Page 18 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
The more she thought about him, the more she was caught up in the romance of their encounter. It had been entirely unexpected, a chance meeting leading to the entirely unexpected. He was handsome, but there was a great deal more to their encounter than the pleasantness of physical attraction.
He had really listened to her and valued her opinion. Too many men were possessed only of their own thoughts, and certainly those of a woman did not count. But last night had been different. He had been different, and Rosalind was caught up in the desire of seeing him again, and as the portrait took shape, she did see him again.
“Unmistakably so,” she said to herself, pleased with her own efforts, as she stood back to admire her work.
The face was still without the finer details, but the stranger was there in the form of Dionysus, gazing into Ariadne’s eyes, just as he had done at the masquerade ball. Rosalind smiled to herself, nodding, as she set down her palette.
“It’s just right. Just as he should be,” she thought to herself, knowing she would always see the stranger whenever she looked at the painting of Ariadne and Dionysus.
Rosalind did not have a crown for the stranger to turn into a constellation, but there was no doubting the passionate feelings she had felt for the stranger whose face was now immortalized before her. He had seemed a kindred spirit, someone who truly understood her, even as she knew nothing about him, save the fact of his appreciation for art. That was the spark between them, and it had ignited a flame in Rosalind’s heart.
“How I wish I could see him again,” she thought to herself, knowing she could dream of him, even see him in the portrait, but desiring to have him stand before her and take up from the moment they had parted.
Chapter 8
Sebastian had passed a restless night. His thoughts turned to the woman he had met at the masquerade, even as he had tried to dismiss such thoughts as idle fantasy. The masquerade had been unexpectedly delightful, but it, too, had been a fantasy. Behind his mask, Sebastian had not been the Earl of Southbourne. He had been a man without a curse, a man who could fall in love without thought to some unknown future fear.
“But without the mask, what choice do I have when it comes to love?” he asked himself as he made his way down to breakfast.
He had hoped his stepmother would sleep late, demanding her breakfast be brought up to her bedroom. But to Sebastian’s disappointment, he found her already in the dining room, helping herself from the tureens on the sideboard. The smell of deviled kidneys and sausages hung in the air, but Sebastian found himself with little appetite, nodding to the footman to pour him a cup of coffee as he sat down heavily at the table.
“I trust you slept well?” his stepmother said, and Sebastian nodded, taking a sip of the bitter coffee, and making a face.
“Sugar,” he said, beckoning for the pot to be brought to him.
“I was up early. I want to start organizing things for the music room,” Victoria continued, and Sebastian looked up at her in surprise.
He knew nothing about a music room. There were empty rooms in the house, but neither he nor his father had played a musical instrument, and Sebastian did not recall his stepmother doing so, either. His own mother had played the pianoforte, but her own instrument had remained silent ever since, and was now stored in a distant attic.
“The music room?” he replied, and Victoria nodded.
“Yes, don’t you remember? We discussed the matter a few weeks ago. We’re going to open up what was once a sitting room in the east wing and make it into a music room. I’d like to learn to play something…the pianoforte, perhaps. You agreed to it,” she said.
Sebastian nodded, even as he had no recollection of their discussion, or of agreeing to anything. The subject of a music room was blank in his mind, and a fresh wave of fear now gripped him. Had he entirely forgotten? He glanced at his stepmother, whose expression suggested she knew what he was thinking.
“Yes, the music room. That’s right. I’m sure it’ll be an asset to the house,” Sebastian said, even as he did not like the thought of being reminded of his mother playing the pianoforte.
Those had been such happy days, when Sebastian had sat with his mother while she painted, or played and sang to him. He could picture the scene vividly, her smiling face; the sunlight coming through the windows of the morning room, her voice, soft and gentle.
“I’m going to decorate it with an oriental wallpaper. The one I showed you the sample of,” Victoria said.
Again, Sebastian could not recall the wallpaper, its pattern, or its color. His mind was a blank, but he nodded, fearing what she would say if he admitted to having no recollection at all.
“I’m sure it’ll be very nice,” Sebastian said.
“Wait until it’s finished before you see it. I want it to be a surprise for you,” his stepmother said, and Sebastian nodded.
It would certainly be a surprise. The whole thing was a surprise. Sebastian feared just what other things he had forgotten in the course of the previous few days. It seemed he was drawing a blank over so many things. He found himself forgetting conversations, events, perhaps even people. That was the trouble with forgetfulness. He did not know what he was forgetting.
“Yes, I will. I’m sure you’ve got it all planned,” Sebastian said, fearing his stepmother had already explained her plans to him in detail.
His stepmother smiled.
“That’s right, I have, just as we discussed. I suppose you’ll be enjoying a leisurely day. I’ll retire after luncheon for a few hours. We’ve got Lady Clarissa’s ball this evening,” she said.
For a moment, Sebastian tried to focus his mind, attempting to recall not only Lady Clarissa but also the ball to which he was invited.
“Ah… yes, Lady Clarissa,” he said, suddenly seizing on the thought of who his stepmother meant.
