Page 18 of What a Lord Wants

Or, God forbid, host one himself.

“You need a wife, Ellsworth.” The viscount’s eyes gleamed craftily. “Someone beautiful and supportive by your side who will take care of all the work of hosting parties for you so all you have to do is enjoy yourself.”

“I enjoy myself quite well as is.”Good lord. Theverylast thing he needed was a society wife hosting parties in his home.

Hoping Margrave would take the hint and leave, Dom turned his attention back to the painting. It truly was magnificent in technique and composition, but it lacked that indescribable spark that the best painters were masters at portraying. He’d never—

“I hear the British Institution offered you a membership.”

Dom inhaled a patient breath and turned back to Margrave, giving up on studying the paintings tonight. “Yes. And I declined.”

Margrave looked aghast. “Why would you do that? You’re a patron of the arts—”

“Exactly. The Institution’s membership isn’t comprised of artists but of connoisseurs dominated by the nobility and those whose only qualifications are notoriety and wealth.” He didn’t bother trying to hide his distaste. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that an organization that supports artists refuses to let artists be members?”

“Well, I…” Margrave stared at him blankly. He’d clearly not considered that. “But they honor artists with contests and exhibitions, far more than the Royal Academy does.”

“True.” But only because the Academy put its money back into its school, where it hosted classes for artists of all levels in all mediums. Still, he supposed, the Institution had its place, however limited. “If you want to see more of my collection, I’ve agreed to loan several pieces to the Royal Academy for study this summer.” He enjoyed the irony as he added, “Including several by Vincenzo.”

“That Italian devil?” Margrave laughed, then finished off the last of his champagne. “All the mistresses he’s been rumored to have, the salacious things he’s done…He makes the Carnival of Venice look pious in comparison to what he’s reported to have done!”

Dom winced inwardly. Hehaddone many sensational and scandalous things in his youth in Italy. He hadn’t realized then that as his fame as an artist grew, so would the stories of debauchery. The rumors of his sordid lifestyle had gained a momentum of their own in recent years. If only he had the true physical stamina for all they’d claimed he’d done.

“Vincenzo!” Margraves toasted his empty glass into the air. “Now there’s a man whose parties need to be attended.”

“If only I could be more like Vincenzo,” Dom sighed, carefully keeping his face inscrutable.

Margrave gestured to the southern end of the gallery. “My daughter Jane is here this evening. She was saying just the other day how much she wishes you and she could—”

“Oh, look—Strathmore’s arrived,” he interrupted, certain that Lady Jane Sheridan had lots of wishes about what she and he could do, and none of them were ones he had any intention of granting. “I promised the duchess a personal tour of the galleries.” A blatant lie. But if it got him out of this conversation, then he’d gladly give a personal tour to Napoleon himself. A worm-eaten French corpse was still preferable to discussions about marriage. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He strode off before Margrave could stop him, weaving through the growing crush and putting plenty of bodies between them while also keeping a sharp eye out for Lady Jane herself.

To his surprise, some of the recently arrived guests were actually looking at the art that covered the walls from floor to ceiling, striking up conversations about the canvases and prints, drawings and sculptures that filled the rooms. Watching their expressions as they gazed at the art was equally as entertaining as the art itself.

His lips tugged into a faint smile. Eve would have loved this preview, he was certain, both for the art and its excitement. In the sennight since they’d been working together, she’d shown a keen appreciation of art.

He wished she could have been here. Not only would her wry humor and energy have been welcomed relief from the monotonies of society pleasantries, but she could also have seen what a finished painting looked like on display. A view from the other side of the canvas. And with the regal way she carried herself, she would have been simply magnificent, stealing attention away from the paintings.

No. The problem washim.

He wasn’t here tonight as Domenico Vincenzo, although his paintings hung on the walls in the international gallery. Tonight, he was Dominick James Mercer, Marquess of Ellsworth, and simple patron of the arts rather than one of Europe’s most lauded artists. He couldn’t let anyone connected to his painter’s life enter his peer’s world. Not even Eve.

Truly, she had the potential to be the best model he’d ever worked with. He must have realized that from the beginning because he didn’t even care that she’d arrived late every afternoon, out of breath and—

Constance.

He halted mid-step as she swept into the gallery. What the hell wasshedoing here?

Led forward on the arm of Lord Arthur Ledford, youngest son of the Duke of Wembley, she caused a stir as soon as she entered. Draped in a low-cut gown of scarlet silk that would have been more at home in an opera box than an art exhibition, she caught everyone’s attention—the men for the raw sexuality that dripped from her, and the woman for stealing away the attention of their men. Everyone wondered who in blazes she was, none of them ever having seen her before.

And for good reason. She certainly wasn’t part of the elite world of thetonand didn’t frequent the same places as the quality. Including tonight’s preview, which was by invitation only. One of the benefits of being the Institution’s most generous patron for this exhibition was that he’d been able to approve the invitation list himself. And Constance had certainlynotbeen on it.

But the Duke of Wembley had. And damn the man for passing his invitation along to his scapegrace of a son.

Yet jealousy was the last thing Dom felt as he watched her move gracefully on Ledford’s arm. Looking at her now, she meant even less to him than he’d realized. But what was she doing here?

When her cat-like green eyes swept over the room and came to rest upon him, not a flicker of shock showed on her face. She smiled slowly and sent a chill twining down his spine as her intentions became crystal clear. Like ice.