River Of Fire (40 page)

Using an extra-fine brush, Rebecca darkened a faint shadow at the corner of the corsair's eye. She studied the result and was about to make another stroke when she stepped back with a rueful smile. It was easier to start a painting than to finish it. There was always an itchy desire to do more, to keep going until perfection was achieved. It was hard to accept that perfection was impossible, and that trying to reach it might destroy whatever had been accomplished.

She felt a touch of emptiness in finishing a work that had absorbed her so completely. At least in this case, completion meant she would no longer be driving herself mad by thinking constantly about Kenneth and his magnificent body. Instead, she would think of him only… oh, perhaps ten or twelve hours a day.

The door opened with a squeal and Lavinia swept in.

Rebecca sighed. "You really must learn to knock."

"I did. Three times. You didn't hear me."

"Oh. Sorry." Rebecca glanced outside. Late afternoon. She seemed to have missed luncheon. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Thank you, but I haven't the time. I came to drop off the gown my maid altered for the Strathmore ball. I gave it to your girl, Betsy. She shows real promise as a lady's maid. She certainly has more interest in fashion than you do."

"Sorry again. Things are always rather disorganized this close to Handing-In Day."

"I've noticed. With four major historical canvases to perfect, Anthony is barely civil." Lavinia cocked her head. "Why are you busy? Don't tell me you've finally decided to submit your work!"

Rebecca nodded bashfully.

"Well, hallelujah! It's about time. What will you submit?"

"Probably this one I've just finished, and one other." She gestured at her easel. "Would you like to see my corsair?"

"I'd love to." Lavinia came to the easel, then gave a low whistle of appreciation. "Ye gods. What does Kenneth think?"

"He hasn't seen it yet. Naturally I won't submit it if he objects."

"If that happens, ignore him and exhibit it anyhow. All women who love art and men will thank you."

Rebecca frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You've captured the essence of maleness," Lavinia said with a wicked smile. "Your corsair is every woman's dream lover who comes to her in the shadows of her mind. Dark. Dangerous. Irresistible. Yet when she looks into his eyes, she knows that she is the reason he breathes." She began fanning herself with her reticule. "In short, my dear, it is pure passion."

Rebecca winced. "Tell me you're joking."

"Exaggerating a bit, but not joking." The older woman pursed her lips as she studied the canvas. "You really will have to marry if you see him that way."

"Lavinia, it's a
painting
. Oils on canvas. A romanticized portrait of a former army officer. It is not a declaration of love everlasting."

"Hmph. That's what you think. I haven't spent half my life around artists without learning a thing or two. Most of you don't know your own emotions unless you have a pencil in your hand." She fanned faster. "If you don't want him, can I have him? Please?"

Rebecca laughed. "Kenneth is not a shawl that I can lend or give away. And at the risk of being tactless, you once made an advance that he didn't accept."

"I didn't expect him to, but he was so serious that I couldn't resist teasing." Lavinia grinned. "Mind you, if he had said yes, I shouldn't have hesitated to follow through."

Rebecca shook her head. "You're irredeemable."

"Probably." Lavinia studied the canvas again. "All joking aside, it's a wonderful painting. The best thing you've done yet. What else will you hand in?"

Rebecca hesitated, not wanting to talk about the falling woman picture. "I'm not sure yet."

"As long as you submit something. The academy would benefit by exhibiting more female artists. Someday they will have to accept women as members again. When they do, you must be ready." Turning from the easel, she added, "When you go to the ball, don't get caught in any more compromising situations. I won't be there to rescue you that night."

"Having already been ruined and betrothed, I can't imagine what more damage I could do to my reputation."

Lavinia sniffed. "Coming up with a new way to disgrace yourself would be child's play for a woman of your creative talents. Try to restrain yourself."

"I make no promises," Rebecca said with a laugh.

After the other woman left, Rebecca studied the picture again. Pure passion? She realized uncomfortably that there was truth in that. As she had told Kenneth, paint was a medium, and it had faithfully transmitted her hidden desire for her model. Luckily, few people would see that as clearly as Lavinia.

Rebecca thought of the night that she and Kenneth had made love, and liquid warmth stirred deep within her. A vivid image of his body braced above hers made her turn away from the canvas, her lips tight. She wanted, with fierce intensity, to celebrate the completion of her painting with the man who had inspired her. A single taste of passion had not been enough.

Yet she dared not surrender to desire, no matter how much they would both enjoy it. It would be too easy to become addicted to the pleasure of mating with him. Already her judgment was warped; if they became lovers, she would end up at the mercy of her emotions.

And if her emotional control ever cracked, she would be destroyed. Better to be only friends.

But as a friend, she could go to his studio and see how his work had progressed. After all, Handing-In Day was tomorrow. They had both better be ready.

A knock at the studio door was accompanied by Rebecca's voice saying, "It's me. May I come in?"

"Of course." Kenneth set down his palette and rubbed his tight neck muscles as she entered the room. She looked quite delectable in a navy blue dress with a scarlet ribbon tying back the thick waves of her hair. Red shouldn't have looked so good with auburn, but she had chosen exactly the right shade. He studied the tendrils that curled around her face and emphasized the slim line of her throat, then made himself look away. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

She glanced around the room. "It's interesting how we imprint our personalities on our studios. Father's is elegant. Mine is cozy. Yours has a kind of military neatness that's rare in an artist, but useful when the studio is so small." Her amused gaze returned to him. "You, however, look as if you've hardly slept in a week. How is your work going?"

He thought of the harrowing effort he had put into his painting since Beth's wedding. How gut-wrenching it had been to revisit his nightmares. Deciding to let the work speak for itself when the time came, he replied, "I can sleep after Handing-In Day. I'm devoutly grateful that Sir Anthony has been so busy with his own submissions that he hasn't needed me much. Otherwise, I never could have completed my paintings in time."

She glanced toward his easel, but didn't try to see the work in progress. Since the Lilith picture, she had treated him as a fellow artist rather than a student. That as much as anything had given him confidence.

She asked, "You're submitting more than one picture?"

"Two—a related pair." He sighed. "The first is surely unacceptable to the academy, and I don't know if the second is much better. Still, they say what I wanted to say."

"Every now and then the academy surprises us by recognizing what is powerful and new. Perhaps that will happen with you." She hesitated. "After dinner, let's ask Father to look at our work. He still doesn't know that either of us intend to submit to the exhibition."

"We can't put it off any longer." He gave her a quizzical glance. "Do I finally get to see the corsair?"

"Right now, if you like." She glanced toward the easel again. "May I look at your work?"

Kenneth shook his head. "I'd rather wait and show you and your father at the same time. You might be too kind."

"You overrate my charity," Rebecca said with a laugh as she strolled across the studio to the window. "I have said nothing about your work that wasn't honest."

He watched her surreptitiously as he covered his canvas. The fabric of her gown moved fluidly, as if she wore little beneath. Like many of her dresses, it buttoned in front. Convenient for her, and a major temptation. She had such lovely little breasts…

His body tightened and he looked down at his brushes. A good thing he had been so busy lately, or God only knows what might have happened. "Lead on. Am I going to hate the picture?"

"I don't know." As she went out the door, she said over her shoulder, "Lavinia just saw it. Her reaction was rather alarming, but she did like it."

When they entered Rebecca's studio, she wordlessly indicated the easel by the north window. It was turned away from the door so that the light fell full across the canvas. Eager to see what she had made of him, he circled around to see it. Then he stopped cold in his tracks.

As the silence stretched, Rebecca said in a small voice, "You hate it."

Trying to match the detachment she had demonstrated on seeing herself portrayed as a naked demoness, he said, "Not at all. It's a superb painting. I just find it a bit… unnerving to see myself rendered so dramatically."

He must separate his judgment from the fact that it was his own eyes staring back at him. He began analyzing the picture piece by piece.

The Oriental hangings and the Persian carpet tossed over the sofa were luxuriant but muted, creating an exotic atmosphere without detracting from the main subject. He studied the brushwork with admiration. Rebecca was wonderful at giving a sense of rich texture with only a few fluid strokes.

The Gray Ghost made a wonderfully haughty hunting cat. Though tufted and striped and doubled in size, the supercilious feline expression caught the Ghost to the life.

Feeling more objective, Kenneth brought his attention back to the pirate who dominated the canvas. The powerful, arrogant figure sprawled back against the sofa like a waiting tiger, challenging the viewer with charcoal-edged eyes. Looking at the corsair as a stranger rather than as himself, he said slowly, "You've captured the essence of someone who has lived by violence. Hardened. Brutal, even. A man of no illusions who has had to kill or be killed. It's riveting."

"But this is what makes the painting great." He gestured at the profile reflected darkly in the wall that angled behind the corsair, its surface as smooth and black as polished obsidian. "This image shows the cost of violence to your pirate's soul. He has lost much of what makes life worth living. Now, knowing the price he paid for survival, he is haunted by the question of whether it would have been better to let death take him."

"Is that how you see yourself, Kenneth?" she said softly.

He thought of the aftermath of battles, and of Maria. "There were moments when I felt like that. Yet it isn't really me. Rather, you found a buried facet of my nature and distilled it into something universal and compelling. You are going to hand it in tomorrow?"

"You wouldn't mind?"

"I'm not enthralled about exposing my tattered soul to fashionable London, but I'll survive. For those who have the perception, the painting will be deeply moving." He glanced from the canvas to Rebecca. "What was Lavinia's reaction?"

She laughed. "You know Lavinia. She said the picture was pure passion, and that if I felt that way, I really would have to marry you. Utter nonsense, of course."

He suppressed a sigh. A pity that Rebecca was so set against marriage. Because the more he thought about it, the better he liked the idea.

When dinner that night was almost over, Kenneth said, "Sir Anthony, I have a favor to ask."

Her father looked at Kenneth with surprise. Rebecca guessed it was the first time his secretary had ever asked for anything.

Kenneth continued, "I don't know if Rebecca has ever told you, but I… I'm something of an artist myself."

Rebecca was delighted that his confidence had increased to the point where he could say that. Sir Anthony, however, had the wary expression of a man who had been too often approached by amateur artists with exaggerated notions of their ability.

To reassure him, she said, "He's very good, Father. I suggested he use one of the empty attic bedrooms as a studio."

Sir Anthony's brows rose. "It seems that much has been going on behind my back. No wonder you're so insightful about painting, Kenneth. What kind of favor do you want?"

"I'm thinking about submitting two pictures to the Royal Academy." Kenneth fiddled with his fork with uncharacteristic nervousness. "I think it unlikely that they'll be accepted, but would… would you be willing to look at them and tell me if I'd be humiliating myself to try?"

Sir Anthony set his napkin on the table and got to his feet. "If you wish, but I warn you, I'm a harsh critic."

"Even of his daughter," Rebecca said with feeling as she thought of her early lessons. Her father had never accepted less than her best. She also rose from the table. "While you're in the attic, Father, you can look at the two paintings I intend to hand in."

"So you're finally going to submit! It's about time." Sir Anthony glanced at Kenneth. "Your influence, I presume. Betrothal obviously suits you both."

She really ought to repeat that she had no intention of marrying, but that was an argument for another day. "We did encourage each other to make the attempt."