by Darcie Wilde
“Was that the only reason you came back?” he asked. “Because you need the painting?”
“Yes,” she said. But she didn’t say it to him. She had to say it to the windows and the beautiful day outside. There was no possible way she could look into Benedict’s dark eyes feel the anticipation in the air around them and continue to lie.
“I see.” And with those two words, all that unspoken promise she’d felt so keenly when she entered seemed to crumble into dust. “Well, then, will you sit? The light is very good just now, and we should not waste it.”
You have done the right thing, she told herself. That’s why you came. To finish the conversation properly and be done with it. You have already seen that this attraction, however real it may be, can only cause trouble and get in the way of all your plans.
Madelene took her seat on the rush-bottomed chair and picked up the strings. The primroses had been replaced by geraniums, she noted. This time she would keep her mouth closed. She would instead occupy her thoughts with all she had accomplished so far. She would think about the fun of the dancing lessons Henry was giving them. She would congratulate herself on even being able to sit calmly and look at the geraniums, which made a nice change from primroses, and let Lord Benedict work. She would concentrate on herself within this space, just like Henry instructed. Surely if it worked for dancing, it must work the much simpler act of sitting still. How did the saying go? They also serve who only stand and wait? Or sat and waited, in her case. Well, she was serving her friends, which was all she’d wanted from the beginning. By sitting here, she paradoxically became an active participant in their coming triumph. The attraction between her and Lord Benedict might not have been entirely her imagination, but it was certainly an unnecessary complication. She didn’t need it. None of them needed that, especially not with a man who could only bring scandal and controversy.
There was only one problem. Even as she repeated this to herself, she knew it was not true.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. What you felt has never mattered. Remember Jeremy. You felt a great deal for him, too.
She’d met Jeremy Glenn during her debut season, and she’d fallen head over heels for him, and he, she thought, had fallen for her just as strongly.
Mama had thoroughly disabused her of that notion, of course. Mr. Glenn had been a fortune hunter, the first of many. All of them were eventually discovered courting other girls, or drunk, or playing with and losing to Octavius Pursewell or some other sharp. Across the long, lonely afternoons that followed, Madelene had forced herself to forget what it was like to desire someone’s touch and companionship— that breath of need, that silken insinuation of feeling that could keep you up until the small hours.
“You’re frowning.” Benedict’s voice cut across her thoughts, startling Madelene so much she jumped and dropped the strings.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I . . . I got a crick in my neck.”
“Let’s take a break, then,” he suggested. “I’ve some tea on the stove. It might even be fit to drink.”
“Thank you, I’d like that.”
“You have not yet tasted my tea.”
While Benedict busied himself at the cast-iron stove, Madelene moved across to the French doors. It was a still day, so Benedict had opened them to allow in some fresh air, or at least the vapor that passed for fresh air in London. She stood on the threshold, watching the sparrows and the pigeons flying between the chimney pots and the black smoke rising up to mix with the clouds.
“Do you like my view?” Benedict asked softly.
“Very much.” He was right behind her. She could feel his warmth, and his breath against her cheek. She dropped her gaze to see him reaching around to hand her a chipped mug of tea. She took it, and as she did, she turned.
He’d never been this close before, not even at the gallery. She’d never been able to see his eyes or the complex planes of his face so clearly. The sunlight streamed through the doors and caught in his chestnut hair. It glistened on the reddish stubble that outlined his straight, strong jaw. She wanted to touch it, to feel the texture of it. She wanted to touch him. Here. Now. This minute.
In a single instant, discipline and resolve turned into immediate, urgent desire. It was like the return of an absent friend.
He’s going to see. What am I going to do if he sees?
What am I going to do because I see it in him?
Because she had seen desire in Benedict’s face before, and she recognized it now. It shone in his dark eyes as they stared into hers. It resonated in the hitch in his breath.
What do I do? What do I do?
She did the only thing she could. She raised the mug of tea and took a long swallow. A moment later she made a face. She couldn’t help it.
Benedict laughed, and Madelene laughed in return, out of relief and the breaking of tension, and because it was a way to cover all her confusion.
“Not drinkable, then?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“I thank you for your honesty.” He took the mug from her hand and set it down on a worktable beside the window. Surely, he would step away now. But he didn’t.
“Did you get the painting I sent?” he asked. “The Prelude?”
“Yes, I did. Thank you.”
She had never seen such dark eyes, not on the gypsies in Covent Garden, not even on the Italian opera singers. Benedict’s eyes were unique, and they were searching hers.
“I keep thinking I should ask for it back,” he murmured. “I didn’t do you justice. Your hair . . . your eyes. They are so much more complex, so much more beautiful than I realized.”
He wasn’t touching her, but his meaning reached more deeply inside her than any touch ever had.
“I would not give it to you,” she said. “I love the painting. It brought . . .” She swallowed. She was too warm. It was his warmth wrapping around her. “It brought us here.”
There, she’d said it, and the words were as full of wicked intent as the air between them was full of heat.
“Oh no,” Benedict said. “You brought us here.”
“Are you sorry?”
His mouth shaped a single word, but there was no sound behind it. Instead, Benedict grabbed up her mug off the table and strode back to the stove, sloshing tea with each step and ignoring it.
“Perhaps you should go.”
She could go. This minute. She could remember she was mousy little Madelene Valmeyer, whom no one wanted and who had no business wanting anyone or anything. Except there was one small point to be considered.
Are you sorry? she’d asked him, and he’d silently shaped his one word.
No, he’d said.
“You have to stop that,” she said.
Benedict’s brow furrowed. “Stop what?”
“Saying what you mean. Saying . . . nice things, beautiful things to bring me closer, and then sending me away. It’s unkind.”
Why could she do this now? How had this courage come to her? It didn’t matter. What mattered was Benedict was stepping back. Not far, and not as if he was angry, but as if he was shaken. He closed his eyes. He breathed, slowly, deeply. “You’re right. Again. Do you make a habit of it?”
“Not that anyone would notice.”
Benedict smiled at that, just a little. He picked up the mug and lifted the lid on the ancient brown teapot that was sitting on the stove to pour the tarry, terrible tea back into its depths. When he finished, he replaced the lid. Madelene could sense that he’d also made some kind of decision.
“What do you know about me?” Benedict asked.
The question surprised her, but Madelene managed to swallow her stammer. “I know you’re an artist, and a good one. I know you’re friends with James Beauclaire and Lord Windford . . .”
He folded his arms. He w
as looking toward the far wall, where the finished canvases waited. “Do you know I used to be married?” he asked softly.
“Yes. I know that.”
“When my wife . . . died . . . things were very bad with me for a long time. I probably would have died myself if it hadn’t been for James and Marcus. But even after I decided I wanted to live, it was a long, cold time before I could stand to pick up a brush. I decided then I would only ever paint landscapes, countryside scenes. No portraits, no . . . no women.”
“Because your heart was broken,” she murmured.
Benedict shook his head. “Because I didn’t want to care again. You can’t . . . you can’t paint a portrait and not feel something for the person. I didn’t want to look into another pair of eyes, or to open that person in my thoughts to find another beating heart, or wonder what was going on inside another mind. I was afraid . . . I am afraid of caring too much.” He hung his head. “There. Now you know.”
“No, I don’t,” she said. Oh, something’s going to happen. The sky’s going to fall. At least the roof will cave in . . . “You agreed to paint this picture, of me. You didn’t have to. Why did you do that if you’re so afraid?”
“Because I do care. I didn’t want to, but I do. You’ve made me care.”
There was singing somewhere. It was in the back of her mind. A whole chorus of triumph and joy, raised up by those simple words. You’ve made me care.
But how could she answer? If she spoke of how very much those words meant, she’d only frighten him. Madelene thought of Miss Sewell, who could navigate any social setting. What would Miss Sewell do?
Miss Sewell would make a joke.
“So, I want to be seen, but I want to hide, and you do not want to not care, but you do. Aren’t we a pretty pair?”
Benedict chuckled. “That we are, Miss Valmeyer. That we are.”
“What are we to do about ourselves?”
“I wish I knew. Your friends are all very clever women. Perhaps they could tell us.”
Madelene gave a small laugh. “Oh, I’m sure if I told them the sorts of things that have passed between us, they’d have a great deal to say to me.”
“Then you haven’t . . . said anything about what’s happened here?”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t even be able to begin to explain.”
“I see,” he said slowly, and a spark of anger lit inside her.
“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You’re think I’m ashamed, or embarrassed.”
Benedict’s shoulders stiffened. So did his voice. “It would seem the obvious conclusion.”
“You’re doing it again. You say something nice, then you’re deliberately unkind.”
Benedict opened his mouth and closed it again. “I am, aren’t I?” He rubbed his forehead, hard. “I’m sorry. I . . . I will try to do better. It’s just that when you look at me that way . . . I am so afraid of what you must think.”
Madelene smiled. “You should take control of the space around you.”
“What?”
“It’s something my cousin Henry talks about. He talks about concentrating only on the space around you, and yourself within it. Not about anything beyond it.” She waved her hand toward the door. “It doesn’t matter who is looking at you. What matters is what you yourself are doing inside your space.”
Benedict blinked at her. “Your cousin Henry must be an unusual person.”
She smiled at this. “He’s an actor.”
“That explains a great deal.” But before he could say anything else, the church bells began their low, deep, ragged ringing over the rooftops.
“The hour,” Benedict said. “Your friend will be here soon.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve done very little today.”
“I disagree.” Madelene met his gaze. This time it was much easier. “I think we’ve done a great deal.”
“Will you come back?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And next time I will not be late.”
XIII
Once a week during the season, Benedict dined with his father, the Marquis of Innesdale. Usually, he looked forward to it. Tonight, however, when Benedict climbed down from the carriage, he gazed up at the pale facade of his family’s London house and wondered if there was any way to cry off. He was not in the mood for family gossip over roasted capon and Stilton cheese. His head was still too full of his last meeting with Madelene.
When he’d thought she wasn’t going to come, he’d felt an irrational panic. Then, when he opened the door and she was there, he’d promised himself he would maintain the necessary professional distance between them. He would not force his feelings upon her. It was not fair of him to try.
That resolve had lasted all of five minutes, if that long. Then he’d been terrified that she’d run away.
Then he’d been terrified she wouldn’t.
Then he had asked her if she would come back.
How had sense and feeling become so twisted? He’d staggered from blunt attraction and nameless sympathy, to anger, to something like the beginning of friendship. And somehow, that possibility of friendship had frightened him in a way that the anger and the careening from emotion to emotion could not. Because when the friendship blended with the attraction, he could no longer even pretend to put it aside. Pain could be avoided. The lancing poignancy of physical need could be redirected into work. But that gentle sweetness that was the doorway to the deeper, truer emotions? What defense did any man have against that?
This all had gone round and round in his mind. In the end, he’d decided he should go to dinner simply for the distraction. Also, he told himself, because the old man looked forward to his visits.
That was easier than admitting how very desperately he needed someone to talk to about Madelene.
* * *
Benedict and Archibald Pelham, Marquis of Innesdale, did not look like father and son. The marquis was a blunt, squared-off man. Benedict had inherited his slender build and dark eyes from his mother. The marquis freely admitted he had little use for art, even his son’s, and despite his father’s best efforts, Benedict could only be brought to care for horses and dogs when they figured in landscapes and family portraits for paying clients.
When Benedict was still a young man, he made it clear that he would not put away his “artistic foolishness.” Neither would he relegate his painting to the status of a hobby. This made things difficult between him and the marquis. They’d fought almost daily. Benedict’s older brother, Gregory, had struggled to restore peace between them, aided by their strong-willed mother. But in the end, Benedict simply walked out and refused to come home. He also refused his father’s money, and kept on refusing it. He would make his own way.
Mother, Benedict found out later, left the letters he wrote from Rome and Geneva lying about for Father to see. An Englishman in Europe during the reign of Napoleon was in danger, and there had been one or two close calls. Then Benedict had come home with Gabriella, and Mother had finally put her foot down with both her husband and her son. Benedict was married. There might be a grandchild. The estrangement would not continue.
As usual, Mother got her way. Eventually. Father and son became reconciled. Benedict’s continued refusal to take the marquis’s money had helped. Gabriella helped. She was perfectly capable of being charming when it suited her, and it suited her to have Benedict in his father’s good books. They might, after all, need that money one day. They did not know then how successful Benedict was going to be once he brought Gabriella out for the whole world to see.
Of course, they didn’t know how far he was going to fall, either. But Gabriella had been beyond caring when that happened.
Benedict settled into his father’s comfortable oak-paneled study and accepted a glass of his best port. They talked about the state of the roads, as the marquis had
come up from the country. They talked about his older brother, Gregory, and the estate, and the prospects of both.
“You’re looking tired, Benedict,” Father said eventually.
The usual topics of polite conversation are the weather and the roads and everybody’s health, Madelene’s voice whispered in the back of his mind, and Benedict struggled to keep the smile off his face. “You’re looking rather tired yourself, sir, if I may say.”
Father chuckled. “You may, but I’m nearing sixty, so it’s to be expected. I hear your exhibition went well.”
Benedict shrugged. “Reasonably. I sold a picture.” And took it back again. “I gained a commission for a portrait. That should keep the wolf from the door.”
“Ah.” The marquis nodded absently, and then, because he tried to take an interest in Benedict’s work, he asked, “Whose is the portrait?”
Benedict swirled the liquid in his glass. For a moment, he considered saying nothing. But the marquis was a canny old man, and he’d always known when either of his boys was trying to fib, or duck responsibility.
“Madelene Valmeyer,” Benedict said.
The marquis’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Oh-ho! The Valmeyer girl. Well, well. Wouldn’t have thought her stepmother would unbend that far.”
“As it happens, it’s a friend who asked for the portrait.” Benedict paused and took another sip of port. “Do you know the family?”
“Distantly. Didn’t really move in the same circles.” He chuckled. “Now I sound like an old snob, don’t I? Well, maybe I am. Never could abide Sir Reginald. Too calculating by half and nowhere near as competent as he needs to be for the kind of business he keeps trying to get himself into.”
“What of her mother?”
“Her mother . . .” He paused. “Now the mother was very different. Very.”
