Page 79 of What a Lord Wants

“Yes.” There was no point attempting to dissemble.

“What was she to you?” When he hesitated to answer, she pressed gently, “Was she the love of your life?”

Thank God that all of him had mercifully turned numb, or this conversation would have killed him. “No.”

Disbelief lingered in the amber depths of her eyes. “Your muse, then?”

“I thought so once,” he answered with brutal honesty. “But in the end, she wasn’t.”

“Did you put her before your art?”

“Yes, I did. But—”

The look of betrayal that flashed across her face ripped the air from him. He reached for her, but she stepped further away, leaving him to grasp nothing but air.

“But it was amistake, and both she and my art suffered,” he finished firmly. “So I ended our relationship. I haven’t seen her in ten years. And I damn well wouldn’t wish her here in place of you, as a model or otherwise.”

The sadness in her eyes told him that she didn’t believe that, but he had no idea how to convince her. Yet he knew not to reach for her again and instead rubbed at the knot of tension at his nape, now pounding in a brutal headache.

“I know that I haven’t been home much during the past few weeks, and I am sorry for that. But I have to be here, with my focus on the painting. It’s the most important piece I’ve ever created,” he explained, regrettably with more aggravation than apology. “The art has to come first. You knew that going into our marriage.”

She gave a jerky, little nod and began to pace. Typical Eve, unable to sit still. She found solace in motion.

“You did say—” She choked on the words, then drew in a ragged breath and began again, “But I thought…”

“You thought you could live with being second,” he finished grimly when her voice trailed off. But even as he said it he knew that she wasn’t jealous of Elena or any of his models, not even jealous of the art itself.

No, what he saw in her was desire. A yearning to discover where she fit into his life with his art and what that would mean for their future.

God help her, because he didn’t know himself. Except that he had to finish this painting if they had any chance at all of living in happiness.

“I was so much more foolish than that.” She gave a distraught little laugh and placed her hand on her hip. “I thought I could make you love me as much as you love your painting, or at least make it so that you wouldn’t split your heart. As long as you do, I will always lose.” Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I tried so hard to give you every bit of myself. Not just physically, but in companionship, too, in simply talking with you about art and philosophy…or when not talking at all. Because you spark that passion in me, Dominick, in all things.” She shrugged sadly, as if it were obvious. “You always have. And I wanted you to feel the same way about me.”

That soft admission sliced through him. She stood so close that he could touch her by simply reaching out his hand, yet she was half a world away.

“I want a real marriage, in every way.” Her voice was a breathless whisper. “But I cannot have that if my husband keeps a mistress.”

She meant his art, not another woman. “It isn’t the same at all.”

“You’re right. It’s worse.” Her eyes glistened. “Because I could fight against a real woman. But how do I fight against a muse? How do I win against someone who doesn’t exist?”

Unable to answer that without wounding her further, he took her shoulders and drew her gently back against him. But his heart tore when she flinched.

He lowered his mouth to her ear. “Do you love me, Eve?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes.”

A breath of a word, barely any sound at all. But he heard it, and her answer seeped through him like liquid warmth. She loved him…but he’d known that since their wedding night. She was incapable of hiding her emotions, or the way her face lit up whenever she looked at him. He simply hadn’t been able to accept everything that meant. Until now.

“Would you love me differently, or even less, if I wasn’t an artist?”Or maybe not love me at all…

“I’d love you the same.”

He placed a kiss to her temple and challenged softly, “Then help me be the man I need to be.”

Turning her to face him, he took her chin and kissed her, desperately wanting to convey his regret and confusion, his need for both his art and for her.

“I need to paint,” he murmured against her lips. Just as he needed her. Not for sex, not for a wife—her. Every adventurous, brilliant, vivacious inch of her and the effect she had on his life.