apology as Rosalind sighed, closing the open cupboard, and looking again at the painting hanging on the concealed door.
She had lost interest now, knowing her mother would have something to say about a wine-stained dress, but not wishing to return to the ballroom, she wandered further into the house, looking up at the paintings on the walls.
There were landscapes and portraits, classical scenes, renaissance sketches, works by the great masters Rosalind had read so much about. The house was a treasure trove, and Rosalind could not believe she had not known the extent of the collection before.
“It’s remarkable,” she thought to herself, coming now to a small room. Through its open door where windows that overlooked the garden, and on the walls, a number of extraordinary paintings were displayed.
They were not portraits in the usual sense, but showed half a dozen couples in what could only be described as the act of love. Rosalind was captivated by them, staring in astonishment at the canvases, where the bodies of men and women were entwined, their lips pressed together, their hands clasped.
“I’ve never seen anything like it in my whole life,” she said to herself, peering closer at the paintings, her heart skipping a beat as she imagined herself in the female gaze.
It was one thing to paint her own portraits, to cast herself in the moment she was depicting. But to see that depicted by another was quite extraordinary, and Rosalind could only marvel at the daring of a painter who drew such remarkable scenes.
The nudes held little back from the imagination, and Rosalind could not recall ever having seen such scenes depicted in any other painting she had seen. Her heart was beating fast, and she could only feel a sense of the risqué in allowing her gaze to remain fixed on what she was seeing.
“Just imagine it, being caught up in such a scene; his arms around me, his lips pressed against mine. What would it feel like? To be so close to another, his hands running down my back,” Rosalind thought to herself, closing her eyes and imagining herself as the subject of one of the paintings, given over to the passions so evident on the faces of those depicted.
She could almost feel the touch of the man, the men depicted in each scene showing a different act of lovemaking. It was extraordinary, and Rosalind knew her mother would be scandalized by the very knowledge of such paintings, let alone seeing them for real. Opening her eyes, she smiled, gazing around her, and wondering if she, too, could paint such pictures.
“But I’d need a subject. I couldn’t just paint from my imagination alone,” she thought to herself, even as the thought of doing so was tantalizing.
Rosalind had a way of imagining herself into the paintings. She could be the subject, and in being the subject, she was able to see everything around her. But for this, she always needed a spark of inspiration. Ariadne had come from a book of Greek myths.
She had been depicted amid the stars and constellations, and Rosalind’s inspiration for other paintings. This was something different. Never before had Rosalind known the tender touch of a man, and it felt as though she could not paint such a scene when she had no true appreciation of what it would mean to be part of it.
“I don’t think I could paint it, I don’t think I could be the subject,” she told herself, feeling disappointed, for the paintings had aroused unexpected feelings in her.
She could not take her eyes off them, and closing her eyes only brought a heightened sense of imagination, as she gave herself over to the pleasures depicted. A shiver ran down her spine, and she sighed, allowing herself to be held by each of the men.
The painter obscured their faces, but that of the woman plain to see. In each depiction, she was in the throes of ecstasy, brought to heightened pleasure by the touch of the man, who muscular arms embraced her. But there was a sense of the woman’s power.
The faces were those of women who knew just what they desired and were getting it. Rosalind wondered if the unknown painter was a woman herself, and despite her misgivings as to her own abilities, she was resolved to paint something in approximation to what she was looking at.
“Why couldn’t Ariadne and Dionysus be making love?” she asked herself, for she had depicted the lovers in the first throes of their passion, rather than in the fullness of their desires.
But there was no reason to hold back. No one would see her work, her parents would ensure that. Rosalind now felt determined to paint as she wished, even as a subject such as this would be scandalous to behold. The thought of it excited her, even as she had no point of reference by which to make a comparison. Could she really paint such a scene without having first experienced it for herself?
“Excuse me,” a voice behind her said, and Rosalind let out a cry, startled from her musings, and turning to find a masked figure standing behind her.
Chapter 6
He was wearing a gaudy looking green and purple mask, obscuring his entire face, and dressed in a red frock coat, black breeches, and a shirt. Rosalind had not noticed him earlier in the evening. Though there were so many guests, it was hardly surprising. Was he angry with her? Had she found her way into a part of the house forbidden to the guests?
“I’m sorry, I was just looking at the paintings,” she stammered.
“So am I. Quite remarkable, aren’t they?” he said, and his tone certainly did not sound angry, even as Rosalind remained wary, knowing what her mother would say if she knew she was talking to a man unchaperoned.
“Do you like them?” Rosalind ventured, for she could not imagine the paintings would be to most people’s taste.
“I think they’re wonderful, yes. Though I doubt most of the ton would agree. I’m sure they all think they’re behaving quite scandalously this evening, but this—” he said, pointing up to the nearest painting, where a woman was in full throes of her ecstasy.
Rosalind was pleased to have found a fellow art lover. Especially one who appreciated a different kind of art.
“I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Rosalind replied, relaxing a little in the man’s presence, as now he peered more closely at the picture.
