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“How curious! I thought that you said that the other scene did not have enough foreground. It is so interesting to have such insight into the mind of an artist. It was always my understanding that the foreground of a picture is of considerable importance.”

“Foregrounds are a great deal too much work. Besides, I have sand in my boots.”

“Ah. I see.” He handed her the saddle bag that contained the painting supplies and set about making himself comfortable on the sun-warmed dune. “And what shall you sketch?”

She barely bothered to glance up. “A view of the water.”

“Really? So far in the distance?”

“Yes. Because of… perspective.”

“Perspective.” He dusted off his hands. “Ah! There, you see? How delightful it is to learn about art from you.”

She selected a piece of paper. He handed her the flask of fresh water that he’d brought. She poured a little of it into an indentation in the enameled metal tray that held the pigments. Then she jammed the largest of the brushes into the water, mashed the wet brush onto a lozenge of pigment, committed a single streak of garish blue to the paper, and sat staring at it.

“Lovely,” he said, in his most encouraging tone.

After a lengthy period of contemplation, she added a strip of muddy brown beneath the strip of blue.

He gave a theatrical sigh of contentment. “What a pleasure it is to watch you work! While you are absorbed in creating your picture, you yourself are more lovely than anything that you could paint.”

“How chivalrous you are,” she said, through gritted teeth.

He gestured toward the distant water. “But if I may make the tiniest suggestion? Perhaps you might add some of these charming boats.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why, certainly, your grace. Whatever you say.”

She added some darker blobs to the water. Were they boats? Were they waves? There was no way to know. He was distracted by the way that Pomona was biting her lip with concentration… or vexation. Because suddenly, he couldn’t seem to keep from thinking about how her lips felt… how plump and soft they were, and the sigh she’d made when he’d nibbled her mouth, that snowy afternoon after their wedding…

“And… should not the color of the water be more, er, turquoise?”

“Turquoise. Indeed.” She shot him another of those looks from beneath the brim of her shako cap. Her eyes were full of heat—not a mild, English heat, but something more dangerous. An Italian heat. “Perhaps you would prefer to do the painting yourself, your grace.” She was smiling sweetly.

“Oh no! I leave that to you, your grace. You are the artist, after all! I am merely observing that the sea here has a certain translucent green tint to it that you have not quite captured.”

“Indeed?” The smile remained, but the eyes took on an expression that suddenly put him in mind of the eyes of a tiger. Or a lioness.

She dabbed her wet brush onto a rectangle of green pigment and swept it over the garish blue area on the paper. Now it looked like a swamp. A swamp on a gloomy day. The blob-like boats took on a sinister aspect, like half-submerged crocodiles waiting for prey.

She tilted her head to one side and studied it. “Yes! That is it precisely. I am most pleased. I believe that I shall have this framed.”

What? She couldn’t possibly be serious. He’d seen bad watercolors before—ill-proportioned portraits, blurry bouquets, lopsided pet cats…. The morning rooms of England were filled with them. But this? This was nothing short of an abomination. Even the colors were nauseating. He coughed. “What a charming notion! It will bring to mind our, er… delightful honeymoon every time I see it.”

Her eyes narrowed again as she considered this remark. “Well! In that case, I must paint more pictures of Venice for you. As you see, I have the happy gift of painting very quickly, so I will be able to make many of them. When we return, I shall select a dozen or two and have them framed and hung in your study, so that you may always be reminded of how fortunate we are to be married.”

He blinked. He’d underestimated her. Oh, how he’d underestimated her. It was difficult to believe that those clear eyes concealed a mind so given to devious plots. Particularly when she looked so kissable in her tiny riding cap and blue redingote, with that loose ringlet of hair and the dimple on one side of her delectable mouth…

“Dear me!” She smiled brightly. “Are you quite well, your grace? Have you had too much sun?”

He could bear it no longer. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Chapter Nine

Her body responded before her mind did. She found herself kissing him back. And then it seemed too late to object… or, if she were honest, she… didn’t want to.

His arms went around her. She fell backward into the soft, warm sand, pulling him with her. She’d made resolutions, yes… but she’d been trying not to think about this very thing since yesterday morning, and… The sensations that had overtaken her the first time they’d made love were crowding out all thoughts. There was nothing but his heated lips, his weight upon her and the sound of the waves and the cries of the seabirds. He smelled of shaving soap and happiness.

His hand was warm on her ankle, just above the top of her light boot, and a moment later his fingers slid up her bare leg beneath her petticoat. Oh, yes. Her heart was pounding. They were out of doors, and she ought not to…