Page 93 of What a Lord Wants

“Look at the painting!” Constance cried out. “He’s lying.”

“Why would I do that?” he challenged.

“I don’t know, but—but you are!” She charged up to him and lowered her voice. “Stop this! You are ruining everything. Your career, my future—do you understand?”

“Oh, I understand completely,” he said, folding his arms over his chest in that imperious way of his. “And I don’t give a damn.”

Her mouth fell open, stunned.

The superintendent waved back the crowd as it pushed closer to gain a better look at the painting and at the unfolding spectacle it had caused. “Ellsworth, this ludicrous story of yours—”

“Is fact,” he interjected. “And I have evidence to prove it.”

He reached beneath his waistcoat and withdrew a small, rolled up sheet of paper. He held it up.

“Here is the most recent work by Vincenzo.” He unrolled it. “And his last.”

He held it open and lifted it over his head, then slowly turned in a circle for everyone in the gallery to see. Including Eve, whose hand went to her chest at the sight of it.

A sketch of her sleeping in the bed in the studio, made on their wedding night.

“This oneisin the pure style and technique of Vincenzo. A sketch of my wife in our bed.” He slapped it against the superintendent’s chest. “How could Vincenzo have created this if I’m not him?”

The startled whispers and arguments among the onlookers increased.

He arched a brow, no trace of amusement visible in him anywhere. “Unless he’s been breaking into my bedroom at night to watch my wife sleep. In which case, he will be the great—andlate—Vincenzo.”

Hoots of laughter howled through the gallery. Thoroughly embarrassed, the superintendent attempted to regain whatever control he could by signaling for the porters to remove the painting and muttered something beneath his breath about sorting through all of it tomorrow.

But Constance was so infuriated that she stabbed her finger into Dom’s shoulder and hissed out, “You’ve ruinedeverything!”

“No, I haven’t,” he said with impossible calmness. “I found salvation.” Then he dismissed her completely from his life by turning his back on her.

Constance cried out a furious half-snarl, half-growl of pure frustration. She spun on her heel and stormed out of the gallery, this time having to shove through the stunned crowd that didn’t bother to move out of her way.

Eve watched Constance only long enough to make certain that she was truly gone before she turned back toward Dom. The deep concern on his face nearly undid her, and she reached for his arm to steady herself. Oblivious to the mumbling crowd around them, he focused all of his attention on her.

“I don’t know where she got that painting,” he said, “and I don’t care. What matters is that she can never harm us again.”

Eve choked back her tears. “But Vincenzo…” She couldn’t put voice to it, still unable to believe what he’d just done. Because if she spoke of it, then the words made it real, and Dom’s career as the great Italian artist was over.

He cupped her face between his hands. “You are my muse, Eve. I know that now. I spent my entire adult life searching, never knowing if I would ever find her…only to discover that she was right here in front of me. In you, my love. I plan to dedicate the rest of my life to pleasing you, and I will never again pretend to be anything except the man I truly am—the one who loves you.”

Joy filled her. Yet her heart ached for him and all he’d just lost as she reminded him softly, “You’ve also endangered your reputation as Ellsworth.”

“I don’t care about me.” His face darkened. “But I’ve ruined you by association.”

“That doesn’t matter.” When the worry on his face didn’t lessen, she lifted up onto her toes to kiss him in front of the entire gallery, proving in that scandalous gesture how little she cared about what society thought of them.

She placed her hand against his cheek and felt the strength and resolve inside him, all the happiness he brought her, the joy of all the years to come. Together.

“Tell me again,” she whispered.

He slipped his arms around her. “I love you, Evelyn Mercer.”

“No.” She smiled, oblivious to the fresh whispers rising around them in the crowd. “The other…”

He murmured, his voice filled with love and admiration, “You are my muse.”