Chapter 2

Vanessa was determined that she wasn't going to reveal any more about her childhood than she already had. She'd left the part about her father's particular relationship with brandy and the suffering she'd seen on a daily basis unsaid. The mood swings, anger at the world—nothing eased the loss of Vanessa's mother. He'd finally died three years ago, and she knew it was a relief for him when he'd breathed his last. She hadn't been there when he'd died, but the circumstances in which he'd passed had been horrible enough. It had been quite painful to live through once. She didn't care to think about it again.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She blinked, returning her focus to the conversation at hand. She was sorry that the viscount seemed so charming and sympathetic. Perhaps if life had been different, she might have encouraged his suit, but those days were gone. "Thank you." She wiped her mouth with her serviette and decided it was time to depart.

She reached into her reticule to retrieve the requisite coin for her repast, but the viscount interceded. "Allow me." He tossed down a few coins. "It's the least I can do for your kind consideration in meeting me."

"Again, thank you," she murmured. She got to her feet. "Although I'm not sure how much help I was."

He stood as well. "Quite a lot, actually. You are still my muse."

Vanessa allowed herself a brief moment to enjoy his smile and the light in his amber eyes before she turned and walked away. She did not look back.

Rather than returning to the boarding house immediately, she managed to hail down a passing hackney to take her to the residence of Eloise Fontaine, Countess Beauvais. It was the second appointment she'd made that day, at the lady's behest.

Although the countess was a frequent visitor to the Seaside Society and the financial patroness, she preferred to stay on her estate at the edge of town. It was a three-story limestone structure that looked like any other stately English home, but the outward exterior was where the resemblance ended. Inside, the countess had brought the flavor of France with her, and it was shown in the Rococo style of delicate curves that favored the shells of the sea, along with furnishings of rich mahogany with gold leaf gilding and embellishments that heralded back to ancient Egypt and Greece.

Vanessa had always admired her house as the museum showcase it was, but she supposed the lady wanted to prove that she was still worthy of respect and pride after being cast out of France by her husband's heir after the Comte's death.

A mature widow, the countess was still particularly lovely with her dark hair and eyes and her smooth accent. It was likely the reason the Prince Regent had found her particularly fetching. It was rumored that she was a particular favorite in the English court, although she never confirmed nor denied her personal life, not even with Miss Grantham or Miss Stratford, who were two of her closest confidantes.

"My dear, Miss Carter."

Vanessa had been waiting in the parlor until that point. She rose when Lady Beauvais entered the room in all her essence. From the deep purple gown threaded with gold to the amethyst jewels at her throat and ears, she shone with all the glory of the sun. Vanessa had always preferred more muted tones, like pastels, but she had to admit the bold colors suited the French widow to perfection. "Good day, Lady Beauvais."

"I daresay I have always appreciated your dedication to promptness." The countess smiled and waved a hand for Vanessa to resume her seat. She took the one across from her. "Shall I ring for tea?"

"It's not necessary. I just had a meeting with a fellow artist, and I am perfectly satisfied."

The lady's brows rose curiously. "Did you? Pray what is the gentleman's name? Perhaps I've heard of him."

"I did not get the impression he is well-known, but more he prefers to paint for his own amusement. His name is Easton Alden, Viscount Fane."

"Ah, yes. The Earl of Stanton's relation from Ireland." Lady Beauvais nodded. "I recall hearing about him, but I haven't yet had the pleasure of an introduction. Is his work any good?"

"I can't say," Vanessa murmured noncommittally. "He wished to meet with me because he claimed to have lost his inspiration."

"Did he recover it after meeting you?"

You, Miss Carter, are my new muse, and I wish to paint your portrait.

Vanessa cleared her throat. "I think I offered some insight, yes."

"Wonderful." The lady clapped her hands together. "I would like nothing more than to see what he has to offer when he has something completed. That does bring me to the reason I summoned you here today."

Vanessa waited patiently.

"I would like to open an art gallery in the midst of the main street of Burnham-On-Sea, and I want to showcase some of your pieces."

To say that Vanessa was surprised was an understatement. She knew the lady liked her paintings, but not to the extreme that she wished to put them on public display.

"I know you aren't much for mingling in society, and I wouldn't ask you to do so, except for the opening. I have long thought you have superior talent that should be shown off. This would be the perfect way to accomplish that, as well as continue to assist you in becoming an independent lady of means." She held up a hand. "I would suggest speaking to Lord Fane to see if he could be persuaded to join in as well. Since you have already made his acquaintance, would you mind asking him on my behalf?"

The lady was speaking so quickly that it was difficult for Vanessa to keep up with the conversation. However, when she suggested meeting with Lord Fane again, Vanessa's heart jumped in her chest. "I'm not sure I'm close enough with the viscount to suggest—"

Again, the countess waved a dismissive hand. "I'm sure he would be delighted! Especially if the invitation was to come from you. I have no doubt you made a lovely impression already."

Vanessa smiled, but inside, her stomach was tied into knots at the prospect of speaking to the viscount again.

* * *

"Hello, Clavely."

The butler at the townhouse bowed to Easton. The servants were paid by Easton's cousin, Fraser, who had taken it upon himself to marry and leave England to sail around the world with his new bride in tow. Fraser had offered to let Easton live in the house for the rest of the summer. Easton had been on the brink of declining the generous offer, but then Fraser had insisted, saying that he owed Easton for his recent assistance on a matter pertaining to an illicit gaming hell called Mike's that had been moving about town. The proprietress turned out to be Lady Ashefeld, a widow he'd considered courting until that unfortunate happenstance. He hadn't been infatuated with her. He'd just been that desperate to recover his lost muse. Little did he know that it was Miss Carter who would make all the difference.

Since Fraser was gone, Easton had decided to use the private master sitting room as his personal art studio. There was an easel with a blank canvas and paints, brushes, and other utensils he needed to design his next masterpiece.

He walked over, sat down on the stool situated before the canvas, and closed his eyes. He tried to picture Miss Carter's face from earlier in the day, but it was as if she was concealed behind a thick layer of fog. His mind picked out certain characteristics, but when it came to the true depth of her eyes and the shadows surrounding her chin and cheekbones, he couldn't immediately place them.

He ground his jaw together and told himself to focus. But again, the image distorted and cracked as effortlessly as if he'd stepped in the middle of a mirror.

He opened his eyes and scrubbed a hand down his face. At this point, he was starting to wonder if he shouldn't just hang up his brushes and sell off all his supplies. He'd found the proper spark of interest for a second that day, but now he was back to looking at an empty slate. His mind was empty of thought or new discovery. It was as if he'd never painted a stroke in his entire life, as if he'd suddenly lost the ability to create something beautiful.

It was fortunate that he didn't need the funds his paintings would provide because he would have been lost to poverty long ago. He had enough money in his coffers to keep him situated comfortably for some time, but it was the obsession that took hold of him—demanding he pick up a brush—that was going to be the death of him. If he couldn't paint, he found his reasons for remaining on this earth lessening by degrees. He would never do anything foolish to himself to quicken the process, but neither did he have a family, other than his sister, to pass on the legacy. He had no wife, nor children, because painting was his entire life. Then again, he was four and thirty years old. He knew it was time he started focusing on finding someone to carry on the family line, but he was consumed with the loss of his passion.

He got up and paced to the window that overlooked the sea. The tide was coming in and the waves were crashing upon the shore with a violence that was almost beautiful. He had long hoped that a change of scenery—different from the one he saw every day—would have cured his current malaise, but thus far, nothing had worked. He feared he was destined to face failure from this day onward.

There was always the hope that Miss Carter might change her mind, but she had made her thoughts very clear in that regard. As much as he might beg and plead with her to sit for just an hour a day while he captured her likeness, he did retain some pride. Not only that, but he'd never force a woman to do something against her will. If she said no, then that was her answer.

He sighed as he looked out over the strand.

Things would surely look up soon. He wasn't sure why his last muse had suddenly decided to leave. It wasn't as if she was real, but a figment of his imagination. Nevertheless, she had stepped in when he'd faltered. It was like a creative fairy that had sprinkled magic dust over his head and reminded him of what he wanted to draw. He'd never told anyone else that, of course, because he would have likely been committed to an asylum for spouting such nonsensical imaginings, but there wasn't any other way that he could explain the sensation that had taken hold of him every time he picked up a brush.

Easton could allow melancholy to strike, but he was determined to revive his inspiration, whether or not he would ever be able to convince Miss Carter to sit for him.

A knock came at the sitting-room door, and he called out to enter.

Clavely stood in the midst of the doorframe. "Lord Fane, there is someone to see you. She said her name is Miss Carter. I have taken the liberty of showing her into the front parlor."

Immediately, Easton's hope returned. Could it be that she had changed her mind already? It hadn't been but a couple of hours since they had parted. Perhaps she'd had some time to ponder his proposal and decided that she would have mercy on him.

His smile widened. "I shall be right down."

* * *

As Vanessa waited for the viscount to appear, she wondered how she'd managed to see the man twice in one day when she had vowed not to do so again, at least not on purpose. However, she owed a lot to the ladies of the Seaside Society, and Lady Beauvais was no exception. She was the one responsible for showcasing Vanessa's work while she preferred to distance herself from others. If it wasn't for the countess's kind consideration, Vanessa would have likely been destitute and cast out of the Society shortly after her arrival, even if Miss Grantham and Miss Stratford made it a point to tell any new arrivals that payment for room and board would not be obtained until they had found a way to gain their foothold in Society.

However, it was Lady Beauvais who was the driving force behind all the sales that Vanessa had gained from her paintings, so when she made a request, she found it difficult to turn down. It wasn't as though the lady knew the reasons behind Vanessa's reluctance to be the center of attention. Until this point, the lady probably believed it was modesty, or perhaps a nervous constitution that kept Vanessa from the public eye.

Vanessa wished that was the reason.

"Miss Carter!" She turned when her name was called so enthusiastically. She spied Lord Fane, and the broad grin he wore made her knees weak. She had always thought that sounded like a ridiculous description, but now she finally understood. "Dare I hope that you have changed your mind about sitting for me? I can grab my things and start this very instant while there is still some daylight remaining. You have made me the happiest of men and I—"

She couldn't allow him to suffer anymore. She held up a hand. "Lord Fane, I think you misunderstand, and I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to continue before I tell you why I'm really here."

He immediately snapped his mouth closed. "Forgive me, Miss Carter, for overstepping. I seem to do that quite a bit in your presence. Please, continue."

She inclined her head. "I am here on behalf of Lady Beauvais. She is hoping to start an art gallery in Burnham-On-Sea and asked if I knew of any artists who might be interested in showing off their work. Since we've recently spoken, I immediately thought of you. She would like to meet with you if you are amenable to putting your work on display."

"Miss Carter," he said evenly. "You honor me with your recommendation, but unless I am able to recover my inspiration, I fear I would have nothing to contribute."

She frowned slightly. "You don't have anything from Ireland that you might be able to retrieve?"

"No." He moved over and sank down onto the settee as if defeated. She told herself not to feel sorry for him, that she didn't hold any loyalty to him, but there was a twinge of empathy in her chest. "I haven't painted in months. My sister was starting to despair, so she convinced me to make the trip here to stay with my cousin, Lord Stanton. She claimed that the sea air is good for any number of ailments. Surely it could cure me." He shrugged. "What she failed to understand is that a lack of inspiration had nothing to do with my surroundings. For years, I never lacked ideas to paint from real life or my imagination. It's recently that I have begun to struggle. At this point, I wonder if I shall ever pick up a brush again."

He gave a long-suffering sigh and then glanced at her. "I don't mean to burden you with my tale of woe. Kindly tell Lady Beauvais that I am humbled by her request and would join if I could but find my way back to the canvas."

Vanessa waged a war with her conscience as she regarded him. He looked so downtrodden and hopeless—unfortunately, she knew what that felt like.

"How about if I help you rediscover the creativity you have lost?"

Immediately, his expression perked up with curiosity. "What do you have in mind?"

"I'm still not entirely comfortable with sitting for a portrait, for reasons of my own that I don't wish to explain, but if you would like to join me when I paint on the strand, I would be glad to explain what I see. Perhaps then you can uncover the beauty of nature that you've been missing all this time."

He blinked. "My God. I have never considered that my affliction might be because I haven't stopped long enough to appreciate my surroundings. I would be grateful to try."

She inclined her head. "Unless it is raining, you can find me directly across from the boarding house around two o'clock. There is a slight alcove along that stretch of sand that I prefer because I can observe from a safe distance. And there are plenty of rocks to sit upon that are the ideal height for my easel."

"It sounds heavenly," he breathed, his expression almost dreamy. "I shall be there."

Vanessa found the urge to laugh. The man truly was dedicated to his craft. "I shall see you then." With everything said, she started to take her leave.

The viscount called out to her just as she was about to cross the threshold into the foyer. "Miss Carter?" She turned and looked at him. He'd risen to his feet and those amber eyes had an intensity to them that flowed over her body like a taste of sweet honey. It was all she could do not to glance away to recover the breath that had been stolen. "Thank you."

Her heart hammered even more when he spoke so softly and sincerely. Rather than replying in kind, she merely nodded and then walked out the door.