by Darcie Wilde
It was also immediately apparent why he’d chosen this attic and this house. The northern wall held a series of large diamond-paned windows, as well as a pair of French doors that led onto the sort of tiny balcony commonly known as a widow’s walk. All the rest of the walls had been recently whitewashed, and the waiting shelves were filled with jars of liquids and oils and boxes, neatly labeled in grease pencil. Prepared canvases leaned against the wall in one place, empty frames in another, and what she assumed were finished canvases had been wrapped in oilcloth in another. There were trunks and boxes and worktables. The tang of turpentine filled the air. The place held an atmosphere of industry and expectation.
Lord Benedict himself was arranging an easel in front of a small dais. He turned around, and Madelene felt her heart stutter, stop, and start again.
“Lady Adele. Miss Valmeyer. Thank you for coming.”
He bowed politely. He wore a plain, old shirt and breeches and his black cravat. An artist’s long gray smock would protect his clothing from the worst of the paint. His hair was pulled back in its queue. He did nothing extraordinary. He did not look extraordinary, and yet Madelene felt a shivering and a tingling all down her spine. She was here, this was happening. Benedict was smiling at her, only politely to be sure, but that didn’t matter.
“Thank you for agreeing to take our commission. My brother says you’re very busy,” Adele said, a little too loudly. Madelene realized she should have been the one to speak, and she blushed.
Lord Benedict made a polite gesture. “I only hope I may create something that will suit.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” Adele told him breezily. She faced Madelene and took her hand. And she winked. Merciful Heavens! What was she thinking? Lord Benedict would see!
Why didn’t I bring Helene?
“Now, Madelene,” Adele said. “I’m so sorry to do this, but I have an urgent summons to the modiste about our new gowns. I know, Lord Benedict, that since you are a friend of my family that Madelene will be quite safe with you for the next hour.” She leveled a long look at the artist that rivaled one of her brother’s for its intensity. “One hour, no longer,” she said, sounding for all the world like a nanny with potentially rebellious charges.
Lord Benedict bowed again. “Then we’d best get started as soon as possible. If you don’t mind, Lady Adele, Mrs. Cottswold will show you to the door.”
Adele agreed, of course, and said farewell and turned to follow the landlady back downstairs. Madelene wanted nothing in the world so much as to run after her friend and beg her to stay.
No, she told herself as firmly as she could. It’s only one hour. You can manage for one hour. It was, after all, your idea. Wicked girl. The words rose up in her mind, and she could not hold them down. Shameful. And worst of all: Ridiculous.
But Adele was gone, and it was too late to call her back. Madelene faced Lord Benedict and with an effort managed to lift her eyes from the recently swept floorboards. His gaze met hers, and Madelene felt it again—that keen sympathy that had taken hold of her in the gallery.
Lord Benedict blinked quickly, and the moment broke. He turned away to go stand beside his easel.
Retreated, Madelene thought, then, No. Surely not.
“If you’d please to sit down?” Benedict selected a stick of charcoal from the easel’s tray and used it to gesture toward the chair on the raised platform. “We’ll begin with some simple sketches. I’ll build the painting from there.”
“All . . . all right.”
The chair was a plain one with a rush bottom, and it was angled so that she would be faced toward the windows in a three-quarter profile from Lord Benedict’s point of view.
“Now, Miss Valmeyer,” he said briskly. “All you need to do is relax and keep your eyes on the flowers.” He gestured toward the pot of bright yellow primroses on the windowsill. “That’s right. Perfect. Hold still.”
They were very nice flowers. She’d always liked primroses. She heard the rustle of paper and the quick scratch of charcoal.
“Lift your eyes, please,” Lord Benedict murmured.
“I’m sorry.” She’d lowered her gaze to her hands without even noticing. “It’s a habit.”
Lord Benedict made a noncommittal noise and began drawing once more.
Say something, Madelene ordered herself. You arranged to be alone with this man. You said you wanted to become acquainted with him.
She had also, however, assumed he would lead whatever conversation they were to have. That was what always happened to her. Everyone else spoke, and she listened. Lord Benedict, however, showed no sign of being interested in anything beyond the movement of his own pencil—oh, and where she was looking.
“Keep your eyes on the flowers, please.”
Madelene concentrated on the flowers. There were four blossoms and a bud. The leaves were a little browned around the edges. They were in the sun too much. Some flowers did best in the shade.
What do I say? What do I do? She moistened her lips.
“I . . . I know this is to be a classical picture,” she said. “But no one’s told me who I’m to be.”
“When I am done, you will be Selene, goddess of the moon, driving her chariot across the night sky.” He paused. “You’re frowning.”
“I’m sorry.” Madelene forced a smile onto her features.
“And that’s worse,” he said. For the first time, Lord Benedict’s bland politeness faltered, replaced by irritation. “What’s the matter?”
I can feel your gaze like a hand on my skin, and I don’t know what to do about it. “I don’t feel like a goddess.”
“What you feel is less important than what I see,” he said flatly.
“You see a goddess?”
“I do, and when I’m done, the whole world will see her.”
He couldn’t mean it. It was flattery, meant to get her to smile.
“You’re frowning again,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
What would Helene say? “I’m surprised you would care if something was wrong,” she said, lightly, she hoped. “You dismissed my feelings readily enough just a minute ago.”
Lord Benedict made a wry face. “I did, didn’t I? Well, please believe that I want nothing more than for you to be happy and comfortable during our hour.”
“Because you are so concerned for your delicate subject?”
“Because you will sit still more patiently.”
Oh. Yes. Of course. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be. Find your place again. The flowers. Very good.”
Madelene sat still. She was good at this. She could do it for hours on end. She had sat still in ballrooms, in drawing rooms, in parlors, in carriages. But that was when she wished to be unnoticed. Now, this once, she wanted to be seen, and that made all the difference.
Don’t, she told herself. He’s already made the situation plain. He wants a subject for his painting. Anything else was your imagination. You wanted to know, and now you do.
Madelene waited for her bashfulness and shame to take hold. Those feelings might be unpleasant, but they were familiar, and she knew what to do with them. But they did not come. Instead, there was a restlessness and an awkward consciousness of growing boredom. There was also the nagging desire to watch whatever Benedict might be doing, and to delight in watching him just as she had before.
Don’t. Think of something else.
But nothing else would come. Her mind filled with the memory of seeing Benedict work last winter—the line of his body, the swift and graceful movement of his hands. She remembered how tense his shoulders had been, how he seemed able and willing to sit perfectly still, surveying his grand work.
What does he see now? What is he thinking?
Benedict glanced up from his sketch, frowned, and told her what he was thinking.
“Look. At. The. Flowers. Please.”
“I am.”
“You’re not. You’re looking at me.”
“I’m not.” He raised his eyes and met hers. “I am,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”
She stared at the flowers, trying to keep her growing misery from showing in her expression. This wasn’t at all what she’d thought it would be. She’d entertained dozens of different fancies since Adele told her Lord Benedict had agreed to take their commission. She’d lain in bed at night and imagined she’d suddenly gain all a belle’s skills. She’d dreamed how she’d laugh and flirt and make him smile. Benedict’s smile would be . . . would be . . . Her imagination failed her. She had not yet seen Lord Benedict return a smile, a genuine smile, not just a polite curve of the lips.
That didn’t stop her more outrageous fantasies from forming. In those, he put down his pencils and his papers and came to stand in front of her. He lifted those graceful hands to her brow, and one by one, he pulled the pins from her hair. It’s better this way, her imaginary Benedict murmured as he lowered her curls to her shoulders and let his fingers brush her skin. This way, and this. His warm, gentle touch trailed across her shoulders, her arms.
Madelene didn’t hear Benedict’s pencil moving. Her eyes flickered sideways. He wasn’t drawing now. He was staring, his dark eyes wide, his face tight with astonishment, and something else.
Need.
It was unmistakable. She’d never had a man look at her with such naked desire, but her woman’s heart recognized it instantly and leapt in delight.
Then Lord Benedict dropped his gaze. “I, ah, I apologize,” he muttered. “My charcoal snapped. I . . .” He groped on the easel’s tray for another stick. “Look at the flowers. Please.”
Madelene did. Her heart was thundering in her chest, and she was conscious of a new plummeting feeling that chilled and deadened her previous delight.
Disappointment.
Was this all she was going to gain from her careful arrangements? All the hoping and . . . other things . . . in the dark. This was it? One heated glance and a stiff neck from sitting for so long?
The sound of Benedict’s pencil against his paper became louder, harsher, as if it was whispering angrily at her.
“Look at the flowers, please,” he said.
“Look at the flowers, please . . .”
“Damn it, woman, look at the flowers!”
The shout was so loud and so sudden, Madelene froze. She felt the press of tears against her eyes, and the shame of them.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t do this. I knew I couldn’t.”
She leapt off the dais and hurried toward the door.
* * *
Benedict watched, stupefied and terribly, horribly annoyed, as his subject grabbed up her skirts and ran down the length of his studio.
Stop her! cried the part of him that was still human. She won’t come back!
Panic seized him. “Wait!” he cried. “Miss Valmeyer, please wait.”
She stopped, her hand on the door. She was taut as a bowstring, quivering with her need to run.
“That was my fault,” Benedict said. “Please, accept my apology.”
“No, it’s my fault. I . . . I don’t like being looked at.” He knew this was the truth, but that wasn’t what was driving her away from him now. There had been no bashfulness in that one heated look, the look he could not help but return.
“I’m so horribly nervous,” Madelene was saying. “It’s shameful.”
“There’s no shame in being shy,” Benedict said, as gently as he could. He wanted to put his arms around her. He wanted to stroke her hair, which was the same red gold as sunrise. He wanted to murmur words of comfort to her until she stopped trembling. Then he would murmur other words, until she looked at him with that same burning need he’d glimpsed a moment before.
“But I’m not just shy,” she told him. “It’s worse. It’s . . . it’s like an illness. Some days I’m afraid it’s madness.”
Benedict cast about for some pleasant remark to turn this whisper aside. You know how to do this. You used to be good at it. But social finesse and flattery had left him long ago. All that remained was honesty.
“You are not mad,” he said. “If you are afraid, then there must be some reason for it. I only wish I knew what it was.”
“Why should you even care?”
She’d asked him that before. What had happened to this girl, that she could not comprehend someone might actually care about her?
“Because I want to take that fear away,” he said. “Because I want to make sure it will never return.”
Madelene lifted her eyes mutely, and Benedict felt his heart tip over. Her longing shone in her eyes, as vivid as sunlight. But her fear burned just as bright. Benedict felt his own heart swell with old, familiar need. He wanted to hold her close, keep her safe, protect her from the entire world. He wanted . . .
He turned away, his hands tightening to fists.
“Lord Benedict?”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered harshly. “I . . .”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No!” he cried. She winced, and he held out his hand toward her, a pleading gesture he was powerless to hold back. “No,” he said, more softly. “Please believe me, this is not because of you. I . . .”
The door opened. Benedict lifted his head. Lady Adele stood on the threshold. She did not look pleased.
“I apologize if I am late,” she said tartly. “I see you are already finished for today.”
“Yes,” Benedict said. “We are.”
* * *
Benedict stood by the door and waited until the sound of footsteps on the stairs faded into silence.
Then, slowly, methodically, Benedict Pelham began to curse. He cursed himself, he cursed his creditors and his landlady who so unreasonably expected her rent every month. He cursed all manner of man’s folly and weakness.
He never should have agreed to this commission. He should have turned away from Miss Valmeyer, and from Windford, and from the whole of the world. He never should have come back from Switzerland. He should have stayed in the mountains. He never should have begun painting again, let alone allowed himself to finish The Prelude. He never should have acknowledged Miss Valmeyer when he saw her looking at it.
What on earth had he been thinking? This was impossible. He had known it would be. But the minute he saw Madelene clearly at the exhibition, his heart had begun to hammer in his chest. He couldn’t even say he hadn’t realized what was happening in that moment. He had deliberately moved too close to her. As ludicrous as it might be, he’d wanted her to hear his heart. He’d wanted her to know that she was the reason for its maddened, insistent, living beat.
He should have left the gallery right then and shut himself away until the cold slowed his heart and dulled his blood. But he hadn’t, and now, his heart pounded, hard. His face burned. So did the rest of him.
Benedict cursed again. Oh, he wanted to see Madelene again, but the high-minded artist who longed to know her heart and soul wanted to know far more than that. He wanted to know her touch, her desire, and her delight.
And she wanted to show him. He’d glimpsed it for that one instant. She’d been thinking of something pleasant. He’d been working quickly, trying to catch the shift in her face as her expression softened and her attention drifted from the flowers to whatever it was she saw in her mind’s eye. He’d been so intent on line, shadow, and shape that he’d missed the moment when her dreamy reverie had slipped into desire.
The sight had hit him harder than he would have believed possible. The room quite literally spun. The charcoal in his hand had snapped in two. For one mad moment, he’d seriously considered tossing the broken stick aside and instead taking Madelene into his arms.
But of course
he didn’t. He’d fumbled for calm, and a fresh piece of charcoal, and enough composure to return to work. But all the while, he’d wondered who she’d been thinking about during that heated moment.
Had it been him?
Please, yes, he pleaded to the image of Madelene’s eyes on the page in front of him. Please, no.
Wonder and fear yanked him in opposite directions. He became strongly conscious of the sketches on his easel, and the sight of those gray and white eyes brought back to him the memory of the real thing. How was he ever going to capture the vivid color of them? How could he even begin to recreate the hidden strength of the woman beneath the bashful girl?
Strength. He touched the sketch with fingertips that remembered far too clearly the living touch of Madelene’s hand. He wanted to reach beneath the surface and discover the true Madelene. He wanted to know all her secrets and make her understand they, and she, were safe with him.
She’d asked him why he cared twice now.
This time, though, he’d been able to answer her, and it was an honest answer.
Because I want to take that fear away. Because I want to make sure it will never return. He let his fingers graze the swiftly drawn curls and touch the corner of the mouth that had so briefly smiled at him.
Because I want to fall in love with you, Madelene, and I do not dare.
VII
Dearest Cousin Madelene:
You will forgive an aging thespian his dramatic language, but I was thrilled beyond words to hear from you again. I had no idea you were acquainted with the delightful Miss Sewell. She and I were friends once, oh, many years ago in my lost youth (for a lady such as Miss Sewell, you know, remains forever young).
I should be most happy to meet your friends, and even more happy to see you again. Since you say Miss Sewell has already given permission, I shall write her at once to say I will call at No. 48 at eleven o’clock this Wednesday.
I am all impatience to hear about this grand secret scheme of yours. You and your friends may be assured of my absolute discretion.
