by Liz Tyner
She ran a finger over the canvas. ‘Andrew.’
One brow flicked up. The smallest shake of his head. His body stilled.
‘You will be a grand subject.’ She breathed in deeply, her imagination taking her senses closer to him, pulling the barest whiffs of pine, leather and maleness and immersing it into her brain with the tones and hues of his skin.
‘Andrew.’ She stepped closer, her body responding to all the parts of him, both real and imagined. ‘I would so love to paint you as you were created.’ She focused on the threads of his coat sleeve, touching only one finger pad to the cloth and absorbing as much of the fabric as possible with the briefest touch. ‘Imagine, the Andrew Nude.’
His face tilted down and he quite looked over his nose at her. One emphatic shake of his head.
Her skirts swirled around the legs of his trousers and an awareness flowed through the material. ‘I simply could not ask a footman to remove his shirt and, if I remember correctly, you were willing to remove clothing, or at least push it aside, when we first met. I would like to paint all of you.’
‘I will not ever pose without clothing. Even for Rembrandt.’
‘I am extremely fascinated by the male form.’ Her hand touched the buttons of his waistcoat. ‘And this would be of no prurient nature. We are not talking of base natures and leering eyes. We are talking of art. Grand and majestic.’
She reached out, touching his chin. ‘Your nose—straight, flared but not overly so. A mouth, wide enough. Teeth—amazing. And your hair—the way it falls across your face. That dark hair overwhelms me. Women would never see Fox standing beside you if you would just flash them a smile. Only because you hide within yourself do you keep women away from you. I’ve never seen a man so well formed as you—’ She locked eyes with him. ‘And I certainly have looked. You’ve shoulders to spare and hips not too lean, but a perfect base. And muscled in the right amounts. Greek statues pale in comparison.’
‘You flatter me.’ He smiled. ‘You can continue. I’m just not taking off any clothing.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I look at you with a critical eye. I would wager no one has ever peered at you so closely as I have and seen so much.’
Her hand slipped under his waistcoat, palm flattened, captured by the close fit of the material. Only her fingers could move. ‘You are exactly what I want in a model.’
She rested her head against him, taking her palm from beneath his clothing and letting it float along the cloth, shutting her eyes, trying to memorise each turn of his body. Feeling the proportions of his height and his shoulders. All of him she could press against her and wishing she could hold him close for hours, hugging it all into her memory.
Chapter Eleven
There were worse things in life than to be the object of an artist’s attention, Andrew thought as Beatrice hugged herself against him.
He took her shoulders in his hands to scoot her back from him, but once his fingers gripped they floated down her back. His cheek rested against her hair and he realised art had much to offer. Shadows and proportions were part of it. The curves and textures and warmth another.
If she painted him without clothing, he would face the temptation of her eyes, her lips and he was sure there was more. Much more. Days would pass when he thought of nothing else but her. Already he wondered if she had not shown him a part of himself that he had not known existed.
He wished he had been there on the night she’d taken the scissors to her husband.
To bed her on the first night they met would have been safe—when he did not know her. But now he saw the person she was—someone who’d suffered because of Riverton’s actions.
‘Andrew, you’ve a bone structure better than I’ve ever seen. Your body is magnificent, joined together in all the right ways—at least what I can see of it. Those eyes of yours—unfathomable—except when your mask falls away and I see the gaze of a hungry male.’ She pulled away, but as she moved, his hands slid down her arms, stopping to clasp her fingertips.
Beatrice looked him over top to bottom. ‘Arousing. If I could capture that look from your eyes. If I could put your form on canvas in your most natural state.’
With all the other thoughts and sensations at war within himself, the only one with an easy answer was the question of a nude painting. ‘I will never agree.’
‘True. You wouldn’t. I realise that.’
Standing in the room with her was all the adventure he wished for. The thought crashed into him. He had felt the wind from an erupting storm blast against his face and body with such force it almost took his feet from under him and that was nothing compared to the vibrancy unleashed from her.
‘No one would ever have to see it but the two of us,’ she said.
He spoke loudly, to make sure his words reached all his extremities. ‘No.’
She slipped her fingers from his and moulded against him, shuddering. ‘I understand.’ Her voice soft. Her hand soft. Every part of her body against his—soft. His body—hard.
But he did not want to hurt her. He did not.
Boadicea. The female leader who could stir a thousand—no, a hundred thousand men to do her bidding. But it didn’t change the battle.
A battle. Uphill. Defeat.
More than ever, for his own children, he wanted what he had once had. The quiet order of the world from his early memories. The soft voices. The muted light bringing everyone close so they could see their books in the early winter darkness.
Boadicea might well have loved her daughters more deeply than any mother ever could, but it did not mean their lives were kind and gentle.
‘Beatrice. I will pose for a clothed portrait only.’ If he disrobed for her to paint him, it would be difficult to— Impossible to— Impossibly hard—
He shut his eyes. He hated his self-control, but it was necessary. Not just for himself, but for her as well. She must understand the need to keep her name from gossips. Some day she might have children. Or Wilson would have children. They would not want their children to have to listen to sordid tales from the sheets. The stories already published needed a chance to fade deeper into the background. That was best for all concerned.
He felt his shirt rising from his trousers, pulled upwards, long fingers slipping on to his skin. Burning a trail across his stomach. Fingers which practically took him to his knees.
He grasped her wrist, stopping her movement.
‘I am only learning your body,’ she said. ‘I am seeing you with my touch.’
‘Perhaps that is what your eyes are for.’
‘I suppose.’ She stepped back, using her hand to fan her face. ‘Inspiration is so overwhelming.’
She shivered, then walked to a container of brushes, tips pointing upwards, and pulled out one. ‘If you will not have the grace to pose for an unforgettable piece of artwork, then I will paint a formal portrait of you. A gift. For both of us. The pose, a present from you to me. The canvas from me to you. I will put all my feelings into the creation.’
Gentle raps sounded while she tapped the wood handle of the paintbrush against the table. ‘I shall need a large amount of black pigment for your coat and some white for your cravat.’ Her voice softened. ‘No one has ever been proven to have an apoplexy from wearing other colours, Andrew.’
She talked of hues when he could only think of the subtle movements beneath her clothing. He would need more caution than he had ever used in his life. He would be building castles to remove Beatrice from his thoughts.
But he did want to see what she would put on canvas. To have a memento of their time together for the rest of his life. One portrait. Skin she had created on the canvas. A face she fashioned. A way of binding them for ever.
And he would pose because no man could say no to this woman, not the one in the painting in Somerset House, nor the one standing in front of him now.
* * *
Beatrice could stand across the room from Andrew and feel him as if she touched him. He would ma
ke the most perfect portrait. She had created her version of a woman with strength in her Boadicea painting—her rendition of all that a woman was meant to be. Now, she wished for the male complement to the painting. No one else in the world could be that person, but him.
She imagined the finished product. Could see the form of it clearly. Needed to see the exactness of it. Needed to capture what her mind saw and put it on canvas.
She whirled around so she couldn’t see him, and yet, he remained in her vision. She pulled strength from inside herself so she wouldn’t be too awed when she turned again.
Distancing herself from the emotions buffeting her, she walked forward and reached up. ‘Pardon me.’ Her hand touched his chin, moving to go over each plane of his skin, feeling the barest hint of whiskers. ‘Your valet does a close shave.’ She gave a sniff. ‘And what is that scent he uses after he shaves you? It’s quite masculine. Reminds me of forests.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t believe touching is necessary to painting.’
She smiled. ‘No. But I rather like it.’
He bent forward, speaking softly. ‘So do I. That is why you must not do it.’
‘Well, then.’ She ducked her chin. ‘I suppose I must not touch you—as you know, I always follow your direction.’
In that section, their gazes held for a moment and acknowledged what she had truly said. She turned away first and pointed to a small pedestal by the window. ‘Stand there and prop your elbow on it. Look thoughtful—not as if you are going to your own hanging.’
She recognised that stone-cold uncaring look—the one she now suspected appeared when he felt things most intensely.
Frowning, she studied him, looking for imperfections. A flaw, a scar—the man could not be this perfect of form.
‘Let me see you...’ she said, stepping forward.
Nothing on his face changed. She shook her head. ‘Snarl or something. Pretend you’re the beast this time. I want to see the muscles move on your face.’
‘First you ask me to disrobe...’ he muttered. He showed her his incisors.
She examined him. Proportionally, he was exquisite. She stared at his ears, but they were half-hidden under hair. He closed his mouth into a sharp line—which immediately wrested her attention from his ears. Little lines did appear at the side of his eyes—but not severe ones. They only made him seem wise, somehow.
‘I must touch your hair,’ she said.
‘No.’
Her hand stopped in mid-air. ‘Your ears. I have to see them completely. You must have a flaw of some sort.’ She dropped her hand to one side.
He reached up with one hand, threading his fingers in his hair and revealing his ear, but just as soon he released the locks and they fell into the same ruffled disorder that gave him the roguish look she preferred.
She examined. ‘Remarkable, in their own way. Just the right size. Not too big. Perfect lobes...’
She walked to stare at his profile. He gazed heavenwards for a second and then frowned at her.
‘That night, the night—I saw you truly for the first time, in the light of the candle—I could not believe the perfection in your face.’ She stood on tiptoe and peered into his eyes. ‘Lovely flecks of light and darker colours mixed.’
‘I am not a horse at Tattersall’s. And you were wearing someone else’s spectacles that first night.’
‘Which I peered over.’
He gave a sharp nod. ‘Beatrice...’ He lowered his chin and moved, propping his elbow on to the pedestal. ‘If the paint does not start to flow in a heartbeat, I am leaving.’
‘Very well.’ She stepped to the canvas, tipped her head at an angle to look at him and reached for her sketching pencil. ‘Be still.’
He would be aghast if she painted his waistcoat vermilion.
She perched on the three-legged stool and the only sounds in the room were the whispers as the graphite of the pencil brushed against canvas.
Beatrice made the flowing strokes which would give her the outline of his form, imagining the lines of his body—wishing she’d not let her desires overwhelm her when she’d had the chance to view him unclothed. And wishing she’d had a whole night to explore all of him.
Keeping her eyes in motion, she switched her gaze from Andrew to the canvas and back again.
He raised his hand, moved it into a fist and propped his chin on it, shutting his eyes. He looked so dear, even with the grimace on his face. How fortunate she was to have been born in the same world as him and to find him, basically, on her doorstep. It was destined for her to capture the man. This would be her masterpiece.
She kept sketching, but took a moment to savour the look of his lashes reposing on his cheeks.
Her hand worked furiously, trying to pull each nuance of him on to the canvas, making sure to get the proportions just right, the lines close enough, and when they weren’t, she moved, changing, making another darker line nearby.
Time flowed as quickly as her pencil. Then she reached for the paints.
She looked at him, then touched her brush to canvas, gliding the colour on to the surface with precision, biting her lip. ‘Uh-hum,’ she muttered, feeling a calming oblivion with the stroke of the brush.
Andrew sat still and she realised he now watched her as closely as she studied him, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the art. The paintbrush controlled her thoughts and her mind focused simply on transferring her vision from sight to canvas.
When she painted, and her mind and hands joined into the skill she had practised, the process she felt was not the slow application of colour to a surface. The world around her ceased to be.
She couldn’t see a seed take life—the process happened at such a different rate that the mind could not capture it. The plant would sprout, the stem, leaves and then a flower would burst forth. Painting took her inside the process so that she could feel and see the growth of the art. To experience the same thing in the garden would have meant she would have been inside the seed and felt the changes of it from the beginning until the final roots were formed.
Each brush stroke absorbed her and she worked, not from conscious thought, but letting her eyes guide the brush. She didn’t think of what she did—she let the brush free.
‘Beatrice,’ she heard a voice and realised Andrew spoke.
Shrugging away the minor irritation of being interrupted, she looked at him.
‘We’ve been here hours,’ he said, ‘and if I don’t move soon, I won’t be able to.’
‘That can’t be true,’ she spoke, turning her head to see the clock. He told the truth. Hours had passed. She gave herself a shake.
‘One bit more,’ she muttered, clenching her teeth softly on her tongue while painting the top of the eyelid. She wanted eyelashes, but not visible—as the human eye might distort them when viewing. ‘I just need to redo this lid. Your eyes must be correct, Andrew. The eyes are everything to a portrait, although the hands are important as well.’
He stood and stretched, arms unfurling, reaching out, an explosion of man in front of her, bringing her from the trance of concentration into the world of different sensations.
His arms stretched. His back lengthened and swirled, and his eyes shut briefly when he blinked. Her paintbrush stopped, forgotten.
She’d never known a black coat could have so much vibrancy. Each twist and turn affected the earth in some way because she felt herself move with the coat.
‘Beatrice...’
She raised her eyes to his face.
‘You have been staring at me with your brush poised in the air.’
‘Oh.’ She shook her head, not in disagreement, but as a way to return her mind to the real world. Cleaning the brush, she put it in a glass, bristles up. She picked up the flannel and wiped the pigments from her hands.
‘Beatrice, I must go.’ He yawned, then moved more, muscles stretching again.
She drank in the movements.
He adjusted his waistcoat twice. His slee
ves. Again.
She paused in her view, remembering the post she’d received that morning. She spoke in a pained voice. ‘Unfortunately, my mother has seen the papers and has decided to return here. She is concerned that she might miss out on something. She likes to be in the thick of things. She is planning to stay with me and I’m sure she’ll meet you.’
‘I have no issue with that,’ he said.
‘I do,’ she muttered. ‘Mother always has her own idea of how her children’s lives should be lived. You never know what she might say. I was so happy when she decided to live with her sister for a time.’
‘I am not the least concerned.’
‘Perhaps you might invite her to live with you, then,’ she suggested. ‘She hardly takes up any space and eats very little. I will even send staff along to see to her needs.’
Her mother would take one look at Andrew, realise he was the duke’s brother and so forth, and be planning a marriage. If she found out Andrew wanted her daughter to improve her reputation, Mother would be willing to finance the special licence herself. Hopefully she would not propose on Beatrice’s behalf.
* * *
After Andrew bid her goodbye, her world darkened when the door closed with a gentle snap, but when she looked at the canvas, it was as if he remained in the room. She smiled.
She examined the face taking shape before her, unaware of any world beyond.
Inspiration plunged into her. She brushed a hair back from her face and moved to the door, locking it.
She went to her easel, took the canvas of Andrew and propped it on the sofa, concealing the dried one behind it.
Then she scurried to her supply room and clattered around among the various plaster casts of body parts she had purchased to give her proportions. She moved aside an abandoned half-finished painting and reached behind it to the canvas lying horizontally. She’d had it stretched at the same time she purchased the one for Boadicea. She turned the canvas so the length of it was vertical. A perfect fit. A perfect fit for a life-sized portrait.
Her easel was too small, but she didn’t care. She’d prop the canvas against the frame of it and make it work just as she had with the other one.
