Page 42 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
The only thing missing, much to Rosalind’s disappointment, was anything in the nude. The paintings were all tasteful depictions, and loin cloths covered every opportunity for revelation.
“It’s remarkable,” Elizabeth said, staring around her, as Lord Cuthbert now approached them.
“Ah, ladies, you’re here. I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you outside. I had to be here early. I’m one of the patrons, you see. It’s all rather splendid, isn’t it?” he said, slipping his arm into Elizabeth’s.
She nodded, looking up at him and blushing.
“It’s so kind of you to invite us, John,” she replied, and he gazed at her adoringly.
Rosalind felt she was intruding, and stepping away from them, she glanced again around the walls, admiring the art, even as she could find nothing to fit her tastes entirely. She imagined her own paintings displayed here. Ariadne and Dionysus, herself and Sebastian. Was he here?
She glanced around her, trying to make him out amid the throng. She wondered what it would be like to see him again after what passed between them in the garden at Lady Clarissa’s ball. Did Lord Cuthbert know of it? Had he encouraged it?
A moment later, she saw the earl admiring a painting depicting Icarus jumping from the tower and flying too close to the sun. For a moment, she watched him, recalling the sensation of his lips pressed against hers, the feel of his embrace.
“I wonder what he’s thinking?” she asked herself.
Again, Rosalind could see no evidence of madness on the earl’s face. He was absorbed in the painting, looking up at it with a studied expression, his chin cupped in his hand. His face was that of Dionysus. Rosalind had captured him perfectly, and she smiled to herself at the thought of his being hidden under her bed, gazing into Ariadne’s eyes.
As she studied him, she imagined painting him again, the contours of his body transposed to the canvas. Knowing what they had shared, Rosalind knew she could paint a very different painting now. His lips, his hands, his arms. She knew them all intimately. She was fixated on him, and now he turned, perhaps realizing himself watched. Rosalind blushed as he caught her eye.
“What do I say?” she thought to herself, as now he approached her with a smile.
“I think this was planned,” he said, raising his eyebrows and glancing across to where Lord Cuthbert and Elizabeth were admiring a painting of a horse.
“If it was, I don’t mind,” Rosalind replied, and he smiled.
“There’s another room of paintings, but they don’t seem as popular. These are all very nice, but I think we both know what we prefer,” he said, and Rosalind smiled.
“I have to admit, I was disappointed by the loincloths,” she said, and the earl laughed.
“Yes, like Clement XIII and the fig leaves,” he replied, nodding towards a velvet curtain to their left.
A steward was standing there, and as they approached, he stepped in front of the curtain to bar their way.
“These paintings aren’t suitable for the fairer sex, my Lord,” he said, but Sebastian waved his hand dismissively.
“Oh, please, what nonsense. This lady knows more about art than any of the chattering philistines here,” Sebastian said, and pulling back the curtain, he ushered Rosalind through the door.
Chapter 18
Beyond the plush velvet curtain, Rosalind stepped into a smaller room, hung in the same way as the larger, but with a decidedly more select curation. Only a handful of men were admiring the paintings, while several stewards stood stiffly by observing the proceedings with judgmental gazes.
At the sight of Rosalind and Sebastian entering the room, several of the men looked askance, but Rosalind was used to the judgement of others, and gazing around her, she let out an exclamation of delight.
“Isn’t it wonderful? Look at the way the figures are painted. The beauty of the forms, the sensuous looks, the touch and caress,” she exclaimed, stepping forward to examine the nearest nude with Sebastian at her side.
While the motivations of some of the men viewing these works might be suspect, Rosalind’s own appreciation was entirely artistic. She imagined herself caught up in the poses and passions of the canvases. She longed to paint such things, to depict the beauty of the human form without embarrassment or scandal. This was art, and it was beautiful.
“I’m glad you like them. I thought you would,” Sebastian said, as they gazed up at a painting of two lovers entwined together in a nude embrace.
The man’s hands covered the woman’s breasts, her neck arched back as he kissed her. Sebastian was standing behind Rosalind, and she imagined the same pose between them, his hands cupping her, his lips pressed to her skin, the scent of his cologne, the feel of their bodies pressed together.
“Who paints such works? And who are the models?” Rosalind asked, turning to Sebastian, who smiled.
“I suppose they’re lovers, aren’t they? The artist paints the woman he loves. It’s often the case, even in clothed portraiture. Artists, on the whole, want to paint beauty, and when they see it in the woman they love, they want to depict it. I should think most of these scenes are based on real life,” he said.
“I don’t understand why people are so scandalized by such works. Isn’t it natural? The male and female form in the act of love,” Rosalind said.
