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She sucked in a sharp breath.
But she had to go back downstairs sometime. And what better way was there to exorcize one’s demons or to find a new purpose than with a blank canvas? Before she could change her mind, Ara raced downstairs and flung open the door to her studio. It was just as she’d left it…easel and supplies ready and prepped for whenever her muse would return.
The answer was never, but art didn’t always require inspiration.
Sometimes, it required sheer tenacity.
For hours, Ara painted and painted, canvas after canvas, all filled with bold color and brutal slashes. When her paintbrushes started losing bristles from the force of her strokes, she discarded them and painted with her hands. The pieces were a departure from sensory reality, wild slashes of lines, light, and color, nothing but a visual depiction of her battered emotions, but eventually the compositions changed, going from chaotic and angry energy to something spent and much less fraught.
When she had calmed sufficiently, Ara went to her water closet and washed the stripes of color off her hands. Her clothes were a mess, but there was still one more painting inside of her. Searching out a new set of paint brushes from her supplies, she refilled her paints, found a large canvas and got to work. Ara didn’t think…she let her hands move, the contours of the painting flowing like a river, moving with her breath and each beat of her heart.
It was a final love letter…a goodbye.
And when she was finished, many hours later—or was it days?—Ara collapsed into a heap, staring up at the only woman she’d ever loved. The painting was created from memory, and instead of the subject sitting on a chaise or a lounge, she lay on her stomach in bed, turned away from the viewer, the corner of a poppy-red satin sheet draped over the voluptuous arch of her hips.
Brown hair tumbled down the creamy length of her back, those beloved freckles playing peek-a-boo with the glossy strands. Lush, tapered legs, topped by the soft curves of her buttocks just visible from beneath the sheet, were crossed at the ankles. One arm was stretched out over the mattress, fingers extended as though reaching for someone who wasn’t in the painting. Wishful thinking on the artist’s part, perhaps.
Because the woman in this painting did not need anyone.
“My God, that is outstanding.” The soft awe in the exclamation had Ara squinting blearily toward the door, where Lady Rawdon stood with her mouth ajar. She peered past the countess to see if she was accompanied by anyone, disappointment filling her to realize there was no one else there. “I came alone,” Lady Rawdon said, as if she could read Ara’s expression.
“How is she?” Ara croaked. There was no need to explain who she was.
Lady Rawdon smiled sadly. “About the same as you, I suspect, though she has thrown herself into a dozen new charitable endeavors with uncommon vengeance.” The countess waved an arm to the rest of the paintings that lined the walls. “She doesn’t have this outlet.” She frowned and veered past the rags and rubbish that cluttered the floor. “Have you eaten or slept since you started?”
“No. I couldn’t stop.”
Lady Rawdon nodded. “Why don’t you get cleaned up and let me make you something to eat?”
Ara’s brows rose. “You know how to cook?”
A wry laugh left the countess. “I’m not completely incapable, you know. I can fend for myself when the need arises. And besides, I wasn’t always a countess.” She smiled, eyes dancing. “A very long time ago, I was an opera singer.”
Ara let herself be led upstairs and watched with some disbelief as said singer-turned-countess drew her a bath and ushered her into it while she disappeared presumably to the kitchen downstairs. The cook Ara employed was recovering from illness, but the parlor maid would help the lady find what she needed. By the time Ara was finished, she was limp and exhausted, but a mouthwatering mushroom omelet lay on a plate at the small table near the window.
She took a tentative bite. “This is delicious.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Lady Rawdon said drily.
“Thank you,” Ara said, after devouring the simple meal.
The countess leaned back in her chair, green eyes calculating. “I know a way you can thank me, if you like. Allow me to add those new pieces downstairs to my collection. I have a grand concept for the whole series. And before you ask whether I have permission from Margot, I do. She thinks it’s a brilliant idea.”
Ara frowned—it wasn’t as though she knew the marchioness. In fact, the last month had proven without a doubt that she didn’t, and if Margot wanted those paintings to be seen, who was Ara to argue?
Dear Lord, Margot was going to die.
Everywhere she turned, her body was on bold, salacious display, not that anyone truly had any inkling that it was her. She knew, however, and the gallery was packed with dozens of eyes scrutinizing every line, every curve, and every imperfection.
Oh, she was going to murder Honoria with her bare hands.
The exhibition had opened without a hitch, and yes, Bertie had put in an appearance. Honoria had solved her problem as expected. Only Margot had been in for a complete shock when she’d taken in the special exhibit of a talented new artist.
This entire room was an exposition in itself, devoted to fifteen paintings entitled The Fall of Venus. Unlike the Royal Academy, which crammed all artists together, Honoria tended to use the spaces to showcase individual works. All fifteen framed pieces took up space on three of the walls of a private room in the west gallery: seven on one, seven on the opposite, and a lone portrait on the last. The seven on the left Margot knew…she’d sat for every single one.
The seven on the right were new…chaotic and compositional opposites of the portraits they faced.
And the showpiece in the middle…
