by Darcie Wilde
Madelene looked around herself in confusion. The studio seemed exactly as it had been. There was the easel and the blank page waiting. The rush-bottomed chair and the stool and the strings and the pot of geraniums, but . . .
Benedict smiled. “Turn around.”
Madelene obeyed. “Oh!”
He’d been at work with his chalks again, but this time instead of the floor, he’d decorated the wall. Benedict had drawn an ornate golden frame over and around the plain threshold of his studio door. It looked like something out of the engravings Madelene had seen of Versailles, complete with cherubs and turtledoves and curlicues, spread lavishly across the chipped wood and plain whitewashed wall. The door itself had been covered entirely in white chalk and a drawing of a wreath of yellow roses. They looked so lifelike that for a moment, Madelene was certain she smelled the flowers’ sweet perfume.
“It’s wonderful!” she cried. “But what . . . ?”
“This,” said Benedict solemnly, “is my answer to our mutual contradictions. I hope it is, anyway.”
“I don’t understand. I mean, it’s beautiful, but . . .”
“You gave me the idea when you spoke about your cousin’s method of taking charge of the space around oneself. Only I took it a step further and thought I might . . . set aside a space. This”—he gestured toward the gold and white decorated door—“is the threshold of the world. All the city, all the country, everyone and everything, lies on the other side. On this side, there is only you and me. We are the only ones who see what happens here, or hear what is said.”
“This space is ours,” she said slowly. “We neither of us need to be nervous here, because no one can see.”
“You understand, but I was sure you would.” Benedict was talking too quickly and rubbing his hands on his smock, leaving smears of color behind. He must have been working up until the minute she climbed the stairs. “Artists, we live a great deal in our own minds, and sometimes we come up with ideas that seem perfectly sensible, until we tell them to other people. Then we can find ourselves looked at very oddly.”
He was holding himself apart from her, deliberately. His whole frame was as stiff and alert as a soldier at attention. She’d never seen him so nervous. It made him look entirely boyish, and as she watched him, a sweet warmth spread through her. He was waiting to know what she thought.
She felt herself smile, both at the lovely decoration and at the fact that Lord Benedict so clearly cared about her reception of his work. She knew what he was doing, of course. He was giving her a game to play, one where she could pretend to be safe and unobserved. It was to make it easier for her to sit still. She also knew it wouldn’t work. At least it shouldn’t have worked. Except as she gazed on his lovely, elaborate, lifelike drawing of a gilded threshold and saw all the care he’d put into the idea, something inside her eased and opened. He’d made this for her. It was a gift, and it was thoughtful and heartfelt.
It also meant that he wanted to be alone with her as much as she had always wanted to be alone with him.
Madelene knew her eyes were shining when she turned toward Benedict. “Thank you,” she said, and, to her embarrassment, her voice trembled a little. She swallowed and tried to steady it. “I don’t think it’s odd at all. I think it’s lovely.”
“I’m glad.”
It was only two words, but Benedict spoke them with a world of meaning. Madelene’s heart, already swollen with hope, fluttered gently beneath her breasts. Something is going to happen, it whispered. Not yet, not yet, but so soon . . .
“Shall we begin?” Benedict gestured toward her chair.
“Yes,” she said. “I think we should.”
Madelene assumed her usual place, and Benedict took up paper and pencil. Anticipation curled up tightly beneath her breast. She could feel it like a warm and pleasant weight next to her heart.
Benedict felt something, too. She could tell. He brimmed with fresh energy. There was a spark in his dark eyes that she had not seen before this. It felt close to that sympathetic vibration she’d recognized the first moment they’d stood together, but this was no brief lightning flash of feeling. This was the steady, extended warmth of the sunbeams on her face and hands.
Soon, whispered anticipation. Soon.
But she must not think on it. She must not dare to imagine or to hope for too much. This feeling might still break as it had so many times before. She might lose heart, or nerve, or he might. She must concentrate on her pose. Even seated she could practice the lessons Cousin Henry had given them.
“You do not need to be sure of the whole world,” Henry had reminded her as they’d walked through the figures of a particularly complex quadrille, with bits of scenery standing in for other dancers. “Just the inch around you. That’s more than enough.”
Benedict’s voice cut across her thoughts. “Where are you, Madelene?”
“I’m right here.”
“No, you’re not. You’re somewhere out there.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Beyond the threshold.”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking about yesterday and dancing lessons. My cousin Henry, Henry Cross the actor, he’s teaching Adele and Helene, and me, to dance.”
Benedict’s pencil paused. “When you said your cousin Henry was an actor, I didn’t realize you meant Henry Cross.”
“He says you’ve met.”
“Once or twice,” Benedict said briefly. “I would have thought you already a very good dancer.”
“I know the steps, when I’m not too flustered. But I need practice. That’s why he’s been teaching me all his notions of space.” She paused. Benedict was staring toward the balcony, a soft smile playing about his expressive mouth. “Now it’s you who’s gone, Lord Benedict.”
Benedict shook himself and dropped his gaze from the windows. “I’m sorry. I was just woolgathering.”
“That’s not fair,” Madelene told him primly. “I told you about my distraction. You must tell me about yours.”
His smile turned shy. “All right.” He took a deep breath. “I was imagining dancing with you.”
A flush crept across Madelene’s cheeks, but there was no feeling of shame. The image of Benedict in evening dress and holding his arm out to lead her to the floor, the swell of music around them . . . It was magic.
“You could come to a party,” she ventured. “We’re going to Lady Virgil’s ball this Friday. I’m sure Miss Sewell could acquire . . .”
“No,” Benedict said flatly.
“But . . .”
“No,” he said, more gently this time. “I do not go into society. Not regularly. Not to dance.”
“Why not?”
A shadow of anger crossed his face, and Madelene watched him rein in his first impulse to snap at her. She bit her tongue hard to keep back her own first instinct, which was to apologize at once and change the subject.
“It’s difficult to explain.” Benedict picked up his pencil and added another line to the drawing in front of him, and another. “I . . . When my pictures were beginning to be shown in England, they were successes. I was invited everywhere and made much of. The marquis’s painter son. I was scandalous and yet one of the ton at the same time. And of course, I had my exotic wife . . .” His voice faltered. “In fact, I, we, became the fashion. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it the way a drunkard enjoys his drink. I enjoyed it all to the point I was no longer able to properly govern myself, and . . . I became a disgrace.”
“I’m sorry,” Madelene whispered.
“Don’t be.” He tried to smile at this, but the expression was bitter beyond words. “It was my own fault. Now I simply stay away.”
“But surely now that you’re older, more experienced . . .”
“No.” The word dropped like a stone. “There are some things time cannot cure.”
“I understand what it is to be afraid.”
She had no answer for that.
“I did it again.” Benedict sighed and dragged his hand through his hair, causing stray locks to fall about his ears and slant across his brow. “I’m sorry. I wish I could go to one of your parties. I would like to dance with you.”
“It is a shame we’ve no music on this side of the threshold,” she said, attempting to make the sort of joke Miss Sewell might.
“Yes, it . . . Wait. Wait.”
Benedict hurried out to the balcony. “Hey there!” he shouted, leaning so far over the railing, Madelene squeaked in fear. “Wallace! Have you got your flute out?” He paused, and a man’s voice shouted back. “Give us a waltz, won’t you?”
Benedict came back inside, grinning. He also left the doors open and moved the easel aside. As he did, a thin but sprightly waltz tune drifted in through the French doors. The music was much dimmed by the shouts and traffic noises from the lane below, but it was still audible.
Benedict bowed and held out his hand.
Madelene slapped her hand over her mouth. Now, whispered that insinuating voice. Now, if you dare.
She looked at Benedict’s lovingly decorated threshold. On the other side of the door, she couldn’t, but here . . . here there was no one to see. Here the world did not exist. There was only Benedict, and Benedict was smiling and holding out his hand.
Slowly, Madelene stood and stepped down from the dais. She moved carefully, feeling herself within the space about her, feeling herself in relation to the man who waited for her, and it was a feeling like none other.
She laid her hand on his shoulder and felt his come to rest against the small of her back. His free hand closed around hers. They wore no gloves, so there was no barrier between her soft palm and his rough, stained one.
“One, two, three,” he began, and they started to move. “One, two, three, one, two, three . . .”
“Do you have to do that?”
“Oh, did I forget to tell you? I’m a dreadful dancer.” His shoe stepped on her slipper. “You see?”
Madelene laughed; she couldn’t help it. “Well, you can’t count music, that is for certain. Let me. One, two, three . . . one, two, three . . .”
His steps smoothed out, and he began to hum along with the faint tune. It was a pleasant sound, a little off-key but sweet all the same. The sweetness of it got into her, lightening her feet, easing her mind.
“One, two three . . .” Madelene smiled up at him. His eyes were so deep, so open. She could fall into them, dive into them, drown in them. No, not drown. Benedict would never let her. He would hold on to her with his strong hands as he did now. He . . .
He dropped her hands and stopped dead, his breath heaving, his deep eyes staring. Without a word, he walked past her.
Madelene stood where he left her, her arms dangling limp at her sides, her hands numb. The moment was broken, and the warm anticipation dissolved.
I should have known. What else has ever happened between us? Why on earth did I believe today would be any different?
XV
Benedict leaned against the cold stove, gripping its edges in both hands like he meant to break the iron in two.
“Benedict?”
Madelene’s voice was soft as the first light of sunrise and just as sweet. She was right behind him, and the pleading question in his name went through him like a knife. “Did I do something wrong? Please tell me what I did.”
“Nothing,” he croaked. “You did nothing.”
“Then turn around. Look at me.”
He must. He had to do this simple thing, otherwise he would hurt her. Already, that damnable fear had crept back into her voice. He could not allow it to take root. It would be unfair. It would be criminal.
He made himself straighten. He made himself turn. She was not as close as he thought. There was a good three feet between them, but her presence filled the whole room. It was as if everything else had faded to a mere line drawing of itself. Only Madelene was whole and real.
“Perhaps you should go,” he said. “It must be near our time.”
He watched the doubt cloud her beautiful, clear eyes, and something in his heart crumbled.
“I will not go,” she whispered. “Not this time.”
“What?”
“I will not go until you tell me what is the matter.”
He could make her leave. He knew it. He could snap, shout, play the dragon. She would recoil and she would run, as she had before. She might even answer him in anger and they could have a genuine quarrel and she could storm out. That would be better for them both.
Except that was a lie. It would only be better for him. If he forced Madelene away, he would do nothing except wound her, and Benedict found he did not have it in him to deal such a blow.
“I am what’s the matter,” he told her. “I am a wounded recluse, Madelene. I cannot be the kind of man you need and deserve. Not even here, beyond the threshold I tried so hard to create.”
She stood paralyzed in the patch of sunlight that streamed in from the open doors. Benedict watched his words settle into her. He watched her comprehension blossom, both for what he said and what he did not.
His heart was thundering. His whole frame shook from its pounding, marking an irregular counterpoint to the waltz that still drifted faintly and lazily in on the warm air.
“You are the man I need, Benedict,” she said. “You are the man I want.”
No! he wanted to shout. It cannot be! I cannot be!
But there was such naked and absolute trust in her face and such a world of longing in her voice. His whole soul must respond to it. She had never spoken this way to another man. He knew that at once. In this moment, she gave him a portion of herself no one else had ever seen.
And even as his reason protested, Benedict’s heart leaned toward Madelene. He wanted—no, he needed—to be the man who could accept all that her eyes promised. He must be the man who could protect and cherish her body and soul, as she deserved. He needed to return to her a measure of love and trust to match her own.
And he could not move. He could not name what held him back, but he stood rooted to the floor, with as little volition as a figure in one of his own paintings.
“Madelene,” he breathed.
There was a heartbeat’s hesitation, a moment of aching doubt that was like death itself.
“I’m here.” She opened her arms. “Benedict, I am here.”
* * *
Did she move first, or did he? Madelene would never know. All she did know was that Benedict was in her arms, and his mouth was covering hers. He was so tall she had to go up on her toes to reach his mouth and answer his frantic kisses with her own. She was calling his name, half laughing, half crying. She didn’t know what she was doing, and she didn’t care. He speared his fingers into her curls to hold her still while his mouth plundered hers. His tongue thrust into her mouth, demanding answer. He was not gentle. He’d forgotten she was fragile. He was treating her like she was strong.
And oh, it was sweet.
She pressed hard against him, seeking to feel every contour of his body. Her hands gripped his shoulders and dragged down his back. She found his hips and shamelessly pulled him against her so his arousal pressed against her belly. Excitement shot through her like summer lightning. She shivered, and her shiver made Benedict groan.
“Slowly, Madelene,” he murmured into her ear. His heated lips brushed her sensitive skin. “Gently.”
“I don’t want to go slow. I am tired of it.”
Benedict chuckled. He pulled back just a little, so she could see his smile and the dangerous desire in his half-lidded eyes. “Oh, my dear, I understand.” He drew his fingertips down her throat, and lower, to dip beneath the edge of the demure fichu she wore. “But
you must trust me. If we take the time, it will be so much better at the end.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, and she blushed at how ridiculous the question sounded. But Benedict only smiled.
“Oh yes.” He kissed her, right at the spot where the neckline of her dress met her collarbone. Her belly tightened. No, her whole body tightened. He kissed her there again and drew his mouth over to the hollow of her throat, and up, to the soft spot beneath her jaw, to the corner of her mouth, to the center, to open and taste and tease her. “I am very sure. But are you?”
“Entirely.”
“If you want to stop . . .”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t even know . . .”
Greatly daring, she raised her fingers and pressed them against his lips. His mouth was hot to her touch, and she could not resist rubbing her fingers across the sensitive skin there.
“I do,” she told him. “Helene has a book about it.”
His eyes widened. For a moment, she was afraid she’d shocked him, but no. “She would.”
“She says, and Miss Sewell says, we should know . . . what men want, and how it, we . . . that is . . .”
She was blushing. Benedict took her hand from his mouth and laid a kiss against her palm.
“I understand,” he said. “I think Helene and Miss Sewell are quite right.” Mischief sparked in his black eyes. “And now I don’t want to think about them anymore.”
“Oh?” she said, amazed at the delight filling her. It made her careless, made her free. She could do anything in this moment. She could say or be anything. No one could stop her, because here, there was no one to see except Benedict, and she wanted him to see all and everything about her. “What do you want to think about?”
“This.” He wrapped his arms tight around her, pulling her back against his chest. He lowered his head and kissed her, slowly, this time, tenderly. He lingered over each movement, each sensation, so they could both savor it.
“This,” he murmured as his mouth slid down her cheek to her jaw, to her throat.
“This.” His deft fingers undid the brooch that held her fichu closed. It dropped to the floor with a clatter, and the demure, gauzy kerchief drifted down after it. Now his mouth was on the bare skin over her collarbone, gliding down to the exposed swell of her breast. She sighed, and her fingers tangled in his hair, trying to hold him in place, or maybe just hold on to him. Her knees had gone weak, and her breath hitched. She was seeing stars, but she’d never felt less faint in her life.
