Page 70 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“I wasn’t following you, I promise,” Rosalind said, feeling as though she should offer some reason for her being there, after the stark formality of their earlier greeting.
His face was illuminated in the moonlight, and he smiled at her, shaking his head.
“I wouldn’t have minded if you had. But you know what’ll happen if you’re discovered here. I don’t want you to get into trouble on my account,” he said.
But Rosalind shook her head. She did not care if she did. She was glad to have escaped from her mother and the duke, and glad to be in Sebastian’s company, even if just for a few short minutes.
“I won’t. They think I’m in the powder room. And ladies can take as long as they wish in the powder room,” she said, stepping forward to stand next to him.
“I was just looking up at the stars. It’s such a bright night. The whole universe is there, every star, every constellation. Can you see Corona?” he asked, pointing upwards.
Rosalind leaned forward, their cheeks touching, as she gazed along the length of his arm. Neither of them drew back, and now she slipped her hand into his, gazing up at the constellation at Ariadne’s crown. It was beautiful, and Sebastian now turned to her, smiling, as he looked down at the diamond necklace she was wearing.
“It’s beautiful,” Rosalind whispered.
“Just like you, and if I could throw your jewels into the heavens, I would,” he said.
Rosalind laughed, and she drew him into her embrace.
“I wish you could,” she said.
He put his arms around her, and she rested her head on his chest, caught up as she had been in the alcove, their portrait now framed by the open door. She desired nothing else but to be with him, even as it seemed an impossibility.
“I wish I could have you in my arms forever. Seeing you with him… it broke my heart, Rosalind,” Sebastian said, and Rosalind felt tears welling up in her eyes.
“I wish it could be different,” she said, as he kissed her on the top of her head.
“There’s something I want to show you, but I know you’ll be in trouble if you agree… perhaps…” he said, but Rosalind shook her head.
She wanted to see whatever it was he wanted to show her, and now he led by the hand, back past the aspidistra plants and through a side door, taking a spiral staircase up to the top floor of the house. The distant chatter of the guests faded, and silence now reigned as they stood before a wood-paneled door. Sebastian took a key from his pocket, unlocked it, and led her inside.
Having lit a candle from one of the sconces to light their way, he now held it up, illuminating the scene before them. They were in an artist’s studio, Sebastian’s studio, and Rosalind looked around her in amazement at the rows of canvases lining the walls and stacked against one another on the wooden floor.
“It’s remarkable,” she exclaimed, for she had not seen Sebastian’s work before, and it made her think sadly of the painting her mother had burned in disgust.
But these canvases were different. They were not paintings, as such, but images of color, bold brush strokes, or cautious dabs. They appeared to be the result of emotion, and Rosalind wondered if perhaps Sebastian had used the canvases to reveal his feelings. But there was another painting, too, standing on an easel, and as Sebastian held up the candle, Rosalind gasped.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, smiling at her.
The painting was of Rosalind herself. It was beautiful, and Sebastian had painted her in just the way she would have wanted him to as a nude. The figure, her figure, sat reclining on a chaise lounge, a smile playing across her face. Her breasts were uncovered, but a thin silk sheet, almost luminous, concealed her lower half, the tinge of her pink, supple skin visible beneath.
The detail was exquisite, and it seemed Sebastian had painted every detail of her features, each painted in an exacting style, the curvature of her breasts, the length of her fingers, the tip of her nose. The study was perfect. The study of a man who had fallen in love with his subject.
“I… I don’t mind at all. It’s beautiful,” Rosalind replied, and Sebastian smiled at her.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she began to cry, even as he put his arm around her.
“There, there, it’s all right. I hope…” he said, but Rosalind shook her head.
“No… it’s not that. It’s… I painted you, I painted you as Dionysus, and myself as Ariadne. But my mother found it. She burned it. I wanted to show you it, but she burned it. Oh… it was too awful. I’m so sorry,” Rosalind exclaimed, overcome by emotions of her loss, of what it had represented, and of what this represented, too.
This was a painting of love. The love of a man for a woman. But it was more than that. It was the expression of a desire, one neither of them could realize. Rosalind would be forever trapped in the portrait, a moment framed, but without a future. Her own painting had been burned, and along with it, her hopes. But now, she turned to Sebastian, clinging to him, their lips meeting in a kiss; a kiss expressive of the passion the painting represented.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Rosalind,” Sebastian said, as their lips parted.
His hands were clasped around her waist, their bodies entwined, holding one another, desiring one another. In that moment, Rosalind felt again a sense of their being subjects in a portrait, but one without anyone to view it.
This was their moment, no one else’s, and again they pressed their lips together, their hands clasped, caught up in the passion they now shared, a passion unquenched by all that had gone before, now welling up in both of them, as their kiss became ever more intense.
