They were true, after all. And hadn’t he just said that he always told the truth? Well, so could she.

And the truth was, she felt alive when she was with him—exuberant in a way no other man of the ton had made her feel. Not self-conscious, not hunted for her dowry, not seen as the daughter of a peer—just Beatrice, lover of art and slightly awful dancer.

She pressed her lips together in a shy smile before brushing past him and up the stairs leading to the rooms above. Her half boots clicked hollowly against the aged wood steps, and the air smelled of disuse. She paused at the small landing and waited for the others to catch up. Rose was right behind her, her dark eyes wide with worry. “I don’t know as we should be here, my lady.”

“Nonsense, Rose. Would you rather be in the rain?”

“No, my lady, but—”

“And it’s not as though visiting an artist’s studio is inappropriate. I’ve visited Monsieur Allard perhaps a dozen times.”

Her maid bit her lip uneasily, but nodded. “I suppose so. Still—”

“There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”

“Is everything all right?” Colin asked as he mounted the last step.

Beatrice smiled, determined not to let anything get in the way of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. “Right as rain.” She ignored Rose’s frown—she’d be happy once she had a quiet place to sit and her book in her hands. The maid’s love of reading made for easy bribing, and Beatrice had presented her with a brand-new copy of Rob Roy this morning.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and reached for the tarnished brass knob before them. The door swung open on rusty hinges, and as the room was revealed to her, Beatrice gasped, her hand going to her heart.

“Oh, my, it’s gorgeous.” She turned to face him, shaking her head in wonder. “I can’t believe this was only minutes from my home all this time!”

He smiled and spread his arm out, inviting her to go inside. She stepped through the threshold, hardly able to take it all in. The faint smell of mineral spirits clung to the space like a memory, despite the dankness.

Behind her, Colin directed Rose to a small parlor off the main room, where a single sofa was stationed in front of the back windows, facing out on the alley behind them.

Beatrice hardly paid them more than a passing glance. Her gaze—her whole heart, really—was riveted on the wide-open studio that encompassed the entire front half of the floor. The centerpiece of the room was a huge, arching Venetian window that took up nearly half the front wall. It had seemed unimpressive from the street, but from where Beatrice stood, it was spectacular. The bottom of the window rested mere inches from the broad-planked floor, and it spanned in a great arc from one side of the room to the other, almost touching the ceiling at its center.

With the miserable day outside, the space was still nicely lit, but she could just imagine the place flooded with light on a sunny day. Several easels stood empty around the room, their spindly legs coated in a rainbow of paint drippings. Various brushes, scrapers, palettes, and rags were stored on racks and tables throughout the space. Mixing cups sat by a paint-splattered sink, and a utilitarian pitcher showed the frequent touches of a paint-covered hand.

Something magical shimmied through her, raising gooseflesh on her arms. These were the tools of Sir Frederick’s masterpieces. Which works had rested in this very room, painted by these brushes, supported by these easels, and lit by these windows? She walked through the space, reverently, imagining half-finished canvases lining the plaster walls.

She turned to Colin, who leaned against the doorway watching her, his dark greatcoat still pulled tight around him to ward off the chill of the unheated room. “What happened to the unfinished portraits?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, then pushed away from the wall to join her in the center of the mostly empty space. “We dinna find any.”

She blinked. “None?”

Shaking his head, he said, “Not a one. My sister was certain he was working on something in his studio in Scotland, but there was nothing there, either.”

“How odd,” she murmured, glancing around once more. She had half a dozen unfinished paintings in her own studio at any one time. She rarely concentrated solely on one until it was finished, instead preferring to work on the piece that most moved her. And then there were the ones that just didn’t feel right, which she set aside indefinitely.

Sadness crept into her euphoria. The world would never again have a Tate masterpiece. She had just assumed there would be some unseen pieces somewhere, languishing in various stages of completion.

“My father was odd.” The words weren’t spoken with animosity, but quiet truth.

“Was he? Not terribly surprising, I suppose. Genius often is.” If she had to choose between being average and normal or being brilliant and odd, she’d go with brilliant any day of the week. “I wish I could have seen him at work. Actually,” she said, trailing a finger down the side of one of the easels, “Father had written to him to engage his services more than a year ago, but Sir Frederick declared that he was much too busy and that it might be years before he would be available to us.”

“Really?” His eyebrows rose in surprise. He pressed his lips together, not quite in displeasure, but something close. She looked away, realizing that such a mention might be painful for him. Who could have known his father’s life was measured in months at the time, not years? “Well, I wish I could see you work.”

Her gaze snapped back to his. His voice was low and sweet, his eyes unclouded. Thank goodness—she hadn’t ruined the mood after all. “You’re teasing me,” she half asked, half accused.

“Never.” He broke out in a half smile and gave a small shrug. “All right, sometimes, but certainly not now. Anyone who displays such passion when speaking of art must be equally as passionate in the execution.”

“Oh, I am. But I assure you, it’s not pretty. I don’t remember to smile, or have proper posture, or even to have my mouth closed.” She cringed a bit—that did not come out the way she’d intended. He was probably picturing her as some sort of trained sloth with a paintbrush.

“And how do you know that’s not pretty? I think many men would appreciate a woman at her most natural. Certainly any Scot would,” he said with a devilish wink.

“You say that, but when it comes down to it, I’m not so sure. Why else would only the prettiest of countenance and manners be called Incomparables and diamonds of the first water? Those with large dowries are also sought, but it is the ones possessing beauty and comportment that gentlemen really want.”

“Such an expert on the wants of men, especially for one still in her debut year.” He walked toward her, tilting his head as he sized her up. He’d taken off his hat, and his damp hair rebelled against his normally neat style. It swept across his forehead like a raven’s wing, stark against his pale skin. She loved the contrast, loved the way it made his eyes seem almost pewter while the pale pink of his lips stood out.

She swallowed as he stepped closer and closer, stalking her just as he had the night they’d met in his aunt’s gallery. “I’m very perceptive. And one needn’t be out long to see how things are in our set.”

“Well, I think we need to put your perceptiveness to the test,” he said, giving her a subtle wink as he brushed by her close enough for her to catch a hint of his clean, masculine scent. She turned like a sunflower tracking the sun, suddenly a little light-headed.

“You do?”

He grabbed one of the blank canvases stacked against the wall and lifted it to his chest. “I do.” He returned to where she stood and set the canvas on the easel closest to the window. “Now, would you be wanting to paint with my father’s brushes or your own?”

Sir Frederick’s brushes? A thrill raced from her heart straight to her toes and back. “Oh my goodness. I couldn’t possibly.” But even as she said it, her fingers curled at her sides, anxious to hold them in her hand.

“Of course you can. What good are they doing, cluttering up the place? Might as well give them a go before the lease runs out and we sell the lot of them.”

She gasped. “You can’t just sell his brushes! They were likely as much a part of him as his own hands.”

“Then give them life again.” He said it so simply, as if it were no more an issue than choosing what gloves to wear or what to have for breakfast.

It was entirely too much temptation for her to resist, especially when he was so matter-of-fact about them. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“Utterly.”

A shiver of excitement raced down her spine, and she couldn’t help the huge smile that came to her lips. “All right then. What shall I paint?”

“Whatever you want. Since you doona like straight lines, I’m not sure what might inspire you. Shall I put together a still life?”

A bit of the giddiness spilled over, obscuring her need for propriety. “Yes,” she said, crossing her arms as she eyed him. “You. Now stand still.”

He laughed. “You canna be serious. Why don’t you choose something interesting?”

She pursed her lips as she inspected him—in the name of art, of course. His angular cheekbones, the authoritative brow, those expressive lips—all of it begged to be captured on canvas. Actually, it begged to be captured in sculpture, but that was entirely beyond her skills.

“I am serious. Your features are strong and unusual. I think they would be a challenge to get just right on canvas.” The night of their first meeting came to mind, making her smile. “Though I don’t believe I’d be the first to try. That was you in the painting in your aunt’s gallery, wasn’t it? The young boy with the defiant eyes?”