Page 58 of What a Lord Wants

Then there was Dom himself. Just thinking of him made her pulse spike with nervousness.

As the man who had supplied nearly all of the paintings in the Old Master’s gallery from his personal collection, he would most certainly be here tonight, to accept thanks from the Royal Academy for allowing the works to be displayed. Ellsworth was England’s leading patron of the arts. He wouldn’t miss this.

Ironically, there wasn’t a Vincenzo among the paintings. After all, he was still a living artist and, as far as anyone else knew, happily painting and cutting a most wicked swath through Venetian gentlemen’s clubs and Venetian ladies’ bedrooms. If only they knew the truth. That the scandalous artist who had given Lord Byron a run for his money in being mad, bad, and dangerous to know was right here among them.

Heavens, what would she say to him when she saw him? Although truly, she’d already said more than enough to make him avoid her for the rest of his life.

Taking a sip of champagne, she peered over the rim of the flute for a lingering glance around the gallery. If she wasn’t so upset about Dom, she would have enjoyed the evening a great deal.

The most important people in the English art world were here. The artists lingered nearby with their brushes and supplies, waiting for the signal when they could rush forward to apply last-minute touches to their paintings, even as they hung on the walls. Tonight would be their last chance to accentuate specific details on their canvases, brightening or toning down, according to the light shining where the painting hung or to the color schemes of the paintings positioned around theirs.

Patrons strolled arrogantly through the galleries, as if they could somehow capture the virtuosity of the artists for themselves simply by purchasing paintings. They pointed at this picture and that, wanting the same ones that everyone else wanted. Popularity bred covetousness, whether the artist possessed the talent to deserve it or not.

Critics were here, too, to write articles for the newspapers and journals. They openly gave sneers to some paintings and appreciative glances to others, mostly based on the name of the artist rather than on the quality of the work. Famous artists garnered favorable reviews—they werefamous, after all, so therefore their workmustbe good…even when it obviously wasn’t. An unknown artist had to be a genius in comparison to simply be noticed. No wonder Dom believed that art critics were as annoying as a plague of toads and just as useful.

Christopher Carlisle moved to her side and spoke quietly to keep from being overhead, “Are you all right?”

“No,” she admitted in a ragged sigh. That was one thing she’d always appreciated about Kit. As two people who’d been overshadowed by their older siblings, they related to each other in a way that others couldn’t, including being brutally honest with each other.

“You’ll be fine.” He clinked his champagne flute delicately against hers. “I have every confidence that you’ll put all those society nodcocks into their places and be charging into adventures again in no time.”

So why did he look as if that thought frightened him? Yet she smiled, grateful for his kindness. “Thank you.”

“I’d be happy to make certain Williams doesn’t do anything like that again.”

“Please no. I could never live down the humiliation of Burton knowing that his stunt affected me.” Besides, she was certain that he’d learned his lesson after Dom threatened him. Ellsworth might be the most respected peer in England, but he was also tall, broad, and muscular, with what she was certain was a solid right punch. “I just want it all to go away.”

“If you change your mind, I can arrange for a press gang to come across Williams one night on his way home from the club.”

“A press gang?” Her mouth dropped open. “In Mayfair?”

“I know people.” He was deadly serious, which made his offer even more ludicrous.

A soft bubble of laughter fell from her lips, and her hand flew to her mouth to hold it back. But that didn’t work, and the laughter rose, the first happy laughs she’d experienced since the Hawthorne ball.

“A man with a press gang at his disposal. I think society women have been looking for the wrong things in their gentlemen.” She placed her hand on his arm and leaned up on tip-toe to place a kiss to his cheek, which inexplicably seemed to terrify the daylights out of him. “If I ever need someone who—”

“Miss Winslow, good evening.”

The familiar deep voice from behind her twined heatedly down her spine—Dom.

“Your Lordship.” In her sudden fluster, she somehow managed to face him, drop into a curtsy, not spill her champagne, and remember to breathe all at the same time. No small feat! Because her heart had leapt into her throat and lodged itself there at the sight of him.

And oh, what a sight. Dressed in a black cashmere jacket over a white satin waistcoat and trousers, with his black boots shining nearly as brightly as the diamond pin in his cravat, he was every inch a marquess. Handsome and confident, surrounded by art and society…completely in his element. Even the thick waves of his hair curled perfectly against his high collar, not daring to do otherwise on this important night. The Fates—and Ellsworth—simply wouldn’t have allowed it.

She stared at him, unable to help herself. Not until that moment did she realize exactly how much she’d missed him since she’d last gone to the studio, and her chest squeezed so hard that she lost her breath. She missed not only his kisses, although those were heavenly, but simply being near him, talking quietly, laughing together, watching him paint…She had to tighten both hands around her champagne flute to keep from reaching to brush her fingers over the smooth plane of his cheek.

His eyes gleamed as he swept his gaze over her, as if he’d missed her just as much. Then they narrowed as they slid sideways to Christopher. “Carlisle.”

Kit nodded. “Ellsworth. I didn’t realize that you and the Winslows were acquainted.”

“Miss Winslow showed an interest in art when we met at the Hawthorne ball.”

“Did she?” Kit cast her a curious glance, and she covered the flushing in her cheeks by taking a long sip of champagne.

“So I extended a personal invitation to her and her family. And here you are.” Dom’s mouth tightened, yet she didn’t dare let herself consider that he might be jealous at seeing her talking with Kit. “Allof you.”

She choked on the champagne. Perhaps it was jealousy, after all.