Page 76 of What a Lord Wants

He barked out a laugh. “You’re daft!”

“I’m wealthy.” She arched a brow. “And I will pay you well for your time.”

Without invitation, she crossed to his worktable. The wooden bench was covered in spilled paint, with pre-made colors carelessly arranged in coarse stoneware containers and other painting supplies scattered haphazardly across it. Ignoring it—and trusting in Lord Alfred’s assurances that this man was the best forger in London—she turned toward him to make certain that he was watching as she removed one of the gold rings from her hand and placed it onto the table.

Thatwould surely prove how serious she was.

“I understand that you have certain highly crafted skills that make you unique among London’s artists.” A polite way of saying that she knew he made forgeries to supplement his living. From what she’d seen of his work, he had excellent technique but no sense of creativity. No vision. He couldn’t compose compelling subject matter on his own, but he could mimic the masters. Which was exactly what she needed. “I want to hire those skills.”

He approached her warily. “For what?”

“An original painting in the style of Domenico Vincenzo. Thirty-six inches by forty-eight. A nude, similar to his more scandalous compositions. You know the ones I mean.”

“Aye. His old Venetian works.”

“No. I want it to look as if he created that painting new, right here in London.” She removed a second ring and held it up the way a stable groom would use a treat to train a dog. “So recent that the paint isn’t yet cured.” Then she placed it onto the table. “Understand?”

He gave a curt nod, his attention on the jewelry.

“That should be enough to get you started.” She tapped a finger to the table to indicate the rings. “You’ll get the same amount when you finish. If you’re late finishing, you get nothing.”

“Agreed.” He reached for the rings.

Constance placed her hand over them, pinning them to the table. “And I want you to sign the painting as Vincenzo.”

He stiffened. “That’s fraud.”

“That’s work,” she countered, removing her hand.

He hesitated only a moment before snatching up the rings with a glance over his shoulder at the door to make certain no one was there, watching.

She untied her bonnet and set it aside with her reticule and parasol, then reached up to begin to unbutton her dress coat to remove her clothing. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

Chapter 22

Dom frowned at his new model as she lay reclined across the chaise longue, then glanced at the canvas on the easel in front of him to gauge her image as it came to life.

The painting wasn’t working.

Heedless of the paint on his hand, he rubbed at his nape and the knot of tension growing there. There was no spark, no glow, nolife—that indescribable essence that separated masterpieces from all other paintings, no matter how fine the technique, no matter how compelling the composition. It was missing. And he had no idea how to find it.

Sensing his frustration, Sally called out helpfully from the chaise, “Do you want me to change positions?”

“No, stay as you are.” Moving wouldn’t make any difference.

He raked his fingers through his hair. The painting should be working, should be exactly the same as the one he’d created with Eve. The same pose, the same lighting, the same background…Damnation!Whywasn’t it working?

Sally was beautiful. There was no problem there. She was a striking woman with sultry curves and long flowing hair, one who did exactly as she was told and who had no inhibitions about removing her clothes to be painted. A woman who Dom had made certain this time wasn’t a society miss.

But the same qualities that made her so cooperative in posing nude were the same ones stopping him from finding the sublime in her. There wasn’t an innocent bone in her body, and instead of the look of subtle invitation that he’d wanted to capture, he was back to seduction. The same mood produced by every other artist since Boucher who had made their nude Venuses more courtesan than celestial, more doxy than divine. The same expression he’d experienced with Constance and every one of his models.

Except for Eve.

The irony was biting. He’d spent weeks cajoling her into baring herself to be painted, and on the only night when she did, they’d created a masterpiece. With her, his vision had come to life on the canvas so easily, like a dream.

But this woman, this painting…flat and lifeless. And gnawing at his gut with growing aggravation that he couldn’t make it work.

He clenched his jaw as he studied the painting and how much he’d managed to complete so far. Very little, considering how many hours he’d put into it during the past two months. But then, this was his fifth try, and done after countless sketches, hoping just once to stumble upon the look he wanted. But it hadn’t happened. So he’d been forced to go on, and in reverse of how he’d painted Eve, starting with her body and leaving a blank spot on the canvas where her face should have been. He’d fill that in when Sally gave him the perfect expression.