Flowers arrived the next morning. Bouquet upon bouquet of daisies, rosebuds laced with ferns, violets and lilies arrived for the girls who attended the ball. The local hothouses must have been quite emptied by the demand. Even Emma received a full bouquet of roses with a note of gratitude signed by ‘W’ for which she cared little, and a bouquet of daisies, which thrilled her greatly. The blank white card said more than if it had been signed. Nicholas.

“It must be a mistake,” Cecilia said. “Who would send a message of innocence to a widow? The bouquet must be meant for one of the girls.”

“With so many gifts to prepare,” Emma tempered her excitement with difficulty, “it’s likely the florist made a mistake.” When no one was looking, she slipped one of the daisies inside her dress to later press inside a volume of Lord Byron’s poetry.

Beatrice combined bouquets so as to utilize Pettibone’s few available vases. When she resorted to borrowing Cook’s favorite milk pitcher for some fragile blossoms, Cook created such a fuss that Emma was beseeched to borrow some vessels from Black Oak when next she went for a lesson. Emma agreed, deciding that very afternoon she required immediate art instruction.

Borrowing the school’s open rig, she drove herself to Black Oak, pondering how best to phrase the question that had kept her awake long after the Higgins sisters were snoring in their beds. Was there a way to prevent the conception of a child, if one was to succumb to one’s desires? The gables of Black Oak loomed before her; she flicked the reins to speed up the pony.

“Hello Thomas, I don’t believe Lord Chambers is expecting me, but I had hoped I could prevail upon him for a lesson?”

“I am quite sure his lordship will be delighted to see you, Mrs. Brimley. It has been too long since you visited Black Oak.” Thomas smiled and stepped back from the door, allowing her entrance. He took her cloak and led her down the hallway toward the studio. “I’m told the festivities last night were a success?”

“Oh yes,” Emma exclaimed, knowing that she could never admit the results of the ball far exceeded her expectations. She had thought she had turned Nicholas away, yet his presence last night proved otherwise. “The Higgins sisters were most pleased with the attendance.”

She explained their need for vases. Thomas offered to see what he could find to alleviate the crisis.

“Lord Chambers will attend upon you shortly, madam. Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll return with some tea.” Thomas left the door slightly ajar.

She had never waited long in the studio before. Without Nicholas’s commanding vibrancy, the room held a cool, empty resonance. She rubbed her forearms, as though a spring breeze had wound its way into the studio.

Then she spied the draped easel set before the dais and all thoughts of temperature evaporated. Curiosity pulled her to the canvas Nicholas had kept hidden from view.

She approached it silently, solemnly, as if entering the village church. Her initial embarrassment, her long tedious hours of posing, her fabrications to the school, all culminated in this work. She had wondered sometimes whether Nicholas was seriously painting anything at all, or just splashing colors on a canvas as an excuse for her “education.” Excitement tingled to the tips of her fingers, but reverence held her cautiously at bay. Looking back once more to make sure her indiscretion would not be noticed, she carefully lifted the drape.

Her gaze shot immediately to the nude woman holding a long narrow cloth that streamed behind her in an imaginary wind. Awed by the painting’s artistic beauty and refined talent, she didn’t immediately recognize the model. She certainly had never remotely resembled this heavenly creature. Unlike Emma, the goddess apparently had perfect eyesight as she didn’t wear spectacles, but Artemis’s striking green eyes, rich brown hair and birthmark above her left breast seemed familiar.

She tossed the drape over the back of the easel so as to view the entire painting. Her breath caught. The colors! The textures! Nicholas’s skill was undeniable. Although she noted a man in the woods and a stag running in the background, her gaze continued to return to Artemis.

Oh, she would have been wrong, so wrong, to have believed Nicholas was without talent. Emma did not credit herself a critic, but to her eye, the painting was a masterpiece. The painting could well be placed on exhibition and viewed by thousands of people. Her eyes widened, panic surged beneath her corset. What was she thinking!

Footsteps pounded in the hallway. Thomas must be returning with refreshments. Emma quickly tugged at the drapery to recover the painting. Unfortunately, it had been much easier to remove then replace. The cloth snagged on the point of the easel, falling over half of the painting. Although she had effectively covered the goddess, a portion of the painting remained exposed, providing evidence of her tampering.

“Mrs. Brimley!” The Marquess of Enon stood in the doorway. Alarm fled the confines of her stomach to lodge in her throat.

“Thomas mentioned he had situated you in the studio.” He carefully closed the door behind him and approached. A knowing smile tipped his lips. He rubbed his hands together as if beset by the same chill that tripped down Emma’s spine.

“I see you’ve wasted no time considering my proposal.”

Compared to the thump of Nicholas’s stick, the Marquess’s silent continuing approach seemed both unearthly and villainous.

“I believe there must be a mis—”

“I enjoy a woman who knows what she wants,” he interrupted. “And doesn’t hesitate to seek it out.”

His gaze raked the length of her from hat to hemline in the manner of a dandy accustomed to such liberties. Emma stood her ground, remembering the disappointment when such dandies rejected her in favor of her cousin, Penelope. This time, however, she would feel no disappointment. The Marquess’s interest held no sway.

“A houseguest, however, should never presume upon his host’s hospitality to provide for the occasional tryst, don’t you agree?” William asked.

“Sir, you are mistaken as to my purpose,” Emma insisted.

He pursed his lips, then lifted a brow, and still advanced.

“I extended an offer of companionship, and here you are unannounced and alone. What is there to misunderstand?”

Emma began to retreat. The man was as persistent and stubborn as a devil incarnate. “Your brother has been giving me lessons in this studio. I’m here for a previously arranged appointment.”

He chuckled low in his throat as he pulled even with the easel. “My brother gives art lessons?” He laughed outright. “I’d more likely believe he offered lessons of a different kind.”

Heat blossomed in her cheeks. She would have been concerned about the Marquess’s ability to translate that blush, but his gaze had been caught by the disheveled drape.

He turned toward the easel. “Were you peeking, Mrs. Brimley?” he teased. “I must admit a certain curiosity on my part, as well.”

The blood rushed from her head, leaving her faint and queasy. She tried to rush forward, to stop him from removing the top of the proverbial Pandora’s box, or in this case, a drape.

“No!” she cried, although the words couldn’t squeeze past the constriction in her throat. They emitted as a whisper.

The Marquess firmly grasped the edge of the remaining drapery and tossed it back over the easel without effort.

For several seconds there was no sound, save that of her racing heartbeat pounding in her ears. The Marquess stepped back, crossed his arms, and studied the work, his face devoid of expression.

“Magnificent!” He said, awe evident in his voice. “This is far superior to any of his previous work. Why, this is bound to be accepted by the Academy.” He leaned forward, his nose almost touching the oil, then straightened and stepped back, viewing the work from several angles.

Emma withdrew until the solid wall pressed her back. Her stomach roiled, threatening to expel its contents. Her throat tightened. She could barely breathe. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognize the model. She hadn’t at first. She was the least likely candidate to be painted as a goddess.

“The overall composition is masterful, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked.

Fortunately, he didn’t look her way for confirmation, the painting captured all his attention.

“Look at the brushwork, the detail . . .” He turned toward her, his face exuberant.

Her lips trembled. His broad smile lessened. He narrowed his eyes, then glanced back to the painting.

“It’s you,” he said, softly. “You posed for this painting. I can see it now.” He turned back to Emma, studying her as if she were a complicated stanza of poetry. “I knew I recognized you, but I hadn’t seen this painting until just this minute. How could that be?”

Please let the ground open up beneath me and swallow me whole, she prayed. Humiliated, she remained fastened to the wall like one of Nicholas’s framed landscapes. Perhaps if she were still enough, quiet enough, he would forget she was in the room. She recognized the absurdity of that notion but saw no other viable course of action. The door was on the opposite wall. Besides, she could never escape the damage caused by viewing that painting.

Her body numbed. All that was meaningful in her life drained out through her pores and floated about the room like a spirit, leaving behind a cold, empty shell of bone and ash.

The devil Marquess of Enon tapped one elegant finger against his cheek. “Unless . . .” His eyes widened. He quickly crossed the floor to rummage in the desk drawer.

She could escape now. The path was clear, but what was the use? Everything she had hoped for--a longtime position at Pettibone, a happy family consisting of two spinster sisters and a flock of giggling girls--now appeared impossible. Her reputation ruined, she would soon be tossed out like old, moldy bread.

The Marquess found a sketchbook and fumbled through the pages.

“I knew I had seen your face.” He stopped midway through the book, then gazed back toward her. “Of course, you’re the country miss.”

He held aloft an opened sketchbook displaying a charcoal drawing of a woman with flowers and ivy in her hair. Some spark of memory fought ineffectively against the cold fog that gripped her mind and body. When one had no future, of what value are memories?

“The sly devil.” The Marquess laughed. “I can well imagine the lessons my brother was teaching you.”

Emma turned her face away from his mockery. What did you expect? Her uncle’s voice taunted her. You knew what society demands of respectable women. If you were respectable you wouldn’t have succumbed to Chambers’s bargain.

Deep within she felt a tiny protest against her uncle’s words, a tiny flame that sputtered in a cold unfeeling body.

“At least my brother has progressed from the tavern whores to country widows.” The devil’s voice loomed closer, impossible now to tell the difference between her uncle’s leering tone and that of the Marquess of Enon. But then, what did it matter?

“Leave her alone, William.”

She knew that voice. The sputtering flame fought back against the pressing cold. Her eyes began to focus, searching for the source.

“Nicholas!” The devil voice cried in greeting. “You should have told me. I never would have presumed to interfere with your sport.”

The comforting tap of Nicholas’s stick crossed the room as if in a dream. With each tap, the flame brightened, but he was coming too late. Too late.

“Your painting is marvelous, masterful, destined to earn accolades for your talents. And the fact that your model is a finishing school teacher will surely attract attention in London.” The Marquess’s exuberant praises failed to stop the rhythmic tapping. “Your painting will be the hit of the exhibition.”

“No one is to know that Emma is the model.”

Nicholas’s soft voice surrounded her. The pulse in her veins strengthened. She recognized the touch of his fingertips on the underside of her chin by the quickly generating warmth radiating outward, bringing her back to life.

He lifted her chin until she focused on his searching, deep brown eyes. Awareness stabbed at her with a million tiny pricks as if she had become Beatrice’s human pincushion.

“I’m sorry.” Nicholas’s words were spoken too softly to extend beyond her ears. She lifted her fingers with the intent to touch his face, to make sure he was real. He captured her hand midpath and brought her fingertips to his lips for a gentle kiss. The flame burning within her multiplied, banishing the cold mists to distant memory.

“Emma, is it now?” The Marquess shook his head as if remnants of sleep had fogged his perception. “I swear, little brother, you could charm the stars from the heavens if they were female. What difference will it make in London who the model is? The painting is the important thing.”

“It matters to me,” Nicholas said in a tone not to be ignored. His lips tilted in an apologetic smile, then he patted her hand and placed it by her side.

Pivoting on his stick, he turned away from her and approached the easel. “Besides, this painting will never see London.”

Hope pulsed through her veins. She should never have doubted him. He had always protected her.

Nicholas pulled the drape back in place, concealing the treasure beneath. “I’ll send another, one of my landscapes.”

“Don’t be a fool, Nick,” William argued, all mirth gone from his face. “The Academy doesn’t want landscapes. You’ll be rejected again.”

“Then I’ll be rejected. There are worst things.” He nodded toward Emma. “I won’t have Mrs. Brimley’s reputation harmed in any way, either by idle gossip or public display of this painting.”

If her legs had strength, she’d rush over and throw her arms around him. He was willing to sacrifice his well-earned recognition to preserve her reputation. Tears of gratitude burned at the corners of her eyes.

“Bloody Hell, Nick.” William cast a disparaging frown in her direction, waving the sketchbook as if to punctuate his words. “She’s used goods. A painting like this could boost her popularity as well. She’ll be a novelty. You’ve painted her with a shy, self-conscious quality that is out-right titillating. No one will deny your talent.”

Nicholas’s lips thinned. “Yesterday I had a preoccupation, today I have a talent.” He glanced her way. Her rigidity melted in response. “I’d rather have neither if it hurts Emma.”

The Marquess dropped the sketchbook, letting the binding bounce on the floor. The book flipped open to Emma’s goddess sketch.

“Not a word, William,” Nicholas warned. “Do you understand?”

The Marquess scowled but nodded assent. He marched across the studio floor to the door, leaving a boot print across Emma’s sketched cheek in the process.

As William’s boots echoed down the hall, Nicholas turned to Emma.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried to keep the painting hidden.”

Nicholas fished in his pocket and removed a handkerchief. “I suppose I should have packed the painting away the moment he arrived, but I couldn’t.”

He dabbed at her cheeks. Had she been crying? She couldn’t remember.

“I just couldn’t.” He opened his arms, and she stepped into his comfort. “The important thing is that no one will ever see that painting again. Trust me, Emma. It shall be our secret, and our secret alone.”

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I uncovered it. I just wanted to see. . .” Her voice faltered, then disappeared altogether. Tears ran uncontrolled down her cheeks.

“William would have seen it eventually. It’s not your fault.” His fingertips soothed the hair back from her cheeks.

“I know.” His voice lightened. “I shall hide it in the root cellar with the potatoes, if you like. I’ll cover it from view, although I suspect Thomas would want his likeness to be revealed.”

His gentle teasing brought a smile to her lips. “Thomas?” The words forced her throat to open to accommodate them. “The man in the woods?”

Nicholas nodded, gently squeezing her shoulder. He shifted toward the easel. “I’d prefer to hang it, though, in my private quarters.” He glanced down to her. “With your permission, of course.”

Emma sniffed, not a refined sound, but necessary. “I thought this studio was your private quarter.”

He sighed and hugged her tighter. “That was the original plan when I moved to Yorkshire. My family and houseguests apparently consider this a public gallery of sorts.” He pulled back a bit to see her face. “You’re the first to recognize how much of my heart and soul reside in this room.”

“After these last few months, I think a bit of my heart resides here as well.” Emma sniffled.

He held her in silence a few moments longer then stepped back. “I suppose you didn’t come here today to pose for my next great work.”

His humor pulled at her heart. She rubbed the last traces of tears from her eyes and straightened her spectacles on her nose, then took a large settling breath. “Your brother is correct. It is a magnificent work.”

“The next one will be even better.” Nicholas smiled, and moved over to his stool. “You shall see.”

“I had thought that now that this project was complete, you could teach me about art in earnest.” Emma followed him back to the center of the room and stepped up on the dais by habit. “The sisters still expect me to teach painting to the girls.”

“Emma, everything we have done has been in earnest.” Nicholas picked a brush from a jar and held in aloft to inspect it. She recognized the sable brush instantly and smiled, remembering the silky texture on her skin.

“I’d wager you know more about art now than all of Yorkshire,” Nicholas said.

Emma sat on the divan, too drained to argue or even agree. She tried to believe Nicholas’s light banter, but the draped easel remained her focus. What she once considered a freeing experience had become a trap.

“You don’t believe me?” Nicholas pulled a mock frown. “Then I suppose we should get to work. Let us begin with the concept of negative space.”