brows knit. ‘Why did you not tell me, that day, that you were the artist? That you were Jack Vernon?’
He averted his gaze. ‘I intended to, but the moment passed.’
‘Come, now.’ She tried smiling and shaking her finger at him. ‘You allowed me to rattle on for quite a long time without telling me.’
He turned his intense brown eyes upon her. ‘I wanted your true opinion of my paintings. You would not have given it, had you known I had painted them.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, yes, I would. I am never hesitant to say what I think.’
Indeed, she had half a mind to ask him why he scowled when looking at her. He made her senses sing with pleasure. She longed to feel the touch of his hand against her skin, but he seemed completely ill at ease with her.
There had been no unease between them in that first, fleeting, hopeful encounter.
She cleared her throat but disguised her thoughts. ‘What happens now, Mr Vernon? This is my first time having my portrait painted.’
He walked over to a pretty brocade upholstered chair and held its back. ‘Please be seated, Miss Blane. I will bring tea.’
She sat down, very aware of his hands so near to the sensitive skin of her neck. When he released her chair, she swivelled around to see him disappear behind a curtained doorway to a small galley in the back. A moment later he returned, tray in hand.
He placed the tray on a small table in front of her chair.
She touched his arm and his gaze flew to her face. ‘Allow me to pour,’ she murmured, as affected by the touch as he appeared to be. ‘How do you like your tea? Milk and sugar?’
He lowered himself in the chair on the other side of the table. ‘I grew accustomed to going without both on the Peninsula.’
‘You were in the war?’ she asked as she poured his tea and handed him the cup.
His gaze held. ‘In the infantry.’
Her voice turned low. ‘Now I comprehend why your history painting had such authenticity.’
He looked away.
Ariana poured her own tea, adding both milk and sugar. She gazed at him when she lifted the cup to her lips. A barrier had risen between them, one that had not existed when they had met at the exhibition. That conversation had been exhilarating; this one dampened her spirits.
She placed her teacup on the table. ‘So, how do we proceed with this portrait?’
A crease formed between his brows. ‘I need to know what you would like it to be.’
She waved a hand. ‘I have no notion. I first heard of this idea an hour ago.’
He glanced away and his brooding expression intensified. ‘I first heard this morning.’
‘Lord Tranville has been busy,’ she murmured, taking a sip of tea.
He made a sound of disgust, pausing before looking back at her with shrouded eyes. ‘I did not expect you to come alone. If you desire it, I shall ask my sister to be present. She is but a few doors away.’
What maggot had taken up lodging in his brain? ‘Why did you think that?’ Actresses did not require chaperons.
He continued to stare at her. ‘Tranville is not with you. Perhaps you would like another woman to be present.’
‘Tranville?’ Why did he persist in bringing up Tranville? He wasn’t her father. Who else would care if she were chaperoned?
Suddenly her brows rose. He thought Tranville was her lover.
Jack Vernon would be surprised to know she’d had only one lover, a long time ago. Yes, she’d been deceived once, even though she ought to have learned of men’s fickle natures at her mother’s knee. Never again. In fact, she’d not even been tempted—until meeting the mysterious stranger at the Summer Exhibition.
In spite of his present behaviour, he still tempted her with his sorrowful eyes holding wounds of the past.
She gave herself a mental shake and made an effort to retrieve their conversation. ‘I require no chaperon, Mr Vernon. No one expects propriety from actresses. There is some freedom in that.’
He merely sipped his tea.
She took a breath and tried again. ‘Shall we discuss the portrait?’
‘You and I must decide how you are to appear as Cleopatra.’ He spoke as if all emotion had been leached out of him.
Except from his eyes.
‘I am not at all certain how to do that,’ she murmured.
He shrugged. ‘We try different poses. I sketch you, and we select the best image.’
This struck her as insufficient, like trying to prepare for a play by guessing one’s lines.
‘Have you read the play?’ She rubbed one finger on the arm of the chair. ‘It might provide you with some ideas.’
‘Not since school days.’
He glanced at her hand, and she curled her fingers into her palm. ‘I have my copy in my rooms. Let us get it so you can read it.’
He blinked. ‘There is no need. Bring it tomorrow.’
‘Then we will be delayed another day. My residence is nearby. It will take no time at all.’
He stared at her and the moment stretched on. ‘Very well,’ he finally said.
He went into another room to get his top coat, and a minute later they were outside in the cool, breezy air.
She took his arm and glanced at the street ahead. ‘Which of the “few doors away” is your sister?’
‘Not far.’ As they passed, he pointed to it. ‘This one.’
‘And is there a wife behind those doors, as well?’ Please say no, she thought.
He shook his head. ‘I am in no position to marry. My sister lives with my mother in those rooms.’
Her heart skipped a beat.
‘You have seen my sister,’ he said to her as they walked on.
She glanced at him in surprise. ‘I have?’
‘Hers was the painting you admired at the exhibition.’
She stopped. ‘Of course it was. Now I understand.’
‘Understand what?’
She met his eyes. ‘Why it was such a loving portrait.’
His colour heightened and she sensed him withdrawing from her again.
And
