Twice Fallen (6 page)

Her eyes were a mesmerizing gray color and those silver depths held a hint of amusement. “That sounds promising. In the meanwhile, we can bask in the glow of
mutual appreciation, or we can share a glass of wine. Would you like to take a look at my new work?”

James was startled. She didn’t offer that. Or at least she never had before. In his twenty-eight years he’d had his share of lovers, but none quite as private as Regina. He wasn’t sure if that was why he was so drawn to her, but there was something intangible about her allure that really was not about her beauty or her glorious responsiveness in bed.

He greatly feared for the first time in his life, he was falling in love.

It was damned inconvenient it was with a woman seven years his senior who had no need of his money—she was far wealthier than he was due to an inheritance from her father—and who had made it plain from the fateful moment they’d met at a small dinner given by a mutual friend that she led her own life without apology. Somehow that evening he’d ended up with an invitation to accompany her home, and what had followed was one of the most memorable nights of his life.

That had been a month ago and he had joined her in the evenings every opportunity offered, slowly discovering the fascinating state of her individuality.

She didn’t need a man to protect her—neither did she want one, and it seemed she had eschewed altogether the idea of being a dutiful wife and mother, and being typically Regina, had no regrets over it either.

One night, when in a more open mood than usual, she’d admitted frankly she was fond of her half brother, the current Viscount Altea, and also her half sister, Elizabeth, the legitimate children of her father, but their relationship seemed to be based very loosely on a family
dynamic that did not involve any of the normal protocol of English society.

“I wasn’t aware you’d finished the painting.” He ran his fingers up her arm, marveling at the smoothness of her skin.

She was an extraordinary artist but did not discuss her work, much less ever offer to give him a private viewing before now.

“I haven’t.” Her tone was noncommittal. “It is still an unfinished piece.”

“I would be honored,” he told her quietly, hoping she saw the sincerity in his eyes, and then with some reluctance, he eased free of her body. “Shall I dress?”

With a musical laugh, Regina shook her head and slipped off the bed, a naked nymph—no, goddess might be more appropriate—with her tumbled long hair brushing her waist and her voluptuous curves. “There’s no need. My staff is limited to a housekeeper and one maid. They are used to my eclectic habits. I think they are reluctant to venture out of their rooms in the middle of the night lest they see something scandalous.”

A part of him wondered if that meant she occasionally had male visitors—a jealous part he wasn’t aware he even possessed—and a more reasonable voice reminded him he didn’t own her past. She was not a virginal miss. Far from it. Never had she made apologies or offered explanations, but certainly she was the most arousing lover he’d ever bedded. It wasn’t her beauty alone either, but more the mysterious aura that surrounded her.

He wondered if he’d ever know her in any way except a carnal one.

And the challenge intrigued him.

What had possessed her?

Regina slipped on her dressing gown and turned to glance at the man who still reclined on the tangled sheets of her bed. James was magnetically attractive—that was undeniable—though she usually liked the dark brooding types, not blond males with sky-blue eyes who were undeniably even-tempered and might even be labeled as “conventional.” He was lean, but athletically built, and his refined features had an almost boyish cast. But there was no doubt at all his quiet smile and reserved air of masculine confidence was what had caught her attention in the first place.

That boring dinner she hadn’t wanted to attend had turned into an interesting evening when she was seated next to him, and an even more delightful night when she’d suggested he might escort her home. Since then he’d regularly shared her bed, but she’d done her best from the beginning to make it clear they were lovers and nothing more. The idea of a permanent relationship didn’t appeal to her. It never had. Her art filled her life.

Besides, there was the difference in their ages. She was thirty-five and he was a good deal younger.

Oh, yes, she’d had a younger lover once. It hadn’t been a wonderful experience because he’d been eager and fumbling and she’d decided then and there that older men undoubtedly had a bit more finesse.

Not that she’d tested that theory very often.

She was a bit of a sham.

Regina Daudet, the eccentric half sister of Viscount Altea, not precisely accepted in the most exalted social circles because of her birth, her scandalous hobby as an
artist shunned, was actually not as unconventional as everyone assumed, but she didn’t mind the notoriety. Her brother Luke had offered more than once to use his influence to gain her acceptance to even the most exclusive of London society’s various entertainments, but she had always declined.

Her relationship with her father had been precious to her. Though he’d never married her mother, he had always treated her as his beloved eldest child and Luke’s birth hadn’t altered that between them. She and her father’s wife had a cautious but conciliatory relationship, given that she was the product of an earlier liaison. Regina had decided early on she disdained the snobbish social aspect of aristocratic society. She controlled her inheritance so she didn’t
have
to marry, and always, always, she kept her lovers—the few of them there had been—at arm’s length, and she gloried in her freedom.

Never had she offered anyone a glimpse of her latest work.

Until James Bourne.

He rose from the bed in a lithe movement, the ripple of muscle impressive under his skin, and she offered him a dark blue robe she’d left draped over the chair. There was no problem interpreting the faint ironic twist of his mouth as he accepted it, and she didn’t doubt he was wondering who might have left it behind.

One day she might tell him it had belonged to her father. She had bought it for his birthday but he’d suddenly become gravely ill and died, and she’d never been able to give it to him. For now, if James assumed it had belonged to one of her previous lovers, she was disinclined to explain.

She
never
explained or made excuses. Not even to her family. And even she was puzzled as to why she had gotten out the robe in the first place.

Because you don’t want James to get dressed and leave
.

Their association unsettled her life. She’d expected it to be like her past brief affairs, but she hadn’t tired of him rapidly. If anything, she was more fascinated than before and maybe that was why she had just made the unprecedented offer of the robe and a viewing of her art.

“This way.” She tied the sash of her dressing gown carelessly and preceded him out the door, not looking back. Her studio was downstairs in the back of the house, originally intended as the formal drawing room and had tall French doors that opened to the garden. When Luke inherited the title and the much grander family residence, he had given her the town house he’d purchased for himself in his bachelor days. She’d been delighted, not because the house was elegantly appointed and in a fashionable neighborhood—it was, but that hadn’t really mattered much to her—but because the drawing room was situated so it received glorious natural light. To the horror of the housekeeper, she’d had all the beautiful furnishings sent to the attic and instead had easels, shelves for her paints, and some shabby chairs brought in, and she worked there every afternoon without fail unless the day was truly dismal. The largeness of the room and the sparse furnishings pleased her as there were few distractions and the bare floor was cool against her feet. Occasionally, when she was not certain how she would proceed, she went and sat, paint-stained smock and all, in one of the old wing chairs and stared out the window, just thinking.

It was serene, and though some might find the clutter of oils and brushes and rags and discarded palettes unappealing, she found it helped her focus on her creative purpose.

The painting she wanted to show James had needed no such contemplation. It had flowed easily, at first a trickle, but then a flood, from her mind to her hand. It wasn’t quite done, but the main figure was clear enough, as was the ethereal background of mist and forest, and she was particularly pleased with the way a single ray of light pierced the clouds.

The earlier rain had departed and there was enough moonlight she could find her way to light a lamp, slow and deliberate, because she still wasn’t quite sure of her motivation in inviting her lover to her sanctuary. The easel stood angled to the glass of the doors, the dried palette nearby. “This is it,” she murmured, motioning with her hand. “What do you think?”

James picked up the lamp and moved closer, the illumination sliding over the canvas.

Does he realize how much this matters to me
?

His expression was difficult to read, the dark color of the robe accenting the light gleam of his hair and the fine line of his handsome profile. “The work is superb. Can I venture a guess?”

“A guess?” Regina crossed her arms under her breasts and lifted a brow.

“As to what you want it to represent.”

“What makes you think I want it to represent anything?”

“Why create something so beautiful to no purpose?”

Damn
. She’d been afraid all along he might understand
the underlying complex nature of not just the art itself, but maybe even the artist. Perhaps that was why she was so drawn to him. She said curiously, “If you want to guess, then, please do.”

“Thank you.” He took a moment, his brow faintly furrowed. “The setting is obviously something you’ve seen. The detail is so well done I can fairly hear the flutter of the leaves.”

Regina didn’t comment, just waiting.

“The allegorical figure in front is interesting.” James lifted the lamp higher for better light. “He looks slightly weary. His crossbow is hanging low, but then again, his expression holds a certain unmistakable resolve. This is a man with no choice. We cannot see what he faces, but he does know it must be done. He isn’t a martyr, but an ordinary man in extraordinary circumstances.”

It took a moment—for her throat had tightened—but she said calmly, “Go on. I am always curious as to what people take away from my work.”

“He doesn’t want to do what he must do. His bow is in his hands, but his arrow pointed at the ground. The set of his shoulders shows tension, but the fear is not for himself. Am I correct?”

So very correct she could almost kiss him. Or melt into a puddle at his feet. Neither of which she’d done before. He’d kissed her as a prelude to lovemaking and she’d allowed it, but she’d never kissed
him
. And she’d never imagined melting for any man, but he seemed to be capable of surprising her. “Close enough.”

“There’s a story… William Tell, the legendary Swiss hero who was just a common man.” James glanced up at her. “It’s an old tale, but if I recall, he has to shoot the
apple off the head of his son with a crossbow. I’ve always thought it so compelling… the risk… awful but yet heroic. An ordinary man pushed beyond his limits.”

She actually had to clear her throat because he was absolutely right. She’d always wanted to capture that instant when Tell’s bow must have lifted and he’d notched the arrow… and then when the moment had come, instead she’d painted the hesitancy before that fateful decision. It was more the choice that interested her than the deed itself. How did he come to it? How
could
he?

And James had seen it so easily.

It unnerved her. “That story has always fascinated me,” she admitted.

He glanced up. “I think you did it justice. Well done.”

“I chose to not put his son in the picture.” She walked toward the easel for the first time, ashamed her palms were damp just from letting anyone—him especially—look at an unfinished work. “It isn’t about his son’s possible death if he makes a mistake, but rather the dilemma of ever taking the shot. I wanted to capture the personal conflict of his confidence in his ability and the possibility of error we all face.” She paused, studying with critical analysis the expression on the central figure’s face. “His cost being the dearest possible if he chose wrongly.”

“Oh, indeed.” James pointed at an apple tree in the background of the painting, mingled with the other trees. “A rather nice comparison to Eden and the first human error. Was that your intention?”

She wasn’t sure. Life was profound in many ways and shallow in others.… She often felt not so much like a participant as an observer.

James, on the other hand, was so at ease with himself.
Did he realize it? If there was any arrogance in his nature, she hadn’t seen even a hint of it and maybe it was that air of quiet confidence she found so attractive. He was a talented and ardent lover, yes, but they seemed to share an intellectual bond as well. She’d never been close to any of the men in her life except her father and Luke.