Page 85 of What a Lord Wants

She was like Eve that way. She’d never tolerate boredom.

But it is with sad heart that I must write to tell you that Giuseppe has passed away.

Asmall piece of him died at the news. For a moment, he could do nothing, staring down at the letter as the handwriting blurred.

That was why she wrote the letter. Her story about the gallery was only an excuse to save her pride at contacting him again, after being wounded by the selfish bastard he’d once been. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret ending their relationship. He’d cared for her deeply, but not enough to be the husband she deserved. Ultimately, he would have made the same decision and left her, even if he hadn’t spoken to Giuseppe that night, but its delay would have only caused more pain.

Iknow what he meant to you. He was your maestro.

And always would be.

But you, Domenico, you have become a master in your own right. You are to be congratulated on your achievement. It is everything you wanted.

Not quite everything. He’d been so close to having it all, as if he could simply reach out his hand and find it just beyond his fingertips—only for fate to cross him again. He’d lost his masterpiece, he’d lost Eve, and for the past six weeks without her, he’d been lost himself.

Angelina passed away several years ago, and Papa remarried, just a few years before he died.

Dom hadn’t known that. He hadn’t been in touch with Giuseppe for years and now dearly regretted it.

He married a woman named Sofia, who loved him dearly but refused to pose for him. Repeatedly he asked, always she refused. Yet she was his muse. He spent the rest of his life pleasing her and died a very happy man. I hope the same will be said about you.

I know in my heart that you have found your muse, that she is with you even now, guiding you, loving you, inspiring you to greatness…

His muse. His sketchbook had been left lying open on the worktable, and he glanced down at the drawing.Eve.One of the sketches he’d made of her when he was deciding how best to pose her for the painting.

She loved him. Her feelings were evident in her eyes even then. There was no denying it.

His shoulders sagged with overwhelming remorse. And he lovedher. There was no point in denying that, either. Not any longer. These weeks apart had him aching to be with her so badly that it nearly consumed him.

Yet she wasn’t here with him. Because he was a damned fool and destroyed their marriage before it even had the chance to begin.

Eve was special. She’d restored his passion for creating, stirred inside him a curiosity borne from seeing art through her eyes, inspired him the way that no other woman ever had. He’d never felt more connected to his art than the night when he had finished painting her, never more swept up in that indescribable euphoria that made what emerged from beneath his brush feel divinely guided. As if he were merely the tool through which the sublime manifested itself.

It took Giuseppe a lifetime to learn the most important lesson of all. That he needed to lead with his heart. So lead with your heart, mio caro, and your art will follow.

Dear God, he prayed it could be that simple!Desperatelywanted it to be.

But he knew better. Eve wanted his heart, and the thought of giving it to a woman when it had always belonged to his art simply terrified him. If he gave over that last bit of himself, how would he find his way? It would be so easy to become distracted, to slip and plunge…

Would Eve still love him after the fall?

He turned toward his worktable and grabbed up his sketchbook, turning to the last page. Eve…the sketch he’d made of her on his wedding night. Even now the sight of her captivated him, so lifelike that he almost expected to see her breathe. A stolen moment in time.Perfection.

One look at that sketch revealed everything he’d been denying but suspected from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her…

Eve was his muse.

He picked up a penknife with trembling fingers and carefully cut the page from the book, rolled it up, and slipped it beneath his waistcoat.

Then he turned back toward the covered painting on the easel that had given him such fits during the past few months. The one he could never seem to make just right. He’d failed with this piece because he’d been seeing Eve only as a woman and model, using her as a comparison rather than how he should have been seeing her—as his inspiration.

As he flung the sheet away to reveal the painting beneath, the vision he held of it in his mind’s eye cleared. A new enthusiasm and energy gripped him, a new spirit and determination. Driven by thoughts of the woman he loved, he reached for his brush.

Chapter 25

The fierce pounding on the front door reverberated through Mercer House, waking the entire household. It would have woken Eve, too, except that she was still wide awake, halfway through yet another sleepless night.

She slipped on her wrapper and tied it around herself as she hurried out of her room and through the dark house. She reached the first-floor landing just in time to see a sleep-dazed footman open the front door and a man stride into the house. In the dark shadows his face was completely hidden, but from the breadth of his shoulders and his exuberant confidence, she knew—