His mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. "They gave up any thought of approval long ago. They're conservative in their ways, so I suppose we've agreed to disagree."
She knew an uncle's legacy had made him a wealthy man, so he wasn't subject to his family's whims. "You don't see much of your family, then?"
"My brother and I are close. The best of friends, actually, and he has children, should I not remarry."
Without thinking, she said, "The death of your wife must have been a shock."
His gaze narrowed and a chill invaded his eyes. "Would you like condolences on the deaths of your husbands?"
Instantly recalling the scandalous events of his marriage, she apologized. "Forgive me. I spoke out of turn."
"As did I." He'd regained his composure, the sudden coolness gone. "I'm sure the deaths of your husbands were a great sorrow."
"Yes, they were. Both were men of character."
"My wife was handpicked by my parents." He grimaced slightly. "Another reason we don't get along."
"Surely you weren't forced."
"Let's just say I gave in to the ten-thousandth lecture on family duty." His expression went utterly blank for a moment, and then he slowly exhaled, and glancing out the window, noted, "We're almost there."
Chapter Seven
He was tellingly quiet as the carriage came to rest, and when he helped her alight, she could feel his constraint. After speaking briefly to his driver, he returned to her side.
"He'll wait if you don't object to my carriage at your curb."
"No, not at all," she replied, wondering if he'd changed his mind, if her gauche remark concerning his wife had terminated his interest. "The neighbors keep their distance."
He glanced to the left and right, taking in the sizable property surrounding her studio. "Have you been here long?"
"Two years. Would you like to see the studio?" And she waited with a degree of apprehension for his answer.
"Very much, and I apologize for my surliness. I must be tired."
She smiled. "And now I'll be surly about the cause of your tiredness-without reason, of course."
He laughed. "I'm constantly amazed by my reaction to you."
"While I want you and don't want you in equal measure."
"Our principles will be tested, then. I dislike intense emotion of any kind."
"In amour, you mean."
While he hesitated over how to answer so pointed a question, she took his hand and drew him toward the ornate gate.
"You needn't reply, Ranelagh." His silence had been answer enough, but she wasn't a moonstruck young maid with unrealistic expectations.
"I find myself apologizing again." He'd found it uncomfortable to lie when normally dissimilation in these matters was second nature.
"No need. I prefer honesty to glib phrases. And who knows, we may find we don't suit at all."
Reaching out, he unlatched the gate and pushed it open. "Not likely." He leaned forward to kiss her gently.
She'd not expected such tenderness, nor had she expected the rush of heat that delicate kiss could generate. It was no more than a butterfly kiss, courteous and restrained, one a brother might bestow on a sister, or a cousin on a cousin, but the aftermath shimmered through her body with a flooding warmth, and she wondered how she would respond to his love-making when so simple a gesture shook her.
"How do you do it, Ranelagh?"
"I was about to ask the same of you." Kisses were generally too tame to bring him to instant rut.
She glanced down at his blatant erection stretching his trousers. "We seem to be in accord."
"Not completely…" His smile was impudent.
"We should go inside."
"It might be wise." His hand tightened on hers.
She smiled. "You wouldn't be so brash."
His brows rose. "Normally, no, but then, you tantalize me in the most exceptional way. And you did say the neighbors keep away."
"If I'm dealing with such impetuosity," she said, smiling, drawing her hand from his, "I'll hurry us inside." And putting actions to words, she quickly moved down the flagstone walk to the door.
The building was new, as were most structures in the exclusive Holland Park area. [4] Imaginative new architects were building significant examples of domestic architecture around the original Jacobean mansion at the center of the property. Philip Webb, George Aitchison, William Burges, Richard Norman Shaw, and J. J. Stevenson were all doing their part to contribute to the stature and prominence of the colony of eminent artists and middle-class industrialists, merchants, and bankers who were profiting by the rapidly expanding economy.
Alex's studio was of red brick, and like so many of the new structures had wide and comfortable windows, high-pitched roofs of tile, a gabled facade, and ivy-covered walls that gave it the homey, lived-in look of a country parsonage. And as if a further decorative touch were in order, someone had left a large bouquet of larkspur on the front step.
Harry had been by, Alex realized. He picked bouquets for her from the public parks despite her remonstrances.
"You have an admirer."
"Like you, Ranelagh, more than one," she said, picking up the bouquet.
"Aren't you going to look at the card?"
Cradling the flowers in her arm, she opened the cobalt-blue door. "I doubt it's anyone you know." And Harry's love notes were always lengthy. "Please, come in." Stepping over the threshold, she suddenly stopped. Harry was coming toward her down the hallway.
"Do you like my flowers?" he called out.
"Your admirer has made himself at home, it seems."
Taking note of Ranelagh, Harry's tone turned petulant. "I thought you were going to the races."
"He keeps close watch on you," the viscount drawled.
"And why shouldn't I?" Harry replied heatedly, bristling like a puppy as he stopped before them. "I know her and you don't."
With an insolent gaze Sam surveyed the young man. "If you'd leave, we could become better acquainted."
"Alex, don't!"
"Harry, for heaven's sake. What do you think you're doing?"
"Why don't you get the hell out," Sam said.
"I beg your pardon." Alex shot a scathing look at Ranelagh.
"Do you want him to stay?" A sudden coolness had entered Sam's tone.
"Whether I do or not is my decision, not yours, my lord."
"Well, make up your mind."
Who did he think he was to give ultimatums. "Thank you for the ride home," she said crisply. "I wish you good day."
Sam offered her a stiff bow. "Your servant, ma'am." He turned and walked away.
"How could you, Alex," Harry decried. "Ranelagh is the most libertine man in all of London."
"When I wish your advice, Harry, I'll be sure to ask for it." Her voice was sharp. "And I'll thank you to stay out of my home unless invited. I don't appreciate you interfering in my life."
"He's not good for you, Alex."
"I think I'm old enough to make my own decisions, Harry. Now, if you'd kindly leave."
"I'm sorry, truly I am. Please, don't be angry with me. I'm so very sorry. Let me put those flowers in water for you." He plucked the bouquet from her arms and rushed down the hall before she could take issue. "I just wanted to make sure you liked the flowers____________________"
She watched him disappear into her kitchen and sighed softly. So much for her first foray into the world of impulsive behavior. Ranelagh, apparently, required a tractable female. A shame, she reflected with a modicum of regret. He was devilishly attractive. She uttered another small sigh-of resignation; now she had to find a way to politely send Harry on his way.
It took considerable courtesy, because Harry was so intent on pleasing her, she didn't want to hurt his feelings-a long-standing problem in their friendship, or whatever term best described the nature of their involvement. She agreed, finally, to walk him back to his studio, recognizing she could better oust him without bruising his feelings if she spent some time with him.
[4] During the second half of the nineteenth century, the most desirable locations in London for artists' colonies were St. John's Wood, Hampstead, Chelsea, and Kensington; the most prestigious address was Holland Park, home to the celebrated artists George Frederic Watts and Frederic Leighton, and to lesser lights such as Marcus Stone, Colin Hunter, Hamo Thorny croft, and Luke Fildes. The royal family were patrons of these artists, as were some members of the aristocracy, but their main supporters were the newly rich middle classes. Large fortunes were being made in Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, and London, and these industrialists wanted the "genuine article and fresh paint" rather than a spurious "Old Master." And they were willing to pay well for what they wanted.
During a period when the average annual income was about one hundred pounds, many artists were earning in excess of five thousand pounds (roughly half a million pounds today). In the year Leighton commissioned his house in Holland Park, his receipts from sales of paintings and investments exceeded twenty-one thousand pounds. Leighton was the model for Disraeli's Mr. Phoebus in
The houses commissioned by the artists in Holland Park now sell for several million pounds-a one-bedroom apartment carved out of Marcus Stone's large studio house sold in 1999 for over one million pounds.
The mid-quarter of the nineteenth century was the zenith of the artists and millionaire-princes in their palaces of art. The collapse in the value of Victorian art was well under way before the end of the century and the individual wealth and social status achieved by the artist in the Holland Park Circle was sustained only during their lifetimes. Only recently are Watts, Leighton, and Albert Moore regaining some of their former status.