Portrait of a Lady: The Gentleman Courtesans Book 1

by Victoria Vale

  Hugh stiffened, his gaze dropping to his satchel. Inside lay sketchbooks filled with various drawings, many of which depicted his latest artistic obsession. Crosby chuckled when he hesitated, then straightened with a groan and a creaking sound emanating from his joints.

  “You should have your apprentices do this,” Hugh chided, noticing how the other man winced and pressed a hand against his offending back.

  Crosby waved him off. “I keep them far too busy to waste their talents on such nonsense. I’m old, not crippled. Now, you haven’t answered the question. Who’s the woman?”

  Hugh took his time answering, taking great care with his words. Crosby knew nothing of his secret profession, and Hugh didn’t think he could ever live down the shame he would feel for his mentor to learn what he got up to when he wasn’t painting.

  “Her name is Evelyn,” he replied. “I’ve been...courting her, I suppose.”

  Crosby nodded in the direction of his satchel. “I’d say you’ve been doing more than courting her; you’ve made her into your muse.”

  Hugh frowned, realizing he’d never thought of it that way. Crosby was right, of course. Evelyn had been inspiring all of his latest work—his drawings, his practices in class, even Virtue and Vice. When he wasn’t with her, he was thinking of her, contemplating the lines and planes of her face, the depth and warmth of her eyes.

  “She has inspired me, yes,” he admitted. “Our acquaintance is still new, but…”

  I want her...she makes me smile...I miss her when she is not near.

  Those thoughts were too dangerous to even contemplate, let alone speak aloud. He wasn’t supposed to think of her this way, not when she was only meant to be his last keeper. He needed her money and enjoyed her company, that was all there was. Besides, it would be foolish for him to think she was as infatuated with him as he had become with her. She’d hired him to warm her bed, nothing more. If she happened to enjoy his company, too...well, that was something else she was paying for, wasn’t it?

  “I do not know how long our courtship will last,” Hugh added. “Perhaps it is best not to grow used to the idea of her as my muse.”

  “My boy, did I ever tell you about the time I spent studying abroad?”

  “Of course,” Hugh replied. “You told me of the ruins you studied, sculptures you were allowed to sketch, the artists you apprenticed under…”

  “Ah, but did I tell you about Signora Alessandra Bianchi?”

  Crosby laughed at Hugh’s shocked expression. He’d never heard the man mention a woman, thinking of Crosby as the solitary sort of artist.

  “Our relationship was not like that,” the older man insisted. “Though, I did indulge in my share of affairs in my youth. No, Alessandra was simply...perfect. Sublime. The sort of face and form that inspire men to lust, love, grief, joy...all of it dependent upon the quirk of her mouth or set of her brow. I spent months using her as a subject, painting her as Venus, Aphrodite, and Diana, sculpting busts of her, drawing her in various states of déshabillé. This was decades ago, of course, and even now I look back upon what I created with her to inspire me as some of my greatest work.”

  “She must have been quite a woman,” Hugh remarked.

  “She was,” Crosby agreed. “Our association ended when it came time for me to leave Italy, but I learned so much about myself, and my art, with her serving as my muse. Others have come and gone, and each has left their mark upon me. You’ve been given a unique opportunity, Hugh. Do not allow worry over how long something might last to hold you back. If those sketches in your book are any indication, you’re on the verge of something very exciting, and that thing might make the difference between earning your place in the Exhibition, and being forced to sit things out for another year.”

  At that moment, Crosby’s students for the afternoon began filing in, their voices echoing from the high ceiling, their excitement palpable. They would have the opportunity to sketch a live subject today, thus the reason for the elaborate staging.

  “Think about what I’ve said,” Crosby said before turning to begin greeting his students.

  “I will, thank you.”

  Hugh gathered his satchel and weaved his way through the students filing in, picking up the pace once he was out in the corridor. It was early yet, and he was not due at Evelyn’s house until evening. But, he felt the need to go to her now, if for no other reason to apologize for his behavior after the encounter with Marcus. His personal problems had never before bled over into his life as a courtesan, and he couldn’t allow it to happen now. While he had thought leaving her for the night would be the best thing in the moment, he now saw it as the blunder it was. He was supposed to be at her beck and call, which meant that what she wanted should always take precedence over whatever mood he might be in on any given night.

  It couldn’t wait. He needed to go to her now and apologize, make things right. There was also the need to see her again, to be near her, which could not be denied. Part of him knew he shouldn’t allow himself the luxury of such feelings, but another part of him latched on to Crosby’s words and clung to them. Perhaps there was no need to worry about what would happen or what would be. For now, he was pleased with the way things were. Best for him to enjoy it for however long it would last.

  Chapter 7

  “I had the opportunity to visit Gunter’s in Berkeley Square a few days past, to taste the newest flavor taking London by storm. One would not think of parmesan as an appropriate ice flavor, but I assure you, it had a most pleasing taste. Of course, while I was there, I happened to notice quite a few debutantes enjoying their ices in the company of their male escorts. Here are my predictions for which of these pairings will find themselves hitched by Season’s end…”

  -The London Gossip, 19 March 1819

  “Everything will be all right, my dearest Regina,” Sir Antony rasped, his words coming out between labored breaths.

  The battered knight lay upon the hard-packed earth of the moors, his head rested in her lap. The rain had finally let up, the black clouds receding minute by minute to allow through a beam of growing sunlight. Several yards away, Baron Redgrave lay dead from a wound through his belly, swimming in a pool of his own blood. But, Regina could not spare him another thought as her knight, her one true love, lay battered and broken in her arms.

  The man who had ridden through the storm to come to rescue her had been wounded. Before meeting his end, the baron had sunk a dagger into Sir Antony’s side and broken his arm. Tears streamed down Regina’s face in hot streams as she stroked the heavy locks of golden hair back from her knight’s face.

  “Oh, Duncan, my poor love,” she wept. “It will not be all right. You’ve been hurt, and it is all my fault. I shall never forgive myself!”

  Sir Antony raised his uninjured arm, cupping her face with one bloodstained hand. “You mustn’t blame yourself for the villainy of Redgrave. It is only a wound, one that will heal in time. It is far less than I would have suffered, to have you returned to me unharmed. I would have endured a thousand wounds and died as many deaths for you, my love...all for you.”

  Evelyn heard the creak of the door being pushed open, but kept her head lowered over her work. She’d now come to the end of her tale and was determined to finish what remained of Sir Antony and Regina’s reunion today. Nothing would distract her from it. If Joseph had a message to deliver or had come to announce a visitor, he would simply have to stand by and wait until she had finished.

  Heavy footsteps fell against the rug, but Evelyn wrote on, scratching her quill over the page in a frenzy. So close, she was so very close.

  The scent of flowers mingled with clove and sandalwood wafted up her nostrils just before a hand fell onto her shoulder.

  “Just what are you writing to put such a look of determined focus on your face?”

  She jumped at the sound of Hugh’s voice breaking through the quiet of the morning room and she glanced up to find him standing over her, an amused smile gracing his face and
a bouquet held in one hand.

  “Hugh!” she exclaimed, leaping to her feet and swiveling to face him.

  Angling her body to block his view of her manuscript, she forced a shaky smile.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He offered her the flowers with a sheepish grin. “I know I was not due until dinnertime, but I couldn’t wait. I wanted to see you. When I first arrived, your footman knocked but received no answer, despite being quite certain you were in here. I convinced him to let me surprise you. I apologize if I gave you a fright.”

  She accepted the arrangement of foxglove, crocus, and harebells, leaning against the desk and praying he wouldn’t try again to discover what she’d been up to.

  “It’s all right,” she replied. “I am glad to see you. Have you just come from the Academy?”

  “I have, and I am glad to see you, too.”

  The bouquet fell onto the desk, forgotten for the moment as he gathered her into his arms, pressing her against the desk as he claimed her mouth in a slow, searing kiss. Evelyn went slack in his hold, tilting her head and falling headlong into the kiss. Her worries and disappointment over the events of last night fell away, and she allowed herself to enjoy his nearness. He was here now, and that was what mattered. He also seemed to be in better spirits, which she took as an encouraging sign.

  He broke the kiss, reaching up with one hand to stroke her cheek. “And what have you been up to this morning?”

  “Oh,” she murmured, reaching back with one hand to push her pages away. “Just composing a few letters.”

  Hugh raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You must be quite a devoted correspondent. There have to be at least a hundred letters there.”

  A shrill, nervous laugh tore from her throat, and her cheeks flushed. “Yes, well...keeping up with one’s friends and acquaintances is quite important, don’t you agree?”

  “Of course. Should I allow myself to grow jealous wondering whether any of those are being sent to male acquaintances?”

  He was teasing her, but she found it difficult to laugh when he stood so close to discovering how she spent her days. Would he think her utterly ridiculous, an untalented hack who dared to think herself good enough to put pen to page? God, she would be so mortified for him to actually read any of it.

  He arched an eyebrow. “So many pages...one would almost think you were in here writing a book.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath as she took in his words along with the smug expression twisting his mouth and making his eyes gleam. He knew!

  “Patience told you, didn’t she?” she grumbled, turning around and dislodging his hold so she could gather her pages into a neat stack. “I’m going to murder that woman.”

  He hugged her from behind with a chuckle. “Don’t. She only told me so I’d understand why you might injure me with a paperweight should I disturb you. She mentioned that you were quite close to finishing your latest work, so I suppose congratulations are in order.”

  Evelyn glanced at him over her shoulder, finding not a trace of amusement or ridicule in the eyes boring into her with such intensity. He appeared as if he were interested in her work, and...and something else. Proud of her for finishing The Mad Baron.

  “Th-thank you, I...I’ve worked on it for months.”

  “Then you must be very pleased with yourself for finishing it.”

  She turned to face him, unable to believe what she was hearing, but then realizing it was what she should have expected. The man hadn’t laughed at her when she’d thrown herself at him in a drunken stupor before accidentally tumbling off the bed. Of course he wouldn’t ridicule her now.

  “I am,” she confessed. “You don’t think it ridiculous that I write Gothic novels in my spare time?”

  Taking hold of her hand, he led her to a settee and pulled her down to sit beside him. “I finished my very first painting when I was only ten years old. I was so bloody proud of it. I had begged my mother to purchase a paintbox for me, knowing my father would never consent. He was never happy to see me sketching, and often derided my efforts. Well, one day my parents returned from a trip to London and my mother presented me with a gift...a watercolor paintbox and a collection of brushes. There were also canvases and an easel, everything I would need to try my hand at painting. My father hadn’t been pleased, but mother had insisted, so I was allowed to practice once I’d finished my studies for the day. I’d started several landscapes but never finished one, was never satisfied with what I’d accomplished, until one day I finally completed one. I had sat on the grounds of our country estate for hours on end, trying to portray the view, wanting to get it just right.”

  Evelyn couldn’t help but smile. He must have been adorable, working so diligently with his watercolors at such a young age.

  “I couldn’t wait to show my mother,” he went on. “I rushed into the house and dragged her and my sister outside to show it to them. The paints hadn’t even dried yet, but I was just so damned excited to show someone, anyone, what I had done. My mother told me I showed a good deal of promise, and my sister envied me for excelling at watercolors in a way she never had. But my father…”

  His jaw hardened, his hands clenching together in his lap in a white-knuckle grip.

  “He’d just arrived from an outing and happened upon us on his way into the house. He took one look at my painting and laughed at me. He told me I was wasting my time if that abomination was the best I could do, and I ought to leave watercolors to the women and fix my attentions on a more dignified hobby.”

  Evelyn felt her own ire rising, thinking that she’d very much like to give the earl a piece of her mind. “Hugh, I’m so—”

  “Don’t,” he interjected, reaching out to rest one of his hands atop hers. “I did not tell you that story to earn your sympathy. I only wanted you to understand why you never need fear that I’ll find your own form of artistry ridiculous. I understand all too well the feeling that you aren’t good enough or that someone might laugh at you for your efforts. Patience says you have written five novels before this one, and that is commendable. I know men who speak of writing books but never find the courage to put a single word on paper. So, you’ve accomplished more than all of them and should be proud of yourself. I certainly am proud of you.”

  She tried to fight the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth but found it impossible. The wide grin overtook her face as she soaked in his praise, finding nothing but sincerity in every word.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, turning her hand over to lace her fingers through his.

  “Now, when can I read it?”

  Her smile shrank a bit as a well of anxiety opened deep within her. She’d never been brave enough to allow anyone other than Patience to read her work, and the thought of letting Hugh made her want to run and hide, closeting herself away so she didn’t have to make such a decision.

  “I...I don’t know…”

  He gave her hand a squeeze. “Forget I asked. If you aren’t ready, then I won’t press you.”

  Relief washed over her, though the idea had now rooted itself in her mind. Would it really be so bad, allowing him to read it? He was only one person, and he was already in on one secret she never wished the world to know.

  “Thank you,” she simply said, deciding to give the matter more thought on her own time.

  “I don’t have to stay,” he said, slouching a bit on the settee. “You need to finish your novel, and I need to work on my painting. I can come back after—”

  “No,” she exclaimed, moving closer to him on the seat. “I’m nearly done and had thought to take a walk once I’d finished. If you wouldn’t mind waiting, I’d very much like you to accompany me.”

  Now that he was here, she was loath to lose his company. Perhaps she would finally have what she’d wanted last night once they returned from their walk.

  “Of course I’ll stay. I can sketch while I wait. Take your time.”

  She returned to her desk as he took up his satche
l and removed one of his sketchbooks. After sending for Joseph and asking him to put her bouquet in a vase of water, she sank into her chair and took up her quill. She passed another hour working to finish The Mad Baron, pausing every now and then to look up and find Hugh hard at work, glancing at her from time to time. A soft smile curved her lips as she realized she didn’t really mind his presence in the room while she worked. In fact, she quite liked it.

  * * *

  “How’s your ice?” Hugh asked, glancing over at Evelyn who sat perched on the seat of his phaeton.

  It had been his idea to take a drive instead of a walk, the weather pleasant enough for them to enjoy from the open vehicle. He’d sent for the equipage and it had arrived out front of Evelyn’s home just in time—right when she’d punctuated the very last sentence of her novel. Hugh had driven her to Berkeley square, where they’d managed to find a spot beneath the maple trees alongside the other vehicles clogging the lane. They now sat watching people come and go from the square as they indulged in their ices.

  “It’s divine,” she murmured between bites, the little spoon held between her gloved fingers. “I’ve never tried the elderflower before...it’s far better than I expected.”

  Hugh watched her while taking a bite of his own almond-flavored ice, though he hardly tasted it. He was too preoccupied with the way a loose curl kissed the side of her neck where he wanted to press his lips, the way her mouth closed over the spoon. He wanted to kiss her, experience the taste of the elderflower ice on her lips. Such would be wholly inappropriate, of course, and would expose the nature of their relationship should anyone spot them—a distinct possibility in a popular haunt such as Gunter’s. However, it was one of the few places it would be perfectly acceptable for them to be seen alone together, and he’d wanted her company without feeling as if they must duck and hide.