The Art of Love Page 2

  ‘The geldings are brothers,’ Rodney said as he handed her up into the carriage. ‘It pays to have good mannered beasts that are happy in each others’ company. But for all that, they’ve plenty of spirit in them as you’ll see.’ He flicked the reins once. ‘Trot on.’

  Tara had to admit that the Phaeton was the most comfortable vehicle she had yet travelled in, it was well sprung, with gleaming leather upholstery and the horses worked beautifully together. The result was a smooth ride, whisking through the narrow streets, as if far removed from the cobbles and debris below and on arriving at the park she felt quite refreshed.

  In the park Rodney slowed the horses to a walk and Tara sat up straighter, wondering which of her acquaintances she would see first. She was bound to run into some old friends, she was certain; she had never yet been to Regent’s Park without meeting someone she knew. She was leaning over the edge of the carriage, looking at a woman wearing a particularly large hat, trying to decide whether she knew her or if it was simply the hat which had attracted her attention when a hand on her bare arm made her jump.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, sitting back and eyeing Rodney sceptically. He didn’t seem to notice her discomposure.

  ‘It is a lovely day, is it not?’ he said, somewhat woodenly, she thought, but agreed that it was. ‘This is very nice, us together, here, alone, in the park.’

  ‘We’re not really alone,’ Tara contradicted, ‘there must be thirty or forty people in plain sight from here.’

  ‘But they are not in this carriage.’

  ‘Well, obviously not,’ Tara eyed him closely, Rodney was not usually so banal; had he not yet recovered from the effects of staying late at Freddie’s party last night?

  ‘So although we can see and be seen, which is the whole point of this park, we are able to have a conversation which is quite unheard and which is utterly private,’ Rodney said, sounding a little more like his usual self.

  ‘That is so,’ Tara agreed, wondering uneasily where he was leading.

  ‘Which is good,’ Rodney said, ‘because there is something I particularly want to ask you.’ Ignoring the horses he took her hand between his own and looked into her eyes. ‘It is something of a rather delicate nature, something which I hope you will not find too forward and something to which I sincerely hope you will agree.’

  No, Tara thought in a panic, he is going to propose. A proposal was the very last thing she wanted to hear from Rodney. He was handsome, charming, well mannered, rich, made amusing conversation and she enjoyed his company, but not enough to choose to forgo the companionship of all her other admirers. Freddie, for example, was fun to flirt with and his kiss was yet untried, and dear Philippe, whose gentle and unassuming manner made him so easy to be with. If she settled for all that one man had to offer her she would lose so much. She would never be able to enjoy the flirtatious friendship of a single gentleman again. ‘Isn’t that Lady Cottenham over there?’ she said pointing wildly, hoping to distract Rodney. She did not, in truth, know anyone called Cottenham, but it was the first name that had sprung to mind.

  ‘Forget Lady Cottenham,’ Rodney said, gazing into her eyes.

  ‘But I must -’ Tara began when she was interrupted by an indignant quack. The horses had come to a standstill and a train of ducks were crossing the path, annoyed to find hooves blocking their way. Tara laughed, in relief. ‘Oh look,’ she said, ‘Aren’t they sweet? Those ducklings look almost big enough to take wing on their own, but they can’t quite bring themselves to leave their mama.’

  ‘Yes, very sweet, like a picture, in fact, which brings me back to -’

  ‘I say, Rodney,’ Tara interrupted him and smiled archly, deciding to try a more direct approach. ‘This Phaeton of yours pulls very smoothly at a sedate pace, but what’s it like at speed?’

  ‘She’s capital!’ Rodney said at once. ‘Flies like the breeze, near enough to silent except for the horses hooves and – but why am I telling you all this when I can just as easily show you?’

  ‘Where?’ Tara asked, not needing to hide her pleasure at having distracted Rodney with the thing that was really dearest to his heart.

  ‘Over there,’ Rodney indicated with his whip at Rotten Row.

  ‘You want to race along there? With the riders?’ Tara exclaimed before she could stop herself.

  ‘Oh, they won’t mind,’ Rodney said easily. Tara was not convinced, but she managed to keep her doubts to herself. Besides, the prospect of flying along in a Phaeton at top speed was starting to appeal to her. Rodney made an abrupt turn and shortly they were lined up at the foot of the avenue, the horses stamping and snorting as if they sensed their master’s plan.

  Rodney waited until the way was relatively clear then he cracked his whip and the pair shot forward. At once Tara’s hat was blown from her head, but the wind in her face was exhilarating and all she could do was laugh. Rodney skilfully steered his way around a man on a grey, then he cracked the whip again and the horses seemed to redouble their speed. Tara gasped. She hadn’t really thought it possible to go this fast. Ahead of them a horse leapt out of their way and then all too soon they were slowing down, the end of the avenue fast approaching and the horses, blowing hard, settling into a walk.

  Tara turned to Rodney. ‘That was amazing!’

  ‘You liked that, did you?’ Rodney said, failing to suppress a grin of pride which Tara found rather endearing. ‘Then if you’ll consent to what I want to ask you, I’ll take you out racing in the countryside next week.’

  Tara’s heart plummeted. In the excitement she had forgotten all about Rodney’s request, but it seemed he had not.

  ‘My hat…’ she murmured in a half-hearted attempt at distraction, but Rodney merely turned the horses and they walked back down the avenue.

  ‘The thing is, Tara,’ Rodney said, ‘as I said it’s rather delicate, intimate even… but I would very much like to have your portrait and I wondered if you would consent to be painted?’

  ‘What?’ Tara said, momentarily unable to process his request, it being so different for what she had been expecting him to say.

  Rodney turned a deep red. ‘I’m sorry, of course you won’t and it was quite ungentlemanly of me to ask. Please forget it.’

  ‘No!’ Tara said.

  ‘No, of course not,’ the horses seemed suddenly to require all of Rodney’s attention. ‘I won’t ask again.’

  ‘No, I mean yes!’ Tara said, light headed with relief and feeling a slightly hysterical laugh trying to escape. With an effort she composed herself. ‘You have paid me a great compliment and I would be delighted to sit for a portrait.’ It was quite irregular and might well herald a future declaration of his love, but right at the moment it was just one more move in the game of flirtation and flattery that was her pastime in society.

  ‘Truly?’ Rodney said, looking up, a pleased smile spreading over his handsome features.

  ‘Truly,’ Tara confirmed, and wondered if being painted would be fun.

  Leo returned home with several sketches of the finer details of St Paul’s and in a good mood. He would fill in the detailing on his painting and then the picture would be finished, ready for exhibition and sale. He was hard at work with his brush and palette in the fading evening light when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. He was tempted for a moment to ignore it, he wasn’t expecting anyone but it was most likely that his visitor was a client. Leo was tiring of portrait work, but his reputation was growing and he was able to charge more for each portrait than the last. Soon, he promised himself, next season in fact, he would use that reputation to launch his career in landscapes. Landscapes were so much more interesting than the bland society faces he had found himself painting. He had a constant struggle balancing the portrayal of character while still ensuring that the subject was depicted with a pleasant face, particularly if she were a woman. Landscapes were so much more honest, he could show a cliff, a castle or a cathedral as he really saw it but women were another matter entirely. It went
against the grain but in the early days he had reduced the noses, straightened the shoulders and enlarged the busts of several society ladies. Lady Susannah’s ingenuous comment that she had heard that he preferred to paint only the most beautiful women had its basis in truth. Beautiful women were generally more satisfied with accurate portraits.

  ‘Come in,’ Leo called, laying down his brush and wondering how long the interruption would last. The door swung wide and a man he recognised from Freddie’s party came in.

  ‘Lord Fosse,’ he said, ‘I have come to ask you to paint a portrait.’

  ‘That is what I do,’ Leo said evenly, but the man knew his name and his manner was polite so he was disposed to think well of him.

  ‘Sir Rodney Hulme,’ the man said, giving him a quick bow. Leo inclined his head in return.

  ‘Of whom do you wish to have a portrait painted?’ Leo asked. Hulme had a classical look with blonde hair and even features; he would be easy to paint to their mutual satisfaction. ‘Will the portrait be of yourself?’

  Hulme shook his head. ‘The portrait will be of a lady, a great friend of mine, Lady Tara Penge, are you acquainted with her?’

  ‘I have not had that pleasure,’ Leo said neutrally. ‘Is Lady Penge a relative of yours?’

  ‘She is a close friend,’ Hulme said. ‘She has done me the honour of agreeing to let me have her portrait, an honour which I hope will be the prelude to much more.’

  So Hulme had his sights set on Lady Penge, whether as a mistress or a wife, Leo could not tell. ‘Is she beautiful?’ he asked.

  Hulme frowned. ‘She is very… striking.’ Leo felt his heart sink; if even Lady Penge’s admirer did not describe her as beautiful she must be very plain indeed. It would be a difficult portrait to execute, painting a likeness which would not differ so much from the original as to ruin his reputation, yet producing a work which would make the customers happy. Leo felt inclined to refuse the commission.

  ‘My fees are very high,’ he said blandly. ‘I am much in demand at the moment.’

  ‘How much do you charge?’ Hulme asked.

  Leo was about to name a figure which matched what he had asked of Lady Susannah’s father when he thought the better of it. ‘Sixty guineas,’ he said, doubling the charge. To his annoyance, both because he had hoped Hulme would turn him down and because of what it said about Hulme’s financial position relative to his own, Hulme didn’t bat an eyelid.

  ‘She is well worth it,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring her in later in the week.’

  ‘Tuesday,’ Leo said, struggling to regain some ascendancy. ‘I will be able to see her on Tuesday afternoon.’ Hulme must be planning to make the lady his wife, he decided. Grudgingly he had to admit that his client was at least a gentleman, no man would set so much store by the painting of a plain mistress.

  ‘Tuesday,’ Hulme said, shaking hands, then he left.

  It was too dark to continue painting without risk of ruining his eyes. Methodically Leo cleaned his brushes with turpentine and a rag, brooding over the work to which he had just agreed. Sixty guineas was a lot of money, perhaps this would be his last portrait. The thought cheered him up, and if it was his last portrait perhaps he could afford to paint the lady as she really was, no matter how plain, although Hulme had not described her as plain, he had called her striking which was perhaps even more damning.

  Chapter Two

  The horses trotted happily over Waterloo Bridge while Tara looked across to the south bank a little nervously. ‘Vauxhall isn’t populated entirely by cut-throats and thieves, you know,’ Rodney said, apparently noticing her anxiousness.

  ‘Of course not,’ Tara said impatiently, ‘only…’ she stopped abruptly, suddenly realising that she would rather Rodney assumed her nervousness was brought about by their location rather than sudden qualms about having her portrait painted. The idea of having her face peered at intently by a perfect stranger for several hours was disquieting enough, but it had also belatedly occurred to her that gentlemen were not generally in the habit of commissioning paintings of mere friends; did Rodney intend this as a precursor to a proposal of marriage after all?

  ‘Really Fosse lives in a quite respectable neighbourhood, for this side of the river,’ Rodney said as he expertly steered the horses around the potholes and debris which marred the road. ‘Here we are.’

  They drew up outside a house which was both shabby and elegant. It had once been white, but was in need of painting, Tara noted, which seemed ironic for a building which housed a painter, however it was gracefully proportioned and the first floor possessed unusually large, clear windows.

  Rodney pushed open the front door and escorted her up the stairs inside. Then he rapped smartly on the door at the top. It swung open and a tall, powerfully built man with unruly dark hair and eyes to match looked out at them. For a moment Tara was mesmerised by those eyes. They were so dark as to be almost black and they seemed to take in every detail of her appearance at a glance. She was suddenly very aware of the coral-red dress she wore under her short coat which hugged her every curve and of the low necklace of garnets which drew the eye down towards rather than away from her décolletage. She felt a not unpleasant shiver run through her, when he looked at her it was almost as if this man was undressing her with his eyes. The man gave the briefest of bows and almost scowled at Rodney, but Rodney didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Fosse, this is Lady Tara, she is the lady whose portrait I have commissioned.’ He smiled broadly, as if, Tara thought, commissioning a painting was tantamount to having the skill to paint it himself. Fosse closed the door behind them and Tara glanced around the room. She had always thought of artists as living in cramped, dark garrets where the walls and floor were splattered with paint but this room was large and light. An easel stood on a sheet of canvas which bore traces of paint in every colour of the rainbow, but the rest of the room was as clean and tidy as her drawing room at home, although on the shelves, in addition to books, stood various bottles and jars, and a basket which held a pile of neatly folded, clean rags. There was a washstand in the corner with a pitcher and ewer, but instead of it being ornamented with combs and cosmetics as her own washstand was, it supported a bottle of turpentine and a jar sprouting a collection of paintbrushes. Underneath the washstand was another basket, this one holding rags which were crumpled and covered in paint. The walls were hung with paintings, more paintings than one might ordinarily expect in a drawing room. The subjects seemed to be mostly a wide variety of landscapes and Tara found her attention particularly caught by a large canvass of St Paul’s, with the wide expanse of the Thames glinting silver in the foreground.

  ‘You recognise it of course.’ Tara jumped, Fosse was not standing particularly close, but she felt as if he had murmured intimately in her ear. With a start she realised that the diverse array of paintings on the wall were all his own work.

  ‘You paint very well…’ she said and then let the sentence linger as she realised that she did not know how to address him. It had been on the tip of her tongue to add sir as she might if speaking with one of her peers with whom she was not well acquainted, but that would not be appropriate. By rights she should call him by his surname as she would any other tradesman, but this man wasn’t simply any other tradesman and she couldn’t bring herself to speak down to him in that way.

  ‘Well,’ Rodney said, stepping between them and Tara felt quite disconcerted to find him still there, in only a few seconds her world seemed to have shrunk to contain only herself and this enigmatic artist. ‘Shall we get started?’

  ‘Of course,’ Fosse said blandly. ‘Lady Tara, may I?’ He held out his hands, making the universal gesture of intent to help her off with her coat suddenly very intimate. Tara turned and shrugged out of it, very aware of his nearness. He didn’t touch her skin, but she could feel the warmth of his fingers just a fraction of an inch away from the nape of her neck and her stomach fluttered in response. Fosse turned to Rodney. ‘What sort of pose did you have in mi
nd? Head and shoulders? Something classical? Something modern?’

  ‘Oh, something very natural, I think,’ Rodney said, sounding very sure of himself. ‘I see her seated on a rock, by a pool, sort of like a wood nymph, with perhaps deer or some other woodland creatures clustered around her.’

  Tara looked at him, rather stunned; she had never seen herself as nymph-like. Instinctively she glanced at Fosse and saw that he looked quite as taken aback as she felt herself. She burst out laughing. ‘Rodney, that sounds absolutely entirely unnatural. For one thing woodland creatures don’t cluster and secondly I am not in the least like a nymph.’

  ‘The lady has far too much gravitas to be treated in such a way,’ Fosse snapped. ‘You insult her with your girlish idea.’

  ‘I thought it was a very good idea,’ Rodney bristled. ‘My friend’s sister was painted in just such a manner. What is good enough for Gainsborough ought to be good enough for you.’

  ‘And was your friend’s sister a biddable little thing, barely out of the school room?’ Fosse enquired sweetly, but Tara thought she saw a glimpse of something else in his eyes.

  ‘Why, yes, she was,’ Rodney said, looking disconcerted.

  ‘There you have it,’ Fosse said as if he had just proved his point beyond the shadow of a doubt. He turned to Tara. ‘It will be an essential part of this portrait to show your form, it demands to be painted. Do you think you could manage a pose in which you are standing? Some people find it an effort to stand for a considerable period of time, but in your case it would be well worth it.