Tested by Fate Read Online Free Page B

fascinated me, Emma—the decorum of the early evening contrasted with the riot of the later night. It seems that two different worlds occupy the same space. Reynolds captures the first, Hogarth the second.”
    “With some men in both,” Emma replied firmly. Having been lectured by Greville she was in no mood to take the same from Romney.
    But it was true what he said, just as it was true that she had misread the place, never having been there at what Romney called the Reynolds time. Then the prostitutes who plied for trade were still outside the gates. The gardens in the early evening were patronised by respectable London, who admired the carefully arranged plants, listened to good music and short, amusing dramas. Theywere not a scene of riot, with couples cavorting in the bushes, lewd songs, and risque plays, all aided by the consumption of vast amounts of wine.
    “All I did was stand to sing,” she insisted.
    “With a much admired voice, I’m sure.” Emma blushed and dropped her head. “Take the compliment, my dear. You do have a sweet voice and the lessons Greville arranged for you have made it sweeter yet.”
    “If I’d seen his face I would have stopped.”
    He might have been scandalised, but others weren’t. Compliments and drinks arrived before her in equal measure and she knew she had become drunk on both, the depth of her inebriation only serving to deepen her lover’s disgust. She had seen that go skywards when she had got up, acceding to a request to dance. He demanded that they leave and the atmosphere on the way home had been icy. Once inside his own house Greville blew up like the volcanoes he was fond of describing.
    Her mother, roused by the clamour, had advised Emma to apologise, grovel a bit if necessary to appease the man who kept them. Emma had taken a great deal of persuading, especially when Mary Cadogan had insisted she change into a drab grey dress to indicate penitence. It had been in vain. Her lover had even refused to share her bed, retiring to his study for the night, and in the morning, still under the burden of his anger, he had delivered, her to this studio.
    “I begged him to forgive me, even changed out of my finery to do so. You should have seen me, Romney, in that drab outfit, on my knees weeping in despair.”
    “Show me the pose you adopted.”
    Emma sank to her knees, her hands joined in supplication. The old man gazed on her shaking his head. “Too biblical for my taste. I prefer the Greeks, though it would be a charming notion to paint you in a more modern pose.”
    “But would that sell?” she asked sarcastically.
    “An artist does not always toil for money.”
    Their shared look was proof enough that such a sentiment didnot apply to Greville. “The mood you saw him in this morning was evidence that I am still not forgiven,” she said.
    “You shall be, Emma, never fear.”
    “How can you be so certain?”
    The large brown eyes, normally so expressive, took on a certain blandness. The truth was that she was a beautiful bargain, a woman who might have commanded a much more puissant lover if she had so decided, might have moved in the grandest circles with a little education. There was a touch of love in Romney, old as he was, for the best model he had ever had. Greville kept her out of sight as much for fear of loss as he did to save coin. He had seethed with anger when the Prince of Wales had waxed lyrical on Emma’s beauty, since his admiration was bound to be followed by an attempt at seduction. What Greville could never accept was that while male attention flattered her, and she responded, Emma wasn’t interested.
    “Greville will forgive you because he is so very fond of you, Emma.”
    “Is he, Romney?” she whispered.
    “Most decidedly so. He values you so very highly.”

    Visitors to Romney’s studio were frequent, and people who might become clients took a chair to watch the artist at work. His ever-attentive son, who was also the person charged