Page 61 of What a Lord Wants

“They’re going to unveil the contest entries in a few minutes.” He nodded toward the south wall of the main gallery, whose paintings were all carefully hidden behind several sheets strung from the picture rails near the plasterwork ceiling. “Then all the artists who’ve entered can see the competition for themselves and make their final touches before the preview ends.”

“And everyone watches?”

“Just like the opera,” he drawled as he led her toward a spot with the best view for the unveiling. “Only with more drama.”

She glanced over her shoulder, making eye contact with Mariah, who frowned with concern. Eve wished she could have blamed her sister’s worry on beingenceinte, but Mariah had always been protective of her. “I really should get back to the others.”

“Stay.” He covered her hand with his and lightly squeezed her fingers. “It’s your first unveiling. Let me share it with you.”

When she tentatively nodded her consent, he turned his attention to the activity at the end of the wall, where the president of the Royal Academy stood ready to address the crowd and then pull the gold cord that would release the sheets. The artists clustered anxiously, ready with their stools, brushes, and supplies.

From the corner of her eye, she stared at Dom’s profile as he watched silently. She’d never been more aware of the duality of his identity than at that moment. The marquess took it all in with an expression of aristocratic dispassion, but the painter inside him longed to be in the midst of the activity.

No—more than that. What she saw in him were the same flickers of jealousy she’d witnessed when he’d found her talking with Christopher Carlisle.

A sickening jolt shot through her. She knew now why he was so upset over what she’d done by hiding her identity. God help her, sheknew…“You were going to enter our painting into this contest, weren’t you? You were going to enter a masterpiece by Vincenzo.”

“No.” He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead on the veiled wall as he admitted, “I was going to enter a masterpiece by Dominick James Mercer.”

Her fingers tightened on his arm as the realization of what she’d truly cost him slammed into her. More than the weeks spent working on the painting, more than having to start his masterpiece over with another model…She had cost him his chance at being an artist under his own name. One so brilliant that the English art world couldn’t dismiss him as a mere hobbyist or bored lord, that English society couldn’t laugh at him for attempting to be a serious painter.

The guilt of what she’d done was unbearable. “I had no idea that you…”

He glanced down at her. The haunted expression in his eyes ripped her breath away. “It’s all right.”

No, it was the furthest thing from that! “Dom, I am so—”

The president yanked the gold cord, and the sheets dropped to the floor. Around them, a cheer went up from the crowd, yet Eve was aware of nothing but Dom and the pain she’d caused him, the grief, the loss…

Then she felt the excitement of the room change, fading into puzzled confusion as the crowd of onlookers grew quiet. No one moved, not even the artists, and the cheers lowered into muffled whispers of bewildered surprise.

As the uneasiness grew around her, Eve tore her attention away from Dom to see what was the matter. She looked up at the wall of paintings.

And right into her own eyes.

Chapter 16

Dom’s heart stopped. The painting.

Christ—thepainting!

Eve stood beside him, frozen, as her own reflection gazed back at her, as every pair of eyes in the room glanced between her and the wall. Whispers grew louder, followed by the shifting of the crowd as everyone strained to get a better look at the painting and prove to themselves that they weren’t imagining what they were seeing…her nude body reclining across the canvas.

He leaned toward her with a loud chuckle. “Laugh,” he ordered beneath his breath. Then he gestured at the painting, as if he needed to point out to her the uncanny likeness. Aware of the eyes upon her, he lowered his mouth to her ear and forced out despite his smile, “Laugh, damn it! Laugh your head off.”

She did as ordered. At first only a stiff, bewildered, and weak chortle, but that was all right, because it let everyone know that she was just as stunned as they were. Then stronger and more carefree, despite the mortification glistening in her eyes. A true Covent Garden actress would have been less believable.

Her hand went to her mouth as the laughter came so freely now that he worried she’d fall into hysteria. Although he wouldn’t have blamed her if she did.

“Heavens—it’s uncanny!” he said loudly enough that everyone within fifty feet could overhear.

“Yes,” she choked out, tamping down her laughs but keeping a brave smile plastered on her face, as if greatly amused to think that someone had painted a nude model who looked like her. She kept her gaze moving between him and the painting, not daring to glance back at her family.Thank God.He feared she would have broken down right there, and they’d have no chance of pulling off this pretense. “Uncanny.”

“Actually,” he mused loudly so he would be overheard in the back of the gallery as he leaned forward and narrowed his gaze on the painting, the same way all the art critics had been doing for the past hour, “I’ve changed my mind.” He glanced over his shoulder at her, then back to the painting. “On closer inspection, it doesn’t look like you at all.”

“Oh?” Her smile never wavered. “We seem to have the same eyes.”

“Not at all. And your hair is a completely different shade.” He stepped back, still judging the painting, still acutely aware of being watched and the ever-rising whispers at Eve’s expense. “The line of the jaw is different, you’re not as tall, your shoulders are much more slender—this model’s bone structure isn’t nearly as fine as yours. Or her complexion.” Then he took her hand and raised it to his lips, a coup de grâce to their little performance. “Whoever she is, she isn’t nearly as beautiful as you.”