Only then did she gesture for him to sit. He chose one of the sofas. She lowered herself on to a chair, making a show of brushing off an invisible piece of lint from her sleeve.
Finally she looked at him again. ‘Do tell me why you have called.’
He leaned towards her. ‘I have a notion to advertise your role in Antony and Cleopatra.’
She lifted a brow.
He went on. ‘If you are agreeable, an artist will paint you as Cleopatra. We shall have engravings made that can be printed for advertising. In magazines. On handbills. It will increase your success, I am certain.’
She looked at him with a wary eye. ‘Who will pay for all this?’ Surely not the theatre.
Mr Sheridan had run Drury Lane Theatre into terrible debt. Kean’s performances, so very popular, helped to ease the burden, but that did not mean the theatre would expend money on behalf of a new actress whose popularity had not yet been established. Her performance had been barely mentioned when the critics gave Romeo and Juliet a very unfavourable review, greatly criticising Kean’s performance.
‘I will pay for everything,’ Tranville said. ‘And, if it pleases you, I will make the portrait my gift to you.’
She wanted no gifts from him, but she did need this play to be a success.
He tilted his head in a manner he probably thought charming. ‘If it is convenient, the artist can see you this afternoon to discuss the painting. I will be honoured to escort you.’
She had no plans for the afternoon. ‘Where is this artist?’
‘On the corner of Adam Street and Adelphi.’
‘Near the Adelphi Terraces?’ It was only a few streets away.
‘Yes.’
A good enough address and nearby. ‘Who is the artist?’
He leaned even closer to her. ‘His name is Jack Vernon.
Ariana gaped at him, ‘Jack Vernon!’
Tranville looked apologetic. ‘I realise he is not as fashionable as Lawrence or Westall, but he did have some paintings in the Royal Exhibition, I’ve heard tell.’
How well she remembered. She’d used her admiration of Vernon’s paintings to brazenly approach the tall, handsome, solitary young gentleman whose inner struggle of some sort had fascinated her. Sadly, she had never learned who he was.
She resisted another sigh. What good was it to dwell on what was gone? Here was an opportunity to meet the artist and be painted by him.
‘I will do it, my lord,’ she told Tranville. ‘But there is no need for you to escort me such a short distance. Merely give me the exact direction and tell me the time I am expected.’
His lower lip jutted out. ‘I would be delighted to escort you.’
Her hand fluttered. ‘Do not trouble yourself.’
‘But—’
She gave him a level look. ‘I prefer going alone. It is daylight. The streets are full of people. No harm will come to me.’
‘I insist.’ He persisted.
Her brows rose. ‘Is your escort a condition of this agreement? I will not do it if there are conditions to which I must comply.’ Ariana knew better than to make herself beholden to any man.
‘No, no conditions—’ he blustered.
‘Good.’ She rearranged her skirt. ‘Tell me when I am expected.’
An hour later Ariana stood at Mr Vernon’s door, her heart thumping with anticipation. She looked down at herself, brushing off her cloak, pulling up her gloves, straightening her hat. She took a quick breath and knocked.
Almost immediately the door opened.
Framed in the doorway was the handsome gentleman she’d met in Somerset House, the one she’d thought she would never see again.
‘You!’ She gasped. T—I have an appointment with Mr Vernon.’
He looked equally surprised. It took him several seconds before he stepped aside.
As she brushed by him she felt a flurry of excitement. She’d found him, the man who’d so intrigued her at the Summer Exhibition. He was taller than she remembered, and his sheer physical presence seemed more powerful than it had been in the crowded exhibition hall. In the light pouring through the windows, his brown eyes were even more enthralling and every bit as beset with private demons.
‘Is Mr Vernon here?’ she asked.
He slowly closed the door behind her. ‘I am Vernon.’
‘You are Vernon?’ The breath left her lungs.
His frown deepened. ‘I—I did not know you would be coming.’
He did not seem happy to see her. In fact, his displeasure wounded her. ‘Forgive me. Tranville said I was expected at this hour.’
He stiffened. ‘Tranville.’
She began to unfasten her cloak, but stopped. Perhaps she would not be staying. ‘Did you desire him to accompany me?’
His eyes were singed with anger. ‘Not at all.’
He confused her with his vague answers. She straightened her spine and put her hands on her hips. ‘Mr Vernon, if you do not wish me to be here, I will leave, but I beg you will simply tell me what you want.’
He ran a hand through his thick brown hair and his lovely lips formed a rueful smile. ‘Tranville told me to expect an actress. I did not know it would be you.’
His smile encouraged her. ‘Then we are both of us surprised.’
His shoulders seemed to relax a little.
He stepped forwards to take her cloak, and as he came so close she inhaled the scent of him, bergamot soap and linseed oil, turpentine and pure male.
He seemed unaware of her reaction and completely immune to her, which somehow made her want to weep. Only once before had she wanted to weep over a man. He took her cloak and hung it upon a peg by the door, moving with the same masculine elegance that had drawn her to him when she first caught sight of him. He had been the first man to ignite her senses in years, a fact that surprised and intoxicated her even now.
He faced her again, and she hid her interest in a quick glance around the studio, all bright and neat, except for where an easel stood by the windows, a paint-smeared shirt hanging from it. She removed her hat and gloves and placed them on a nearby chair.
He did not move.
So she must. She walked to him. ‘Let us start over.’ She extended her hand. ‘I am Ariana Blane.’
