Even the most unsophisticated observer could see the emotion in Mallerton’s work. The ability to make people emote is a true artistic gift. Tristan Mallerton was blessed with that ability without a doubt. It was the thing that’d drawn me to his work in particular when I’d begun my studies. Plus the fact my father owned an original Mallerton portrait. Passed down through the years of Hargreave descendants, it was of Sophie Hargreave, my great, great, great, grandmother, and would someday be mine.
I loved the formal pose of her in a gorgeous blue and white gown, her incredibly long mahogany hair artfully arranged to the side, but it was her expression that ruled the portrait. There was an air of amusement to her smile. The elegant Sophie possessed a mischievous twinkle in her pretty eyes, suggesting she wasn’t all seriousness and convention.
And Mallerton’s rare talent of portraying the subjects of his paintings in such a way that had you wondering about who the people were, and their life’s story, just made the portrait all the more interesting. Something for which Mallerton was known. Quite simply, his art left you craving for more. Who were the people in his portraits? Whom did they love? Why was a particular pose or setting chosen for the subject? These very questions, still asked today, were the exact essence of Mallerton’s talent, which had given him such acclaim, both in his lifetime, and now, two hundred four years later.
Two hundred years. Four years. They might as well be the same thing. A lot could change in just four years…
You’ve changed.
I tried not to think about what I’d lost, but my self-imposed loneliness got the better of me sometimes, and I’d be lying if I couldn’t admit I longed for even a portion of the bliss Mrs. Gravelle had in her painting.
The chances of you ever finding someone who will inspire you to look like the bride in that painting is slim to none—
“I found you,” a smooth voice said behind me.
I turned to see who was speaking to me and got an eyeful of beautiful. The man before me was six feet plus of dark, lean and sexy with green eyes the color of my dress. He flashed me a smile that could only be described as wicked.
“Are you sure you were looking for me?” He appeared to have money because I’d bet my extravagant new gown the tux hanging off his fine form was most certainly bespoke. No doubt about it. Was he a patron in need of a gallery tour? A large contributor VIP?
“Oh yes, it’s definitely you,” he purred, “the beauty in the green dress.” He leaned forward. Close but not touching, his face tilted toward my
neck. I backed up. He followed…until I was pressed against the wall. “And they were so right,” he said in his silky voice.
“Right about what?” I asked, mesmerized by his features and his delicious scent, and totally overpowered by how close he was to me. My God, he smelled good. “Um…d-did you want a t-tour?” I stuttered, amazed coherent words were even forming from my lips.
“Mmm hmm,” he said, nodding slowly, drawing his gaze up my neck, “I definitely want your tour.”
Why are you speaking like that to me? I was clearly at a disadvantage in this situation and could definitely feel the weirdness coming at me from all directions.
Who was this Greek god trapping me against the wall, looking like he wanted to devour me? And was it bad that the thought of him actually doing some devouring made a long shiver roll down my back?
Mr. Man-Beauty didn’t appear to be in any hurry, his green eyes tracking over my body, roving over everything they could see.
I swallowed hard.
“Who—who was it that sent you to find me, ah…mister—?”
“—Ivanhoe. The service notified you, right?” He inhaled and moved a fraction closer, just staring with a confident half-smirk on his face. “You’re definitely who I’m supposed to meet tonight. Nine o’clock and wearing a green dress, which by the way is very…very…nice.” The last three words were spoken slowly as his eyes raked up my dress until he landed somewhere around my lips.
“Nine o’clock,” I repeated dumbly, overwhelmed by his maleness and his friggin’ gorgeous…everything, to the point I had apparently lost the ability to carry on a conversation.
Wait. Service?
“So you are Mr. Ivanhoe, and you want me to give you the tour.” I said a tad too sarcastically, wanting to slap myself for the ignorance that kept spouting out of my mouth.
I was in utter and complete bewilderment of what was going on with him though.
I knew for a fact I hadn’t been informed about any VIP named Mr. Ivanhoe needing a contributor’s tour tonight during the gala. But it was clearly what he was expecting, standing boldly, looking like a man who was very sure of what he wanted. I couldn’t just say no and blow him off. It would be incredibly rude and possibly get me into trouble with the university. And that was the thing with VIPs. They tended to be less predictable and often showed up, expecting special treatment. Their deep pockets were what kept the charities going though, and offending a generous donor was a big no-no.
He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes a little, his brow wrinkling for an instant. “Call me that if you wish, I don’t mind, and yes, I want whatever you have arranged for me.” He brushed back his hair with a hand and held it there gripping at the back of his neck, his elbow coming up and framing me in even more. “I’m ready to begin if you are.” He smiled.
Whatever I have arranged? I had nothing planned. I had no idea why any of this conversation between us was even happening. I knew nothing. Well, I knew one thing—I couldn’t take my eyes off his hair.
Mr. Ivanhoe’s hair was dark and straight, worn deliciously long in the European style, hitting just above where his broad shoulders met his neck. I wanted to touch.
He’d been blessed in more ways than just his wallet. An alien perhaps?
“All right,” I said carefully, swallowing hard again, and wondering just how the next thirty minutes were going to go with the each of us staring and speaking in some kind of mysterious code. “Where would you like to start, Mr. Ivanhoe? What are your main interests?”