Darker Than Love by Kristina Lloyd Read Free Book Online Page A

out of bed,’ continued Kitty, noting Clarissa’s expression, ‘then I’ll give her a mighty kick on the ankles.’
    ‘Thank you, Kitty,’ she said. ‘That would be much appreciated.’
    Gabriel Ardenzi could never decide if taking a house in the suburbs of Chelsea had been a superb idea or aterrible one. Away from the city smog, the air was good and clear. But on days like today the sunlight glancing off that damned river was infuriatingly harsh. He’d spent far too long this morning fiddling with oiled paper, stretching it across the windows in a bid to diffuse the glare.
    He should have chosen the north-facing room instead. But no, he reminded himself, it was too small for a studio; it would have felt like a prison cell. At least here he could rack his unfinished canvasses against the walls and remind himself of things he’d rather be painting.
    He stepped back from his easel and looked dully at the incomplete portrait. A society miss gazed back at him with bland eyes and a vapid smile. A good enough likeness, he thought bitterly. He tossed his brush on to a table cluttered with mixing bowls, phials and bundles of charcoal, and, yawning widely, wiped his hands on a rag. Christ, he’d been at work less than two hours and already he was bored. Commissioned portraits were the bane of his life and summer invariably brought a glut of them.
    He wandered about the room in a desultory fashion before throwing himself full-length on to a damask chaise longue. He raised his unseeing eyes to the ceiling and sighed heavily. What he needed was a wealthy patron, some old duke with money to burn and an interest in decent art. And that, he decided, was as likely as England’s dear Queen casting off her widow’s weeds and dancing down the Mall.
    Hell, he would have to start working harder. He’d already lost two lucrative commissions this summer. Some accused him of idleness, but it wasn’t that. Or if it was, he mused, it was brought about by his talent and imagination, two things utterly wasted on the commercial market. He tugged at the string which kept his chestnut locks from falling about his shoulders and shook free the loose curls.
    Pushing himself up from the chaise, he crossed towhere the oiled paper closed him off from the outside world. Impatiently he tore down several sheets, squinting as brilliant sunlight flooded the room behind him.
    He opened the tall casement window and stepped out on to the wrought-iron balcony. For a moment the blare of a ship’s horn cut through the clangs and shouts from the wharf. Gabriel leant his bare forearms on the warm metal railings and noticed, with a nagging sense of guilt, his exposed skin. He was bronzed, a sure sign he was spending too few hours at his easel and too many here, gazing idly at the bustle of the Embankment.
    No, he decided, it wasn’t a patron he needed, but someone truly inspirational to paint, someone like the new girl on Cheyne Walk. Yes, that would bring the passion back to his art. If ever there was an Attic beauty, then it was her. She was fit to adorn a Grecian coin. Oh, how his fancy would roam with a woman such as her sitting for him. All the other stuff, the oils and watercolours that kept the roof over his head, would be a breeze. Fuelled by the love of just one painting, he could be ruthlessly industrious with the others. He would rise early, work until twilight rendered it impossible, and –
    There she was again, hair black and glossy as a pool of Indian ink. Damn it, who was she? Turn this way, willed Gabriel. Look at me. But she didn’t. She glided down the steps to an awaiting brougham, its door held open by a footman in silver-blue livery. Then, with the merest lift of her skirts and a dip of her head, she stepped into the carriage and out of view.
    Gabriel sighed. He ought to make some discreet enquiries and find out who she was. Perhaps she could be persuaded to sit for him. He would paint her as – what? Helen of Troy? Or Cleopatra – on a