Flirting With Fortune

Something magical shimmied through her, raising gooseflesh on her arms. These were the tools of Sir Frederick’s masterpieces. Which works had rested in this very room, painted by these brushes, supported by these easels, and lit by these windows? She walked through the space, reverently, imagining half-finished canvases lining the plaster walls.

She turned to Colin, who leaned against the doorway watching her, his dark greatcoat still pulled tight around him to ward off the chill of the unheated room. “What happened to the unfinished portraits?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, then pushed away from the wall to join her in the center of the mostly empty space. “We dinna find any.”

She blinked. “None?”

Shaking his head, he said, “Not a one. My sister was certain he was working on something in his studio in Scotland, but there was nothing there, either.”

“How odd,” she murmured, glancing around once more. She had half a dozen unfinished paintings in her own studio at any one time. She rarely concentrated solely on one until it was finished, instead preferring to work on the piece that most moved her. And then there were the ones that just didn’t feel right, which she set aside indefinitely.

Sadness crept into her euphoria. The world would never again have a Tate masterpiece. She had just assumed there would be some unseen pieces somewhere, languishing in various stages of completion.

“My father was odd.” The words weren’t spoken with animosity, but quiet truth.

“Was he? Not terribly surprising, I suppose. Genius often is.” If she had to choose between being average and normal or being brilliant and odd, she’d go with brilliant any day of the week. “I wish I could have seen him at work. Actually,” she said, trailing a finger down the side of one of the easels, “Father had written to him to engage his services more than a year ago, but Sir Frederick declared that he was much too busy and that it might be years before he would be available to us.”

“Really?” His eyebrows rose in surprise. He pressed his lips together, not quite in displeasure, but something close. She looked away, realizing that such a mention might be painful for him. Who could have known his father’s life was measured in months at the time, not years? “Well, I wish I could see you work.”

Her gaze snapped back to his. His voice was low and sweet, his eyes unclouded. Thank goodness—she hadn’t ruined the mood after all. “You’re teasing me,” she half asked, half accused.

“Never.” He broke out in a half smile and gave a small shrug. “All right, sometimes, but certainly not now. Anyone who displays such passion when speaking of art must be equally as passionate in the execution.”

“Oh, I am. But I assure you, it’s not pretty. I don’t remember to smile, or have proper posture, or even to have my mouth closed.” She cringed a bit—that did not come out the way she’d intended. He was probably picturing her as some sort of trained sloth with a paintbrush.

“And how do you know that’s not pretty? I think many men would appreciate a woman at her most natural. Certainly any Scot would,” he said with a devilish wink.

“You say that, but when it comes down to it, I’m not so sure. Why else would only the prettiest of countenance and manners be called Incomparables and diamonds of the first water? Those with large dowries are also sought, but it is the ones possessing beauty and comportment that gentlemen really want.”

“Such an expert on the wants of men, especially for one still in her debut year.” He walked toward her, tilting his head as he sized her up. He’d taken off his hat, and his damp hair rebelled against his normally neat style. It swept across his forehead like a raven’s wing, stark against his pale skin. She loved the contrast, loved the way it made his eyes seem almost pewter while the pale pink of his lips stood out.

She swallowed as he stepped closer and closer, stalking her just as he had the night they’d met in his aunt’s gallery. “I’m very perceptive. And one needn’t be out long to see how things are in our set.”

“Well, I think we need to put your perceptiveness to the test,” he said, giving her a subtle wink as he brushed by her close enough for her to catch a hint of his clean, masculine scent. She turned like a sunflower tracking the sun, suddenly a little light-headed.

“You do?”

He grabbed one of the blank canvases stacked against the wall and lifted it to his chest. “I do.” He returned to where she stood and set the canvas on the easel closest to the window. “Now, would you be wanting to paint with my father’s brushes or your own?”

Sir Frederick’s brushes? A thrill raced from her heart straight to her toes and back. “Oh my goodness. I couldn’t possibly.” But even as she said it, her fingers curled at her sides, anxious to hold them in her hand.

“Of course you can. What good are they doing, cluttering up the place? Might as well give them a go before the lease runs out and we sell the lot of them.”

She gasped. “You can’t just sell his brushes! They were likely as much a part of him as his own hands.”

“Then give them life again.” He said it so simply, as if it were no more an issue than choosing what gloves to wear or what to have for breakfast.

It was entirely too much temptation for her to resist, especially when he was so matter-of-fact about them. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“Utterly.”

A shiver of excitement raced down her spine, and she couldn’t help the huge smile that came to her lips. “All right then. What shall I paint?”

“Whatever you want. Since you doona like straight lines, I’m not sure what might inspire you. Shall I put together a still life?”

A bit of the giddiness spilled over, obscuring her need for propriety. “Yes,” she said, crossing her arms as she eyed him. “You. Now stand still.”

He laughed. “You canna be serious. Why don’t you choose something interesting?”

She pursed her lips as she inspected him—in the name of art, of course. His angular cheekbones, the authoritative brow, those expressive lips—all of it begged to be captured on canvas. Actually, it begged to be captured in sculpture, but that was entirely beyond her skills.

“I am serious. Your features are strong and unusual. I think they would be a challenge to get just right on canvas.” The night of their first meeting came to mind, making her smile. “Though I don’t believe I’d be the first to try. That was you in the painting in your aunt’s gallery, wasn’t it? The young boy with the defiant eyes?”

His expression shifted, as if the mists of nostalgia softened his gaze and gentled the sharpness of his features. “You really are perceptive. I was five. It was shortly after my mother’s death, and my father thought it would be a nice gesture for Aunt Constance.”

“Well, I’m very glad he did it. Now I feel as though I’ve seen a bit of you as a boy. He captured your spirit quite well, I think.”

He nodded absently, his gaze flitting around to the supplies situated near the easel. Pulling off his gloves, he stuffed them into the pockets of his greatcoat. Her gaze went immediately to his bare hands, which seemed strong and capable, especially for a barrister. Must be the wild Scot in his blood.

“Well, then,” he said, selecting a brush from a tin cup beside the easel, “let us see if you can do the same.”

He held it up like a delectable bonbon, the same challenge she’d seen in the boy’s eyes now lighting the man’s. Throwing down the gauntlet, was he? She pressed her lips together, eyeing the brush as if it were the apple in Eden. Taking a breath, she removed her own gloves and reached for the prize.

The moment her fingers touched the smooth wood of the handle, his hand settled over hers, holding it in place. Fire swept up her arm, down her back, and straight through her belly at the touch of his skin against hers.

Her gaze flew up to meet his, but she couldn’t have said a word if her life depended on it. His eyes darkened, from flint to coal, just enough for her to know without a doubt that he had felt it, too. He swallowed, but he didn’t release his hold.

“First,” he said, his voice quiet in the thickness of the moment, “you must solemnly promise that you will ignore my father’s techniques and paint me using only your own style.”

His hand still held hers, making it impossible to think. His fingers were warmer than they should have been,