Page 57 of What a Lord Wants

Then she was gone.

He stared after her, gritting his teeth. How dare she accuse him of not knowing how to be an artist? His artwashis life. It permeated each move he made, every breath he took. He’d given it everything he had. Sacrificed to it. Sacrificedforit. For God’s sake, he’d gone without food at times so he could buy the best pigments and brushes, lived in a cramped attic room that was stifling hot in the summers and freezing in the winters, worked so many hours at a stretch that his fingers cramped until he could no longer hold a brush—

Hisheartwasn’t in it?Laughable.

His art had sustained him since he was a child, through the death of his mother and then his father. He’d clung to it through his early days in Italy, when selling his paintings had been the only way to earn enough money to eat when Timothy cut off his allowance because he refused to give up his painting and return home to England. Being able to paint had been the only escape from those dark days following his brother and sister-in-law’s deaths, when he realized that the rift his art had created between him and his brother could never be healed.

It was the only thing that kept him goingnow, when he was expected to behave like England’s most respected peer and felt imprisoned because of it. When Constance threatened to take even that life away from him.

Eve was wrong about him.Completelywrong. To declare that he’d never become a great artist—

“My paintings are just fine. Brilliant, in fact.” He pointed at the easel to convince himself. “Thatone is a masterpiece!”

Dear God, was it ever. Even now the sight of it captivated him. Only because of Eve and that inner light she possessed, that sense of life that simply radiated from her.

Yet the only reason Eve had modeled for it in the first place was because he’d taken Constance to his bed, mixing his heart with his art.

Except…he hadn’t.

An icy chill sank over him. His heart had never been part of his relationship with Constance. What he sought from her had been physical release only. Nothing emotional. And when Constance had become too demanding, he’d pushed her away. Just as Eve had accused him of doing to her. But what she’d wanted—

Never.

He wouldneversplit his passions. Not even for Eve.

He picked up the dropped brush and flung it once more at the wall with all his strength. The handle cracked in two and clattered to the floor.

Chapter 15

The Summer Exhibition

New Somerset House, London

Christopher Carlisle snatched two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing attendant and handed one to Eve, who nervously smiled her gratitude. But there wasn’t enough champagne in England to get her through tonight.

And through seeing Dom again.

“What is this event called?” Robert Carlisle asked, gesturing at the busy gallery around them.

“Varnishing night,” Eve answered, drawing on what Dom had taught her over the past few months. “It officially starts the exhibition.”

Tonight was a private preview for specially invited guests, who would have the first chance to view the paintings that were part of the annual Summer Exhibition. This private reception was why Eve and her extended family were there, minus her father, who had been called away to Portsmouth on business. But even though Papa wasn’t present and the exhibition was the very last place she wanted to be, she’d had no choice but to attend. Winslow Shipping and Trade had made a large donation, and she, Mariah, and Robert had to be here to represent the company.

So they’d all come together, complete with the dowager Duchess of Trent, Hugh Whitby, and the two Carlisle cousins. None of them cared one whit about art or the Royal Academy, but a great deal about her and publicly showing their support after Burton’s cruelty. For that, she would be forever grateful.

“Tonight is the first chance for buyers to see what paintings are for sale and the last chance for the artists to touch up their works before the competition begins,” she explained. “To add last-minute bits of color or final glazes.”

From the end of the long room, two men launched into a shouting match. One of them pointed angrily at the wall and the pictures hanging there at all levels, from floor to ceiling and all the way into the corners of the large room.

She winced. “And to complain about how their paintings were hung.”

Robert grinned and took a sip of champagne, settling in to watch the fight. After all, while the Carlisles might not understand the nuances of the art world, they definitely appreciated fisticuffs.

The group around her fell into easy conversation about the unusually warm summer weather, a planned excursion up the Thames to Greenwich, the new opera opening the following week at the Theatre Royal, and would anyone be interested in attending? The dowager Duchess of Trent was eager for a group outing, the Earl of Spalding claimed a prior commitment to travel to the coast, and Christopher looked as if he wanted to be doing anything else at that moment than being sucked into Carlisle family plans as a result of proximity.

Eve stood at the edge of the group, hoping no one noticed how nervous she was.

Thankfully, the gossip and laughter caused by Burton had died away during the past fortnight, but not before she lost several friends whom she was unsure if she would ever regain. Including Penelope Daniels, who was here tonight and doing her best to capture the attention of Lord Michael Thompson, who still did not realize that she existed and most likely never would.