Page 2 of What a Lord Wants

But nothing could dull the sharp gleam in his eyes. Those looked at Dom now with a mix of anger, frustration, and disappointment. He’d worked closely with Giuseppe and knew the master’s moods as well as his own.Thiswas one he’d never seen before.

“So you want to be a great artist.” Giuseppe pointed to the easel where Dom spent his days learning new techniques and pushing his talents to the edge. “One to rival Caravaggio, Leonardo, Raphael…”

“Titian,” Dom added quietly.

“Not with work like that.” He waved a dismissive hand at the canvas. A view of the Grand Canal in the style of Canaletto. “Pezzo di merda.”

Dom clenched his jaw to bite back his anger. “There’s nothing wrong with—”

“Lifeless! A boring landscape no better than a worthless fruit bowl. Bah!” He shook his hands, then gestured them wide to indicate the entire studio. “Where is your passion? Where is your zeal?” He jabbed a paint-stained finger at the painting. “Not there.” Then he stepped up to Dom and jabbed him in the chest. “It used to be here. Where has it gone? Because it isnotin your painting.”

He pushed past Dom, turning his back on him as he walked to the worktables lining the wall. He snatched up a bottle of wine sitting there and splashed some into a glass.

“I took you on as an apprentice because you have the most potential of any artist I have ever seen.”

Dom said nothing. Certainly not thank you. The maestro’s words weren’t a compliment.

“You have greatness in you, Domenico. The capability to be a true master.” He stared in cold disdain as he raised the glass to his lips. “You arewastingit.”

“I have been here every day, painting and learning from you and the others. For God’s sake!” He gestured angrily at the studio around them. “I’ve managed the assistants, worked with pigments, stretched canvases—everythingyou’ve asked of me.” Anger—and an odd sense of dread—tightened his chest as he dropped his hand to his side. “This is about Elena, isn’t it? Because you want me to stay away from her.”

“This isn’t about her. I would be fortunate to have you for a son-in-law.” Giuseppe’s gaze turned grim. “This is about you and how you have split your passion. Your art is suffering.”

“Nonsense.” If he’d suffered from a bit of a creative block during the past few weeks, that was understandable. Every artist’s career had its ups and downs, but he was still passionate about his work, even if Elena now took a good deal of that passion for herself. “I’ll work harder, reduce distractions—”

“You are lying to yourself.” The grimness in the old master’s eyes dulled into grief. “I was once like you, with so much talent.” He drained the wineglass and reached for the bottle to refill it. “I did not realize until too late that my art needed to come first. I missed my chance. But you still have yours.”

“Youarea great artist.”

The master cast him a pitying look. “What would you do to appease your muse, Domenico? What sacrifices would you refuse to make for your goddess?”

“None.” He meant it. He would give Elena everything he possessed.

A dark intensity glowed in the man’s eyes unlike any he’d ever seen before. “And when even that isn’t enough to appease her? Would you then let her burn up your heart and consume you, until you have nothing left with which to create your art?”

“You’re exaggerating.” The master was overly dramatic at the best of times, but now, he was spouting nonsense. Yet a chill tightened his gut.

“Have you ever been in love, the kind that rips away your breath when you see her? That feels so joyous to be with her that it’s painful?”

“Yes.” She was waiting for him at that very moment.

Harsh accusation darkened Giuseppe’s face. “Andthatis why you will never be a great artist.”

Anger flashed through him. He’d never once contradicted the master, but this—thishe couldn’t let stand. “An artist needs passion, you’ve always said so.”

“Forhis art, to create and recreate the world as he envisions it,” he corrected harshly. “To be great, you must surrenderallof yourself to your art.” He shook his head in disgust. “You can never do that if you’re reserving even part of yourself for anything else.”

The damned old man didn’t know what he was talking about. A talented artist would never have to choose.

“Ask yourself this, my friend—when do you feel the most filled with joy? When are you most inspired and connected to the world? When do you gaze upon the face of God?” His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “When you are making love to your woman…or making love to your art?”

Dom’s heart stuttered. He knew what he should answer. That he felt most alive when he was with Elena. That the moments when he lost himself and his singular focus became so intense that the world dissolved away happened when he was in her arms—

Damned lies. All of it.

He would never experience with her the same exquisite bliss as when he became so absorbed in his art that the brush transformed into an extension of himself. When each stroke of color came not from a conscious decision but from somewhere unknowable inside him.

“Your art must come first.” Giuseppe’s gaze pierced Dom in the shadows. “Always.”