Passion Painted in a Lady’s Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

London, England, Spring, 1813.

“Oh, Rosalind, there you are. Why weren’t you at luncheon?” Rosalind Fairchild’s mother, Lillian, Duchess of Lonsdale, asked, peering at her daughter, who hastily hid the book she was carrying behind her back.

“I… well… I wasn’t hungry. I ate so much at luncheon; the turbot was delicious. I just didn’t feel like eating anything else,” Rosalind lied.

She had missed luncheon because she had lost track of time, perusing the shelves in her father’s library, and looking at all the books neither of her parents approved of. The duchess looked at her and raised her eyebrows.

“I had to entertain Lady Tilly alone. She’s hard work, and your father’s no good at making small talk. If you intend to miss dinner, inform me, Rosalind. We live in the same house. It would take only a moment,” the duchess said, and Rosalind nodded.

“I will, mother,” she said, edging along the wall in the hallway beneath a portrait of her father, whom she could not help but feel was really watching her from behind.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” her mother asked.

“Oh… nothing, just… a book. Actually, mother, I feel a slight megrim coming on. I think I’ll go up to my bedroom and lie down. I won’t dine tonight, either. I’ll ask Molly to bring up a tray,” she said, hoping to distract her mother, who sighed.

“Rosalind, you’re becoming something of a recluse. You’ve just had your debut. You’re out in society. Retreating now won’t do you any favors-a young lady not noticed in her first season becomes a wallflower in the second. This is your chance and mine, too. We must seize it,” the duchess said.

Rosalind nodded. She knew her mother had been disappointed by her debut at the Hayton Lodge ball. It had been something of a disaster. She had not wanted to dance with anyone and found herself left on the wall, much to the duchess’ horror. Rosalind had tried her best, but the atmosphere had been stifling with its heightened expectations. She had wanted only to retreat into herself rather than blossom, as was the expectation.

“I know that, mother. It’s only been two weeks. I don’t think any woman receives an offer of marriage after two weeks,” Rosalind said, and her mother tutted.

“The Earl of Brancaster’s daughter was betrothed the day after her debut,” she said, citing a story the ton had marveled over the previous season.

But Rosalind was not the daughter of the Earl of Brancaster, nor did she possess aspirations to marry the first eligible bachelor presented to her. Rosalind was in no hurry to marry, and she was more than happy to pursue her own passions, rather than be caught up in the passions of anyone else.

“Yes, well… I’m sure she was possessed of estimable qualities I find myself lacking in, mother,” Rosalind replied.

Her mother was forever comparing her to the daughters of other aristocrats. She was not as pretty as the daughter of Lord and Lady Sotherby or as vivacious as Charlotte Pilkington, daughter of the Marchioness of Hetton. Her hair was not as long, her eyes not as blue, her French not as pronounced. The list went on. 

“Oh, Rosalind, you’ve got many estimable qualities. It’s just that… well, you don’t always make them clear for others to see,” her mother replied.

Rosalind sighed. She was not the sort of person to push herself forward or make herself the center of attention. If others saw her qualities, so be it, but as for forcing them to the fore…

“I’m going to lie down, Mother. I’ll come down later,” she said.

Her mother nodded.

“And no more painting, Rosalind; don’t waste yourself on painting. It’s a pursuit for the nursery, and a watercolor can be an idle distraction. As for these ideas about displays and exhibitions… it’s not going to get you a husband,” she said.

Rosalind forced a smile, and still with the book behind her back, she edged along the wall to the stairs, making a swift pirouette, and burying the volume in her skirts before hurrying up to the landing. It was not until she was back in her bedroom she breathed a sigh of relief, taking out the book and looking at it with a smile.

“Europe’s Masterpieces,” she read, opening the book to reveal colored prints of the masterpieces of the great European painters. Caravaggio, Raphael, Michelangelo, Giotto, Botticelli.

Rosalind was a painter, not an idle sketcher or watercolor enthusiast, but a real painter, who painted real portraits. Her parents did not approve, actively discouraging her, particularly in light of her subjects. Rosalind painted lovers, despite never having had a lover herself. She was fascinated by the subject of love… of passions entwined, of lips pressed together, of forbidden romances. She painted classical scenes. Myths and legends of the ancient world as a backdrop for the paintings now hidden beneath her bed. Her latest work is a depiction of the love between Ariadne and Dionysus. It was half finished, and taking it out, she gazed down at the depiction of the lovers. The god, Dionysus, presenting the naked Ariadne with the crown he would eventually turn into a star.

“If I can ever get it right,” Rosalind thought to herself.

She had painted over the canvas half a dozen times, and now she hoped the book she had taken from her father’s library would provide the key to finishing the painting. It depicted many of the paintings Rosalind had taken for inspiration, and she hoped to copy some of the techniques, particularly when it came to the figure of Ariadne herself.

“I just find the faces so difficult,” she said to herself, setting the painting on her easel and taking out her paints.

Her bedroom was a hidden studio, where canvases and frames were concealed behind large pieces of furniture, and paints and acrylics hidden in the draws beneath her clothes. When Rosalind had tentatively revealed the beginnings of her passion for painting, her parents had been horrified, telling her it was a pursuit for penniless Italians who painted baroque ceilings for the papists.

“And why must everyone be without their clothes?” her father had demanded, when Rosalind had spoken of her fondness for such scenes.

“It’s artistic, father,” Rosalind had said, but her father had only raised his eyebrows and made a comment about continental excesses.

Her mother had expressed similar sentiments, and Rosalind had been left with little choice but to keep her passion a secret. But the more she painted, the more she was convinced it was her true calling. To see the figures in her mind emerge on the canvas, to bring them to life; it was exhilarating.

“Something more… in the face: the eyes aren’t right,” Rosalind said to herself, peering into Ariadne’s eyes and wondering what the daughter of King Minos must have felt when she and Dionysus were wedded.

She had painted Dionysus pointing into the heavens, where the constellation Corona was emerging in the night sky. This was Ariadne’s crown, and she was pointing upwards, as their lips met in a kiss. Rosalind liked to imagine herself in the paintings, and now she closed her eyes, allowing Dionysus to take her by the hand and bring his lips to hers.

She envisioned him whispering, “I would bring down the stars for you,” while his hands slip around her waist.

Rosalind breathed a deep sigh, arching her back, as she imagined Dionysus tracing a trail of kisses down her neck. She had painted Ariadne in the nude, her breasts pert and pale, a trail of silk covering her lower half. Rosalind imagined the god’s hands caressing her body, taken within the pleasure of his touch. A knock at the door caused her to jump. Opening her eyes, she scrambled to conceal the painting and her paints.

“One moment,” she called out.

“It’s just me, my Lady,” her maid, Molly, called out. Rosalind breathed a sigh of relief, calling out for her to enter, as she rose to her feet, blushing at the thought of what had just gone through her mind.

“Oh, Molly, I thought you were mother,” Rosalind said, for her maid knew all about her passion for painting.

“No, my Lady. Your mother told me you weren’t feeling well. I thought you might like a cup of chamomile tea. Lady Elizabeth’s just arrived, too. She’s speaking to your mother in the drawing room. Will you receive her, or should I tell her you’re not well?” Molly asked.

Molly had been Rosalind’s maid since she was fifteen and deemed old enough to require someone other than a nanny or governess to see to her needs. She was fiercely loyal, and the only other person, apart from Lady Elizabeth, Rosalind trusted to know about her secrets.

“I’m not unwell. I just wanted an excuse to get away from her,” Rosalind said. Her maid smiled.

“It’s very good, my Lady,” she said, glancing at the half-finished painting on the easel.

“I can’t get the eyes right.” Rosalind complained, taking the painting off the easel, and tilting it to one side.

“Shall I tell Lady Elizabeth to come up, my Lady, or will you go down?” Molly asked.

“Ask her to come up. She can advise me on the eyes,” Rosalind replied.

A few moments later, her friend, Lady Elizabeth Thornton, entered the room. She was a pretty creature, dressed in a yellow dress, and wrapped in a shawl. She greeted Rosalind with a smile.

“Your mother tells me you’ve got a terrible megrim. She’s worried you won’t make it to the masquerade ball. I’m to talk some sense into you,” she said, and Rosalind laughed.

Elizabeth, the daughter of the Marquess of Thornton, was always told to talk sense into her. Rosalind’s mother held Elizabeth as a paradigm of everything Rosalind was not. The two of them found amusement in the comparison. They had been the closest of friends since childhood, though Elizabeth was a year older, and they shared all their secrets.

“Oh, that… well, what choice do I have? Even I can’t prolong a megrim for three days,” Rosalind said.

She was not looking forward to the Graystone masquerade, even though Graystone Manor itself was home to an impressive art collection. But the Marchioness of Graystone was a close friend of Rosalind’s mother, and the masquerade ball was to be a highlight of the season. There could be no getting out of it.

“Oh, it’ll be fun, Rosalind. Don’t you think so?” Elizabeth said.

Rosalind raised her eyebrows, though she had to admit it would provide a modicum of entertainment, particularly the prospect of seeing the art her mother had once described as “vulgar.” Rosalind had painted her own mask and Elizabeth’s. Now she took them out of the wardrobe, much to the delight of her friend.

“Do you like them, Elizabeth?” Rosalind asked.

She had taken her inspiration from a book on the Venetian carnival she had found in her father’s library. The prints depicted brightly colored masks in red and gold, and Rosalind had made two matching masks, decorated with peacock feathers, and held up to the face by ornately decorated sticks.

“They’re wonderful, Rosalind; you’re so talented,” Elizabeth exclaimed. She held up the mask Rosalind had made her, disappearing behind the expanse of painted papier-mâché and feathers.

“I hope they’ll be all right. We don’t want to be recognized,” Rosalind said, and Elizabeth looked out from behind her mask and smiled.

“Everyone’s going to be masked; we’ll not know who anyone is. Even your mother’s going to wear one. She told me so, though I don’t know who’s going to make hers,” Elizabeth said.

Rosalind smiled. This was to be her first masquerade ball, and she was looking forward to it, even as she felt somewhat nervous at the thought of once more being left on the wall. Her mother had such high hopes for her, and while she was possessed of an independent spirit, she also knew her parents were impatient for her to make a match.

“Well, she hasn’t asked me to. You know what she thinks of my painting. She’s hardly going to ask me to make her something like this,” Rosalind said, holding up her own mask and laughing.

A long mirror hung on the bedroom wall and the two friends stood next to one another, laughing at the sight of themselves obscured behind the papier-mâché and feathers. Rosalind was pleased with her attempts, even as she feared the masks might be somewhat over the top.

“I think we’ll be the talk of the ton, Rosalind,” Elizabeth said as Rosalind replaced the masks in the wardrobe.

“Or it’s scandal,” Rosalind replied, for she was unsure what others would make of the masks she had made, even as Elizabeth assured her they were perfect.

“I’ll see you at the masquerade. I’m going to the modiste this afternoon. I want my orange dress altered. Why don’t you come with me?” Elizabeth said, but Rosalind shook her head.

She had a megrim, or so she had told her mother, and she knew she would only get into trouble if it was discovered she had slipped out. Besides, she wanted to remain at home to finish Ariadne’s eyes. After having seen her own eyes reflected in the mirror through the slits in the eyes of her mask, she felt she knew better how to finish that most important part of the painting. She would make Ariadne’s eyes her own. That way, she could see what the heroine of her painting was seeing. The loving expression of her lover, Dionysus, who had cast her crown into the heavens to make the constellation Corona.

“I dare not… if we get seen… you go. I’ve got a dress to wear. If there’s one thing I’m not in need of, it’s haberdashery. My mother insisted on planning the entire season. I’ve got a dress for every occasion. I’m wearing peacock blue at the masquerade,” Rosalind said.

Elizabeth smiled.

“All right. You’ll bring the masks, won’t you? I’ll wait for you outside. We can go in together. It’ll be fun. I’ll see you then, and I’ll tell your mother you’re still not well when I go back downstairs. I can see you’re eager to get on with your painting,” Elizabeth said.

She embraced Rosalind, kissing her on the cheek, before taking her leave. Molly, who had been waiting outside, now returned.

“Can I bring you anything, my Lady?” she asked, but Rosalind shook her head.

“No, thank you, Molly. I’m just going to get on with my painting. I think I know how to finish Ariadne’s eyes,” she said. Setting the half-finished painting on the easel, she set about doing so, basing the god’s eyes on her own, and imagining herself staring back into the eyes of her lover, the eyes of the man who loved Ariadne so much, he gave her the stars.

 

Chapter Two

“Well, my Lord, it’s not possible. You can’t believe that. It’s madness,” the man said, peering at Sebastian Sinclair, his head cocked to one side.

“But it’s true, the curse. You know about it. The male line, it catches up with each of us. My grandfather, my father, and now… I know it. Why don’t you believe me? Why don’t you see it? But no, you don’t see it because you’re not real. You’re not really there,” Sebastian exclaimed, staring at the man, who smiled back at him.

Who was he? A stranger dressed in court dress with a ruff at his neck? He looked out of place staring at Sebastian amid the maze of hedges they were standing in. Every turn blocked by a wall of box hedge rising into the blue sky above. It was always the same, the maze, the impossibility of finding his way out, the mysterious companion.

“But you’re not mad,” the man said.

“Then who are you? Tell me your name? Let me understand,” Sebastian implored him, turning to run, and finding himself caught between the ever-growing fences. The sky now blotted out.

“Just follow me, my Lord. You’ll be quite all right. There’s no need to worry about madness,” the man said, but Sebastian had heard enough.

He wanted to get away, and now he threw himself towards the hedge, trying to push his way through. But the hedge was now a wall, redbrick, obscuring everything. With a cry, he tried to climb it, his hands scratching desperately at the grooves, cutting into his fingers. The man was gone; the walls towering above him, and he let out a cry, consumed by his fears.

“My Lord, won’t you wake up? You’re having a terrible dream, it seems,” a voice above him said, and Sebastian opened his eyes with a start.

The wall was gone, replaced by that of the books in his library, and standing over him was the butler, Langton, peering down at him with a worried look on his face.

“Oh… I… what happened? I’ve been asleep. I didn’t mean to go to sleep. What time is it? I came in here after luncheon, and…” Sebastian exclaimed, glancing the half-finished glass of brandy on the table at his side.

He was sitting in an armchair by the hearth, the memory of the dream still lingering. It was a familiar one; always the same. The maze, the hedges turning to walls; the stranger telling him he was not mad, even as he was convinced he was so. It was his greatest fear, and glancing up at the portrait above the hearth, his eyes met those of his grandfather. Wild eyes, seized with the madness Sebastian feared above all else.

“It’s three O’clock, my Lord. I heard you cry out, and when I came in, I found you asleep,” the butler said.

Sebastian finished the glass of brandy in one, hoping it would do something to alleviate his fears and steady his nerves. It was always the same, and now breathed a deep sigh, rising to his feet, and knowing he would suffer thoughts of his recurring dream for the rest of the day.

“Thank you, Langton. You can go now. I’ll be all right,” Sebastian said.

The butler raised his eyebrows. Sebastian knew the servants talked about him. They knew about his dreams, and his fears. He glanced again at the portrait of his grandfather, remembering the cries of agony he had so often heard in childhood, when the old earl had been seized by bouts of the madness Sebastian feared in himself.

“Very good, my Lord. Please ring if you need anything,” the butler said, and with a curt bow, he retreated from the library, leaving Sebastian alone.

The earl crossed to the window, looking out over the gardens of Southbourne House, before closing his eyes and trying to calm the thoughts overwhelming him. It was always the same when he awoke from the dream, the fear of what was to come gripping him with a terror he found it hard to rid himself of.

“It hasn’t happened yet,” he told himself, though he knew his father had first been seized with the symptoms when he was in his late twenties.

Sebastian was twenty-six and had inherited the title of the Earl of Southbourne a year ago, following his father’s death. His own mother had died some years ago, leaving Sebastian with his stepmother, Victoria, and an uncle, Julian, on his father’s side, whom he rarely saw. His father’s end had been an unpleasant one, and Sebastian had watched as the same madness had seized him as it had seized his own father before him.

“But it’s going to. It’ll take you like it took them. It’s only a matter of time,” Sebastian told himself. 

There was no cure for the madness, even as Sebastian had done everything he could possibly think of to lessen its advance. He had consulted the best doctors, taken tonics and pills, read endless books on the matter of madness, and even gone so far as to experiment with his own treatments. He tried cold water cures and heat treatments, exotic plants and hallucinogens, and even talismans and long forgotten herbal remedies. But there were no guarantees, and just as madness had seized King George, so, too, did Sebastian fear it would seize him, too.

“The dream proves it, my father suffered from terrible dreams,” Sebastian thought to himself, remembering his father’s end, when agonized cries echoed through the house at night.

It made him shudder to remember it, but as he was about to pour himself another glass of brandy to steady his nerves, the library door opened, and his stepmother entered the room. She was a haughty woman, quite tall, with long, red hair, combed into ringlets, and wearing a black dress, for she was still in mourning for Sebastian’s father. She never bothered to knock, and now she looked at him questioningly as Sebastian slumped into a chair by the hearth.

“Another dream?” she asked, and he nodded.

“I’m getting them more frequently lately, even during the day. It’s always the same, the maze and the high wall,” he replied, for he made no secret of his fears about the onset of the illness his father had succumbed to. 

There was no point in hiding the fact. It impacted everything he did, and everything to come. While Sebastian knew it was his duty to further the line, the thought of doing so filled him with dread. How could he bring a child into the world, knowing it would suffer what he, and those before him, had suffered, too? Then there was the question of a wife, certain to be made widow very young. His stepmother looked at him sympathetically.

“You should speak to the doctor about it again and get him to come and visit you. Get the one who treats the king,” she said, but Sebastian shook his head.

“It’s inevitable. I know what’s going to happen. You know what’s going to happen,” he said, but his stepmother shook head.

“No one knows what’s going to happen, Sebastian. But you can’t live your whole life in fear. Try to think about something else. There’s the masquerade ball to plan for. You’ve not forgotten, have you?” she said, and Sebastian’s eyes grew wide.

He had entirely forgotten about the Marchioness of Graystone’s masquerade. It was a highlight of the season but had entirely slipped his mind. The fact of his forgetfulness brought with it a panic. If he could forget something as anticipated as the masquerade ball, what else was he forgetting? Sebastian had considerable responsibilities, people who depended on him, and duties to perform. But if he was growing forgetful, was this the first sign of the madness setting in?

“I… yes, the masquerade ball. I remember now, but I’d forgotten. I don’t know why I’d forgotten. It’s this very week, isn’t it? I’ll wear the same mask as last year. It’s upstairs in my wardrobe, but how could I forget it?” he replied, as much questioning himself as asking his stepmother’s opinion.

She looked at him and shrugged.

“We all forget things, and I’ve reminded you now,” she said, for his stepmother did not always take seriously the facts of his heritage.

But she had seen his father in the last throes of madness. She knew what was coming. Surely it filled her with dread?

“I think I need some fresh air. I’m going to walk in the garden,” Sebastian said, remembering what one of the doctors had said about clearing the mind with new air.

His stepmother nodded, taking a book for herself from the shelves and following Sebastian into the hallway. He was about to step out into the garden when the sounds of a carriage drawing up caused him to look out of the windows at the front of the house. His friend, Lord Cuthbert, John, was just climbing down, and Sebastian was relieved to think he would have some company.

“As long as he doesn’t come bearing news of something else I’ve forgotten,” Sebastian thought to himself, waiting in the hallway as the butler came to answer the door.

John was in good spirits, he always was. They had been the closest of friends since childhood, but they could not have been more different. While Sebastian was forever concerned about the future state of his mind, John was the sort of man who took everything in stride. Sebastian had never heard his friend express a worry about the future.

“It’s good of you to come. I was just going to walk in the garden,” Sebastian said.

“I was worried about you when I heard you talking last night at Boodles,” John replied, shaking Sebastian by the hand.

The two of them had been at their gentlemen’s club the evening before, and Sebastian had again expressed his fears as to the future. Awakening from his dream had done little to allay such fears, and now his anxiety was rising once again.

“It’s kind of you to say so, John. I, well, I had the dream again, the one I told you about with the high walls and hedges. The dream where the man is telling me I’m not mad,” Sebastian admitted. They made their way outside into the garden at the back of the house.

Southbourne House was an ancient pile, home to the Earls of Southbourne for six generations, but its parkland had been encroached on by the city surrounding it, and in the middle of his madness, Sebastian’s grandfather had sold much of the estate for development. But to walk in the gardens was still pleasant, and Sebastian found them to be a sanctuary in moments such as this, the borders in full bloom, and the sweet scent of lavender and roses hanging in the air.

“Perhaps you should believe him, Sebastian. Isn’t he telling you what we’re all telling you?” John replied.

“But I know it’s not true. I know he’s trying to make me think it to lull me into a false sense of security. I’ll say I’m not going mad, and then I will. But if I remain vigilant…” Sebastian replied, for he had convinced himself what he had to do to prevent the madness setting in. He had to believe in it.

By believing in it, even as those around him denied it, Sebastian could defeat its effects. He felt certain of it, even as he knew it was a dangerous game to play. John raised his eyebrows.

“Then you mean to embrace it?” he asked.

Sebastian shook his head.

“No, but I can’t deny it’s happening, either. My stepmother had to remind me about the masquerade ball. I’d completely forgotten about it. If she hadn’t told me, I’d be oblivious to it. Isn’t that terrifying?” Sebastian said, but John shook his head.

“It just means you forgot it. I forget things. Everyone does. It doesn’t mean you’re going mad. And it doesn’t mean you’ll end up going the way of your father or your grandfather. I wish you’d stop worrying about it,” John said.

But with the passing of time, Sebastian was growing increasingly worried. The thought of the madness preoccupied him, even in his dreams. He could simply not rid himself of the thought he had just a few year years, perhaps even just a few months, before he was gripped by the same symptoms his father and grandfather had experienced; symptoms he knew would be terrible to endure. Forgetting the masquerade ball was only the beginning.

“But I do worry about it, John. I worry about it all the time. I fear, well, you know what I fear,” Sebastian said, and his friend sighed.

“Try not to think about it. You’ll enjoy the masquerade ball. We both will. It’s always such fun, isn’t it? The music, the dancing, the refreshments,” he said.

Sebastian had to admit he did enjoy the masquerade. It was a highlight of the social season, and the Marchioness of Graystone was an excellent host. Sebastian’s mask was hung up in his bedroom. It was a gaudy creation in green and purple, purchased two years ago. He was looking forward to donning it alongside John, whose mask was equally ostentatious.

“It is, yes. I don’t begrudge it. I just… well, you’re right, I should try not to think about it. But I can’t help it,” he said, and John paused, turning to Sebastian as they stood together on the lawn.

He put his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder and smiled.

“You’re not alone in this, Sebastian, I promise you. You don’t have to face it on your own. These things are far better understood now. The king, his madness. It’s all helped our understanding. You’ve got the best doctors in the country examining your case,” he said.

Sebastian was grateful to John for his words. He knew he would not be alone, and his friend could always be relied on in as a listening ear when Sebastian’s anxiety overwhelmed him. But in his own mind, in his own thoughts, he was alone, and no one else could shoulder the feelings he was experiencing or help to lessen the load. This was his fight, and ultimately, he would face it alone.

“I know it’s just difficult,” he said, and his friend smiled.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m sure a lot of people don’t ever speak of it. But you do, and that means you can be helped,” he said.

They walked back towards the house now, and Sebastian was grateful to John for his visit. 

“Do you believe in the Sinclair curse? Do you believe it’s passed down from generation to generation? I fear marrying because of it. I fear what might be if a child was brought into the world,” Sebastian said.

His friend pondered for a moment.

“I don’t know, Sebastian. But I hope it won’t stop you from seeking the companionship you deserve. Don’t let fear hold you back. If you meet a woman, a young lady at the masquerade, why shouldn’t you pursue romance?” he asked, even as Sebastian shook his head.

It would hardly be fair to fall in love, or lead a woman to think there might be the chance of a long and happy marriage, when there may not be a chance.

“I don’t know, John; it hardly seems fair,” Sebastian replied, for his mind was already made up, and as much as he might have desired the companionship of a woman, he knew it would not be right to seek it, when such a terrible curse hung over him.

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“Passion Painted in a Lady’s Heart” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

In the opulent ballrooms of the ton, Rosalind Fairchild, daughter of the Duke of Lonsdale, embarks on her sparkling first season. However, the more her parents press her towards a union with an insipid Duke, the more Rosalind seeks refuge in the inviting world of art. As her emotive paintings provoke passion in every brushstroke, a masked stranger who shares her yearning for art, crosses her path, igniting a flame of desire that burns hotter than any portrait could capture.

Will Rosalind dare to dream that her paintings’ passion could become her reality?

Sebastian Sinclair, the seductive Earl of Southbourne, is a man of wealth and privilege. Yet, beneath his noble façade, a dark spectre looms; the ominous Southbourne curse, which has plagued generations of his family with the threat of madness. With his past haunting him, Sebastian vows not to fall in love for fear of this curse, but destiny has other plans. His world is turned upside down when he meets the tempting Rosalind.

Will he be able to resist the magnetic pull of their lust?

Surrounded by the world of art, Rosalind and Sebastian are lost in the alluring ideals of love, passion, and romance that their painted fantasies portray. However, as their burning liaison grows stronger, horrifying secrets threaten to tear them apart. Will they find their own place within the canvas of life or will they remain forever captive in the brush strokes of a masterpiece waiting to be unveiled?

“Passion Painted in a Lady’s Heart” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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