Page 16 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
Sebastian looked up, distracted by his thoughts of the very woman his stepmother now mentioned. He, too, was wondering who she was and whether he would ever see her again. He knew he had been carried away by a fantasy, but the illusion of the masquerade, its hidden nature allowed him to think of the real possibility of romance.
“I don’t know. Her mother dragged her away. I think her name is Rosalind. But, I really don’t know for certain,” Sebastian admitted as much as he wished he did.
“You certainly seemed keen on one another. How did you come to dance with her?” Victoria asked, persisting in her interrogation.
This was another of her bad habits. She liked to extract information through relentless questioning. Sebastian sighed.
“We were talking about the art…but with our masks still on. The marquess was an art collector. The manor’s full of paintings and portraits. We found ourselves appreciating the same paintings,” Sebastian replied, smiling to himself at the thought of which paintings they had appreciated.
Sebastian had been surprised by Rosalind’s reaction to the nudes. Most women were prudish about such things, taking offence at the merest hint of flesh or exposure. But Rosalind had delighted in such depictions, and it was clear her knowledge of art was extensive. The revelation, too, of her own abilities, had only served to heighten Sebastian’s interest in her, even as he now feared their encounter had been short-lived. Would he ever see her again?
“Rosalind? Now, let me think. I only caught a glimpse of her, but I feel as though I recognized her mother. That’s the problem with London, though. It’s not like provinces, where everyone knows everyone, and society consists of the residents of a big house, a clergyman, and a retired colonel. I wonder if it could be the Duke of Lonsdale’s girl? She’s Rosalind, but I don’t recall ever seeing her,” Sebastian’s stepmother said.
Sebastian shrugged. It hardly mattered. The evening had been unexpectedly pleasant, but as for its continuation, or something more, Sebastian knew there was little point in wishful thinking. Behind his mask, Sebastian had been able to forget a little of who he was.
He was not the maddening earl, but a man who could be whoever he chose. That was what wearing a mask meant, and in Rosalind, Sebastian had found a woman with whom he felt a remarkable affinity, even with a mask on.
“Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? I won’t see her again. It seemed her mother didn’t approve, and I saw another man keeping a close eye on her,” Sebastian replied.
“The Duke of Northridge, I believe. Perhaps they’re betrothed,” Victoria replied.
Sebastian shrugged. It hardly mattered if they were or not. He himself had no intention of betrothal, and while Rosalind had provided an interesting distraction, it was time to put the matter behind him. Sebastian had vowed never to marry. He could not bring himself to do so, knowing the fear that stalked him. It was one thing to dance with a pretty woman, but quite another to subject her to what was certain to be a life of unhappiness.
“Well, if they are, good luck to them,” Sebastian replied, as the carriage pulled up at Southbourne House.
Sebastian was surprised to find himself sad at the thought of the evening being over. He had not particularly wanted to attend the masquerade, and had done so out of duty, rather than with intent.
But in meeting Rosalind he had, for a short while, forgotten something of his troubles, and behind his mask he had been a different person, caught up in the fantasy of what might have been had circumstances been different.
“She was certainly a pretty creature,” he thought to himself, even as he felt certain he would never see her again, and dismissing such idle thoughts, Sebastian made his way to bed.
***
The paintings stood out vividly, their features extenuated, limbs clasping, lips pressing, hands searching. Rosalind gazed around her. It was as though the paintings had come alive in a frenzy of passion. She gasped, turning this way and that, surrounded on all sides by the paintings, no longer imprisoned by their frames and canvas, but given life, and thrusting her among them.
“They’re rather fine, aren’t they?” a voice behind her said, and Rosalind turned to find a masked figure watching her from behind.
She gasped, not knowing where she was or what she was doing there, even as the paintings became even more alive. She could hear their whispered passions, the sounds of their lovemaking, and now the strange stepped forward.
“I don’t understand,” she replied, realizing she, too, was wearing a mask.
“You don’t have to understand. But I think when you do the paintings, you’re part of them. You said so yourself,” he replied.
Rosalind knew she recognized him, even as she felt unsure why she did. There was something in his voice, in his physique, in his mannerisms. It was…
“You’re the man from the ball. I didn’t realize,” she said, as he slipped his arm around her and drew her into his embrace.
“It doesn’t matter who I am. You couldn’t see the faces in the paintings, could you?” he said, as he slipped his arm around her.
Suddenly, the scene changed. Rosalind was no longer surrounded by the paintings. Their figures caught up in the act of love, but in the center of the ballroom, dancing with the stranger. Music was playing, but no one else was dancing. They were alone, twirling and whirling in a waltz, their bodies moving as one.
“I’ve never danced like this before,” Rosalind exclaimed, and now the masked man drew her closer into his embrace, his hands on the small of her back, their foreheads almost touching.
“That’s because you’ve never danced in a painting, in your own imagination,” he whispered, as now it seemed the background disappeared, and all that remained was the two of them, dancing to the music coming from unseen musicians.
“But can’t I see you? Can’t we take off our masks?” Rosalind asked, for she wanted to see his face, she wanted more than his arms around her, thinking back to the paintings and the passions they depicted.
The stranger paused, the music softening, and he stepped back, his hand still clasped in hers. Now, he raised his hand to his mask, removing it and tossing it to one side to reveal the face of the same man Rosalind had danced with at the masquerade.
