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Arabella stared at him. “Marry you?”
He must have seen the distress on her face, for he took a step back. “I apologize for asking in such a public space, but I was carried away by seeing you in the setting that you paint so charmingly.”
She had never painted the assembly rooms or the terrace that surrounded it. It wasn’t important, but she was cross that he hadn’t paid too much attention to herfinelandscapes after all.
He led her down the steps into the garden, and they sat down on a marble bench.
He leaned forward. “Are my attentions so unwelcome, Miss Seton? I thought we had put the past behind us and had struck up a new friendship. This time, instead of youthful exuberance and emotion, our friendship is encouraged by business.”
She was surprised into silence.
“Although I am a man in need of a wife, and a mother for my daughters, you know that I am a painter first and foremost. I was married to a woman with no artistic sensibilities, and it proved difficult for me. I want a partner who can understand my art.”
Arabella felt a blossom of pleasure as he spoke. Her parents had been dismissive of her painting, discarding it as no more or no less what any lady could accomplish. “You appreciate my art?”
He leaned forward. “There is value in it, Arabella! You would have a great career in Bath if we stayed there. But if we moved to London, you would be in even greater demand.”
“Would there be such an audience for my work?” London seemed a huge remove from Inverley.
“Not simply an audience—aclientele. Why, you could be booked for months in advance by women wishing for a quick portrait. Under my guidance, you shall be a success. We could get much more than a crown for a portrait there. There could be nothing easier.”
Arabella narrowed her eyes. “Is that all you think of my art? That it is easy?”
He looked surprised. “Is it not? That was my first thought when I saw you painting on the seaside. You are able to work up a painting as quick as a wink. There’s no telling how many you could do in a day when you are in a proper studio. It is all very well and good to paint visitors, but this is inconsistent income. Visitors only come for a few short months, and the local townsfolk have no frequent need of portraiture. I have connections in London, and a name that is well-known in the artistic community. I could guarantee work for you. Women who are looking to gift a small keepsake to a lover, perhaps. London never runs out of such ladies.”
“Are you looking for a partner who shares your artistic sensibility? Or one to increase your finances?” she asked.
He frowned. “It’s part and parcel of the same thing. Few of us are in the happy position of working without any thought of money. There is enormous potential for us to help each other. You know you would have an easier time of it with a husband. After all, how many of the most successful female artists are the wives or daughters of painters?”
Arabella saw it all too clearly. “You think I would be a financial success, and the money would help fund your own artistic career.”
“My first wife was a lady and didn’t understand such things as trade and finance. But with a practical woman by my side, I can accomplish so much. You must agree that my paintings deserve a place in history, don’t they? You always admired them so.”
A practical woman. Was that all she was?
Did he see her as a pitiful spinster, scraping her earnings together without any sense of what she was worth?
She wanted to be so much more thanpractical.
She thought of Caroline’s eyes, hungry and watchful as she toppled her onto the bed.
She thought of the warm press of her hand against Caroline’s back as they whirled around the grocer’s second floor storeroom, giddy with excitement and flush with love.
Love.
That was what was missing from Mr. Worthington’s proposal.
She gazed up at the stars, blazing bright in the heavens, and wanted nothing more than endless nights staring up at them by Caroline’s side.
“Thank you for your kind attention,” Arabella said finally. “But I am more than a business asset.”
She didn’t want to paint in a London studio, choking on the smoke of the city with people pressed all around her, trying to fit as many clients into her day as she could manage in order to pay for Mr. Worthington’s oil paints and canvases and fees for artist’s models.
She wanted to work with the breeze in her hair, chatting with visitors about their lives as she gave them a keepsake of both of their time on the beach.
But most of all, she didn’t want to marry without love.
Her path to happiness was clear as day in front of her.
