Nicole Jordan (13 page)

Yet she could sense the war he was still fighting with himself. His eyes darkened whenever they rested on her, while his jaw tightened, as if he was fiercely repressing his primitive urges.

Their mutual tension, however, was unexpectedly broken as they finished the dessert course of cheese and fruit. A visitor called at Thorne’s villa, bearing news that completely took Diana’s mind off her own personal dilemma.

Sir Gawain Olwen was a tall, lean, elderly gentleman whose manners were courteous and stately. Diana had met the baronet at a soiree earlier in the week and been gratified by his kind welcome.

Apologizing for the interruption, Sir Gawain requested a private interview with Thorne and remained closeted with him for nearly a half hour. Before Sir Gawain took his leave, however, he paused at the drawing room door to wish Miss Sheridan and Miss Lunsford a safe voyage to England.

When the baronet had gone, Thorne went to the sideboard to pour himself a generous snifter of brandy.

“Is something amiss?” Diana asked, seeing his grim expression.

“You might say so,” Thorne replied darkly. “Sir Gawain received a dispatch late last night. Napoleon Bonaparte recently escaped from Elba and landed in France, but it’s just been confirmed he is marching on Paris. In fact, he may have arrived by now. The fear is that Boney means to raise an army and retake control of his empire.”

Diana felt her stomach tense with dread. The Corsican Tyrant who had sought to conquer the civilized world and had waged a decades-long war in Europe and Africa had abdicated the previous year and been safely incarcerated on the island of Elba. But now apparently he was threatening again.

“And if he regains his empire?” Diana wondered.

“The Allies will have to try to stop him, of course.”

The alarming news cast a pall over their final evening on Cyrene, a pall that continued when they boarded the ship the next morning.

Even Amy realized the possible peril of the Monster unleashed, for she appeared unusually somber, Diana noted. The two cousins were standing with John Yates at the railing as the schooner sailed from the harbor.

Beside them, Yates looked quietly angry, not speaking a word until Amy asked a question to which Diana herself wanted to know the answer. “Can Napoleon be defeated again?”

“I have no doubt,” Yates replied grimly, “but it will likely be bloody, damn him. The Allied armies will be recalled, and countless good men will lose their lives.”

Amy glanced down at his wooden leg. “Will you have to fight?” she asked in a curiously quiet voice.

His mouth curled with bitterness. “I would gladly go, but the British cavalry won’t have much use for a cripple.”

“Don’t call yourself that!” Amy exclaimed.

When Yates stared at her, her chin rose. “I think it outrageous that anyone would think you less of a man because you lost a limb in the service of your country.”

Diana could see Yates’s surprise at such a fervent declaration. He was clearly taken aback that a girl of Amy’s flighty nature not only wasn’t repulsed by his missing leg, but thought of it as a badge of courage.

“I think you brave and honorable for being wounded in battle,” Amy added indignantly. “And I refuse to let you disparage yourself that way.”

Diana had to hide a gratified smile. Her cousin occasionally made her proud. From Amy’s complaints over the past week, she didn’t appear even to
like
John Yates, for she considered him far too stern and managing, while he plainly thought her a spoiled brat. They had fought frequently since their first meeting, but he had gritted his teeth and endured, doubtless because he had promised Thorne.

The ship dipped just then as it left the sheltered harbor and encountered the open sea, forcing them all to grasp the railing for balance.

A moment later, Amy put a hand to her stomach, looking a little green around the mouth. “If you will excuse me, I think I will retire to my cabin. Sailing disagrees with me—”

She turned and fled, leaving John Yates to stare after her.

“I never would have taken her for a patriot,” he finally said.

Diana repressed another smile. “Amy can be quite surprising. She has been pampered and indulged most of her life, but she has a generous heart. I have high hopes she will grow up some day soon—perhaps during her Season.”

Yates nodded thoughtfully, although his expression held skepticism.

Before he could reply, a movement overhead caught Diana’s attention—the crew raising another sail. Then across the deck, she spied Thorne speaking to his captain. When Thorne suddenly looked up and met her gaze, she had a momentary flash of strong bronzed fingers cupping her pale breasts.

Quickly Diana turned back to watch the receding island. This would likely be her last view of Cyrene, but she couldn’t regret leaving.

It seemed they were all glad to get away from the island and eager to reach England. She, for her art career, Amy for her comeout, and Thorne and Yates to unearth the mystery of Nathaniel’s death.

Diana felt her tension ease a measure as she regarded the magnificent coastline of Cyrene for the final time. She would have to endure a two-week voyage in close quarters with Thorne, but she hoped the threat wouldn’t be so great without the magical, mythical influence of the island to cloud her senses.

For the next week Diana managed to avoid any intimate encounters with Thorne, much to her relief. They took meals together in the stateroom along with the captain and the other civilian passengers, including her maid and the French modiste, but Diana made a point of never being alone with Thorne.

For occupation, she set up her easel in her cabin and applied herself to painting for the majority of each day. She also stood for wardrobe fittings, and for exercise, she strolled the deck with Amy.

Fortunately, Amy’s tendency toward seasickness quickly subsided. The weather remained fair much of the first week, so the seas were relatively calm, but the girl’s cure was due more to John Yates. Sympathetic to Amy’s malady that first morning, Yates had given her a concoction that settled her stomach—which put him in Amy’s good graces for the time being.

As for Thorne, he seemed to keep busy aiding the crew. It surprised Diana that a nobleman would engage in such humble manual activity, but when Amy quizzed him about it, Thorne claimed he craved physical exertion and a means to work off his restlessness.

Diana supposed that climbing the rigging of a three-masted schooner
was
a cure for restlessness, but admittedly the danger to Thorne alarmed her a little. The sight of him in his shirtsleeves as he labored on the deck disturbed her even more.

Thus Diana shocked herself when she allowed him to pose for her
without
his shirt the very next afternoon.

It occurred at the beginning of their second week. The temperature had grown decidedly cooler as soon as the ship rounded Gibraltar and entered the choppy gray waters of the Atlantic, so Diana was grateful for the coal brazier that warmed her small cabin as she worked. That afternoon, however, she left her door open to allow the cloying fumes of turpentine and linseed oil to escape.

She realized her mistake the instant Thorne appeared in the doorway.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself.” Without asking permission, he sauntered inside her cabin. His gaze first lit on the paint-splattered smock she wore, then roamed around the half of the cabin that she had converted into a studio.

She had finished the sunset seascape she’d begun her last evening on Cyrene and propped the wet canvas against the bulkhead to dry, along with several other landscapes, including the Roman ruins, the quaint little town perched above the harbor, and the island itself with its rugged slopes and golden valleys.

But it was the sunset painting that held Thorne’s gaze riveted. He moved past her, as if drawn by some unseen force, and stood staring down at her rendering.

Diana considered this one of her better works. With vividness and luminosity, she had captured the dramatic shifting light on the clouds and the sea, immortalizing the scene in crimson and gold. But she held her breath, waiting to hear Thorne’s opinion.

He was silent for quite a long moment. “I admit I have only an amateur’s eye, but to me this seems quite brilliant. I’m reminded of a landscape by Turner I saw last summer at the Royal Academy exhibition, although this is less turbulent.”

Warmth filled Diana at his praise. Turner was renowned for his dramatic portrayals of mist and sea and sky, and in particular, his battles at sea. He was one of the youngest artists ever to be elected a full member of the Royal Academy, and he now served as Professor of Perspective.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “That is high praise indeed.”

“I gather you have deliberately striven for this softer look.”

“Yes. My favorite landscape artist is John Constable. He creates a glowing serenity in his nature scenes that brings peace to the soul—an effect that is almost magical. I’ve aspired to master his technique.”

“I would say the effect of this painting is almost magical.”

Tearing his gaze from the sunset, Thorne studied the three other landscapes.

“These really are remarkable,” he said finally. “You clearly have a gift.” When he looked up to meet Diana’s gaze, she could see genuine admiration and respect in the depths of his eyes. “It seems you were born to paint.”

Diana felt herself flushing, yet she couldn’t dispute him. For as long as she could remember, she had always wanted to paint. After the deaths of her parents, when she’d gone to live with her Lunsford cousins, she had poured her heart into her watercolor paintings. And when she had discovered oils, her entire life had changed; her art had truly become a passion.

“I don’t see any portraits here,” Thorne commented.

“Because I have not painted any recently. Since leaving England, I’ve found too many wonderful scenes that cried out for attention.”

“Yet if you’re to make your reputation as a portraitist, shouldn’t you practice?”

“I suppose so,” Diana conceded. “Finding subjects to sit for me is a problem, however. I’ve employed Amy once too often, and she refuses to accommodate me any longer, claiming the boredom drives her mad.”

“As I said, you are welcome to employ me.”

Diana hesitated, seeing that Thorne was entirely serious. She did indeed need practice, particularly with men. She had painted her own male servants at home, but never a nobleman like Thorne. Capturing that elusive air of aristocracy would be a challenge. And so would depicting his uncommon masculine beauty, or more specifically, his potent virility.

She’d never had the chance to scrutinize the male form. By convention, women artists were prevented from studying nude models, and Diana’s mentor had been quite strict in that regard. It was difficult to duplicate flesh tones or the virile ripple of muscle if one had never seen them before.

To his surprise, as well as her own, Diana found herself accepting his offer.

“Very well, I would be grateful if you would sit for me.”

She could tell she had taken Thorne off guard, for he’d obviously expected her to decline. His reaction pleased Diana. If she was to hold her own against him, she would have to remain on the offensive, staying one step ahead of him.

Yet she had an even more basic rationale in mind. If she could become accustomed to Thorne’s physical perfection, she reasoned, viewing him merely as an artistic subject, she would be better able to resist him. For her own self-preservation, it would behoove her to become inured to his charms.

Quickly Diana glanced around the cabin, searching for a location to pose him. She would have liked to paint him on the deck of the ship, using masts and sails for a backdrop, but this canvas would be for practice only, and if she was successful, she could always add the masts in afterward. For now she merely needed the light coming over her shoulder, with enough brightness to illuminate his chiseled features. The sunlight streaming in the porthole window would do now, allowing her to decide on shadowing later.

Her imagination leaping ahead, she pictured Thorne leaning casually against a timber mast, a sea wind ruffling his golden hair. Frowning thoughtfully, Diana pointed to the bulkhead opposite the porthole, near the sleeping bunks.

“Stand there, if you will?” When he obliged, she nodded. “Now prop your shoulder against the bulkhead, and cross one foot over the other.”

“Like this?” He slouched against the paneling, crossing his right boot over his left.

“That should work.” Her gaze scrutinized his attire. In addition to boots and leather breeches, he wore a rough, short-waisted seaman’s jacket with no cravat—not what she had in mind, which was a nobleman indulging in sport on his yacht. “Now, if you will kindly remove your jacket and shirt.”

When he arched an eyebrow, Diana felt color rise in her cheeks. “I have studied male anatomy before, but always from drawings or plaster casts of Hellenic statues. I could use the experience painting a torso of a live man.”

Thorne flashed her that quick, enchanting smile. “Just my torso? I will be delighted to remove all my clothes.”

Diana sent him a quelling look. “That would only invite scandal, and I have enough of that in my past, thank you. For propriety’s sake, I mean to leave the cabin door open while I work. In truth, I should probably call my maid to chaperone us right now.”

“Surely such drastic measures aren’t necessary. We’re betrothed, remember? And as such, we’re permitted greater license.”

“Perhaps so. And my maid is busy helping to sew our new gowns. But in the future I will make certain we are not alone.”

“If you must,” Thorne replied with an exaggerated sigh.

While he was undressing, Diana occupied herself by gathering the materials she would need. She had already prepared a canvas, stretching linen over a wooden frame and applying sizing to fill in the fabric’s porous weave and then allowing it to dry thoroughly. Now she prepared a palette with the appropriate colors of oil paint, and chose several brushes.

“Will this do?” her subject queried, breaking into her concentration.