Page 14 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“And would you like to?” he asked, placing his own hand on the picture, where his fingers traced a trail along the woman’s cheek.
It was as though he was touching Rosalind, and she stifled a gasp, hoping he would not notice her surprise at this remarkable question.
“I…well, I like the thought of it, yes. I do it with any painting I see. It’s how I paint, too. I imagine myself as the subject, or there in the landscape, seeing what I’m painting,” she said, knowing what he would surely think of her words.
“And you think the woman’s the subject here? She’s in control?” he said, and Rosalind nodded.
It was just what she thought. She gazed at the woman’s face, imagining what she was feeling, what she was thinking.
“Don’t you? Do you imagine yourself in the painting?” Rosalind asked.
The stranger pondered for a moment, nodding, as he removed his hand from the woman’s painted cheek.
“I’m not sure I have such a vivid imagination. But she’s very beautiful, isn’t she?” he said, and Rosalind nodded.
The woman was beautiful. All the women depicted in the portraits around the room were beautiful. The artist had been sympathetic to their forms, and while they were naked, there was nothing distasteful about their poses. It was entirely natural. Even Rosalind knew her mother would never agree.
“I think she’s remarkable,” she said, and the man nodded.
“And I’m sure it takes a remarkable woman to say so,” he replied.
But before Rosalind could say anything further, a gong sounded in the distance. It was the audible sign the masquerade would end after the final dance. The masks would be removed, and there would be a great deal of chatter and excitement as to who had danced with who.
The evening was drawing in, and though the days were long at this time of year, the shadows were lengthening. There were no candles burning in the room with the portraits and taking a final look at the faces of the women, Rosalind suggested they return to the ballroom.
“We don’t want to be missed,” she said, and he gave a curt bow.
“Might I have the last dance with you?” he asked, and Rosalind nodded.
The ending of the last dance would be the moment when the masks were lifted, and she was curious to know who it was she had been talking to, and who it was who shared her passion for art.
“But we should return separately. It wouldn’t do to be seen together,” she said, and he nodded.
“You’re right. I’ll wait a moment, then join you in the throng. I won’t miss you. Your mask is that of an artist,” he said, and Rosalind blushed beneath it.
Reluctantly, she left the portrait room behind, making her way through the house and returning to the ballroom, where the couples were assembling for the last dance. Rosalind spotted her mother and father by the refreshment table, and hoped they had not noticed her absence, even as the stranger now appeared at her side.
“Oh, I do so love this music,” Rosalind said, as now they joined the throng.
The man slipped his arm around her waist, guiding her effortlessly in the dance. He had poise and direction, a talent many men lacked, and, as they whirled and twirled across the dance floor, Rosalind was entirely caught up in the moment they now shared. She had never imagined she would meet a man who appreciated art in the same way as she, who was not shocked by the thought of being taken up in the painting itself, and seeing what the subjects themselves could see; however passionate it might be.
“You dance very well,” he said, and Rosalind smiled, returning his compliment, as the music came to an end.
This was the anticipated moment, and around them, the couples stood back from one another, as the gong was sounded again. Ribbons were pulled, sticks lowered, and faces revealed. Rosalind removed her mask and found herself face to face with a man she had never seen before. She had half expected to be disappointed and find an old or unattractive man staring back at her.
But this man was exactly as might have hoped. He had a handsome face, piercing green eyes, and smiling lips.
“I…oh, we meet at last,” Rosalind said, and the man gave a curt bow, as he took his hand in hers and raised it to his lips.
“I must say, I wasn’t expecting to meet a woman like you this evening, Miss…” he began, but before Rosalind could introduce herself, a shrill voice behind caused her to startle.
“Rosalind, come away. It’s time to leave. The Duke of Northridge wants to wish you goodnight. Hurry now,” Rosalind’s mother said, seizing Rosalind by the hand and pulling her away.
“But Mother, I…” she stammered, glancing back at the stranger, who was still smiling at her; though now with some bemusement.
“No, Rosalind. I’ve been looking for you all evening. I despair of you at times. Come along. I think we’ve had quite enough excitement for one evening,” the duchess said, nodding to the stranger, before dragging Rosalind away.
Rosalind lost sight of him now, and she sighed, wondering what he would think of her, and feeling certain she would never see him again. But her mother would not listen to reason. She would not listen to anything. She pulled Rosalind to the side of the ballroom, chastising her for her disappearance.
