Portrait of a Scandal

by Annie Burrows

  She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But every time she tucked it into her hair, the fire of the gems sparkling from the darkness of their setting would always remind her of the sparks that had flared from this brief moment of twisted, thwarted passion. And she would remember how desirable he’d made her feel.

  * * *

  Amethyst woke the next morning with a smile on her face. Somewhere in this city, Harcourt was stomping around in fury at the erroneous belief she was a kept woman and wishing he was the one to have her in keeping. For the first time in ten years, she felt as though she was an attractive woman—in one man’s eyes at least. And since she didn’t much care what any other man thought about her, it was enough to make her feel like skipping down the Boulevard, hand in hand with Sophie, laughing with sheer joy.

  ‘Where do you plan to take us today, Monsieur Le Brun?’ she asked with bated breath when he came to report to her, after breakfast. ‘I hear the Louvre is well worth a visit.’

  ‘I can arrange for a viewing of the works of art for you, madame, of course,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, but you promised to take me to see the animals in the menagerie,’ cried Sophie.

  ‘We can go another day,’ put in Fenella hastily, ever the peacemaker.

  ‘No, no,’ said Amethyst, making a play of looking out of the windows. ‘The weather may not favour a trip out of doors another day. You must take Sophie to see the animals. Especially since she seems to feel you have given your word. Though I rather think I should like you to arrange for my own admission, Monsieur Le Brun. Once I have finished my paperwork for the day, I shall not want to sit about twiddling my thumbs.’

  * * *

  Since Sophie had been so determined to go and look at the animals, Fenella had put up very little resistance to her scheme. And not two hours after they’d departed for the Jardin des Plantes, where the menagerie was to be found, she was walking through the maze of statues on the ground floor, then mounting the stairs which led to the gallery where she’d agreed to meet Nathan.

  She gripped her parasol tightly. There were so many other people here, studying the paintings. How was she going to find Nathan amongst them all? And did she really want to? What was she going to say to him?

  She hadn’t thought this through. Her pulse jumping to her throat, she turned blindly toward the nearest painting, which happened to be Titian’s San Pietro Martire.

  ‘He looks as though he’s taken great pride in the kill, I always think,’ said Harcourt, who’d somehow found her in the crowd and managed to approach her without her noticing.

  She didn’t turn round. She didn’t think she could look him in the face without blushing. She’d spent far too many hours, since she’d last seen him, reliving the sensations he’d aroused by kissing her. And then, because he’d made it plain he wanted so much more than kissing, imagining what the rest of it might be like as well. It had left her heated, shaky sometimes, and at other times with a delightful sense in all her limbs as though she was floating a few inches above the muddy streets of Paris, in a kind of hazy-pink romantic cloud.

  Which was ridiculous. There was nothing the least bit romantic about what he wanted from her.

  Nevertheless, she couldn’t help feeling...feminine—that was the only way to describe it—in a way she hadn’t since she’d been a hopeful débutante, dreaming of veils and orange blossom.

  She was feeling decidedly feminine now, at the rush of his breath against her cheek when he’d leaned close to murmur into her ear. He was standing so close that she could feel the heat of his body along her back and smell the aroma of smoke emanating from his clothing, as though he’d recently been standing near a bonfire.

  In an attempt to shake off the spell, she resorted to a challenge.

  ‘Is that any way to greet me?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. It’s just that you seemed to be studying it so intently. And as I’ve already told you, I spend a lot of time here, admiring the works of true masters. I cannot help but admire beauty when I see it. Which is why I am drawn to you, every time I see you about the city with your companions, in spite of knowing better.’ Just as she was drawn to him, too, in spite of knowing better.

  ‘Perhaps I should not have come...’

  Only, he’d reached another Amy, one she tried the hardest not to let anyone see. The Amy who’d lain in bed, night after lonely night, wishing someone, anyone, would come and put their arms round her and tell her she wasn’t a disappointment. Not to them.

  That Amy couldn’t resist getting as close to Nathan as she could. To feel the warmth of his body all along her back. The whisper of his breath on the nape of her neck as he murmured into her ear, ‘I am glad you did.’

  They stood quite still for a few moments, pretending to gaze at the painting, whilst really enjoying the feeling of being so close. At least, that was what she was doing. And if he wasn’t, then surely he would move away, instead of standing there, breathing in such a way that her insides were turning liquid with longing?

  ‘You...you spend a lot of time here, you said.’

  ‘I am an artist,’ he said abruptly. Was he annoyed she’d deliberately broken the sensual mood that had been shimmering between them? ‘Of course I want to study the works of the greats, and see how they managed to produce works like this, when all I...’ He paused. ‘I have little talent, not compared with men like these. It can be frustrating.’

  ‘Then why continue?’

  ‘Because being an artist is not something you choose. It is something you are. I cannot simply admire a view without wondering how I could capture something of its grandeur on canvas. Any more than I can look at an interesting face and not itch to sketch it. And as for your hair...’

  ‘My hair?’ At that she did turn her head to look up at him over her shoulder. He was staring at the few curls that inevitably escaped her bonnet with a kind of fascination.

  ‘I have never seen another woman, anywhere, with hair quite the same shade. It defies analysis. Fielding always used to say it was just brunette,’ he scoffed. ‘He never glimpsed the rich ruby lights that shone from its depths when you passed under a branch of candles...’

  When she gasped, he looked straight into her eyes. They were standing so close that it felt as though they were breathing the same air. He would only have to bend his head, just a fraction, and they would be kissing.

  As though the same thought had just occurred to him, his gaze dropped to her lips. For a heartbeat or two they just stood there, looking at each other’s mouths and breathing. Heavily.

  ‘If you are really too afraid to risk losing the protection of that Frenchman,’ he said harshly, ‘then do you think he might give me permission to paint you? Just head and shoulders. I can’t sleep for thinking about your hair. And if I could get you up to my studio, then perhaps—’

  ‘Monsieur Le Brun is not my protector,’ she said, cutting him off. He might say he only wanted to paint her, but she knew what he really wanted was so much more than that.

  And she wanted it too.

  Great heavens, she wanted it too. It was wrong. Perhaps even wicked. But it was far too late in her life to dream of romance and wedding bells. And here stood a man who was burning with desire for her. Genuine desire. It must be, for he had no idea how wealthy she was. He even thought she might be in the keeping of some other man. But it hadn’t stopped him...lusting after her. To some women it might not seem like very much, but whatever it was that flared between them was real.

  ‘If you want to paint my portrait, you have only to ask me.’

  Harcourt’s eyes blazed with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat.

  ‘You will have to come to my studio,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You know where it is?’

  ‘Yes.’ She flushed. Since the day he’d
scribbled the address on the back of that sketch, she’d found out exactly where he lived, by pretending an interest in the layout of the streets through which they walked or drove. She’d even managed to drive past the hôtel where he had his lodgings and tried to guess behind which of the many windows his rooms lay.

  ‘Can you come alone?’

  Her heart thudded against her chest. She knew it. He wasn’t asking her if he could paint her portrait at all, but whether she was willing to become his lover. A thrill of wicked excitement shot through her. Could she really do it? Take a lover?

  It would mean an end to any hope of securing the trade agreements she’d ostensibly come to Paris for, if anyone found out.

  And as for Fenella—she would be scandalised.

  ‘You will have to paint my portrait, if I do,’ she said. So long as he produced some kind of painting by the time they returned to England, she might be able to convince Fenella that nothing untoward had gone on.

  And she wanted him so much. Not in the same way she’d wanted him as a girl. It hadn’t been marriage she’d been dreaming of as she lay in her lonely, empty bed.

  ‘I could come alone...’

  He gripped her hand, though they were in full view of dozens of other tourists and might easily be noticed.

  Yet she made no attempt to withdraw her hand, for she was held by the gleam of satisfaction that shone from his eyes.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Tonight?’ All of a sudden what she was considering became a bit too real. A kiss was one thing, but all the rest? And straight away?

  She might be a virgin, but she knew what men and women did in the privacy of their bedrooms.

  Her aunt might have sneered at girls who ‘lifted their skirts to oblige a man’s beastly desires’. But then her aunt had never been in love. If she had, she would know that sometimes you could look at a man and just swoop inside. And melt. And feel as though you would do anything if only he would put his arms round you again.

  Not that she was in love.

  She just wanted that feeling she’d got when he’d put his arms round her. And have his lips touching hers again. And...when he wanted more, as he surely would, then she—yes, she wanted to find out what that was like too. She’d overheard servants gossiping and giggling about what their menfolk got up to between the sheets. It had sounded as though they thoroughly enjoyed it.

  And if she didn’t like it, then she needn’t ever do it again. She would have found out the truth for herself. As her aunt had always said—never take anything on trust.

  And she’d spent so many years trying to be good. Trying to win approval from people who kept on assuming the worst of her. She’d paid dearly for sins she had never committed.

  So what was the point in not committing them?

  She lifted her chin and met his look full on.

  ‘Not tonight.’ It was too soon. There were preparations she had to make. The one thing she did not want to risk was having a baby, outside of wedlock. And she wasn’t going to trip naïvely into his studio assuming he would take care of that aspect of things, let alone trust him to take care of her, should the worst come to the worst.

  She didn’t need him to take care of her—that was not the point. She was wealthy enough to take care of both herself and any number of children she might have. The point was she did not want to be responsible for burdening some poor innocent child with the terrible stigma of illegitimacy.

  ‘When, then?’

  ‘Tomorrow night’, if she could find an apothecary who spoke English well enough to understand what she needed to purchase and for what purpose, because the last thing she wanted was to have to take Monsieur Le Brun along to interpret for her! ‘Or perhaps the one after’, if it proved difficult to find such an establishment.

  He dropped her hand and took a step back, his face hardening.

  ‘I might not be there,’ he said.

  He might not be there? She’d just taken the momentous decision to fling herself off the precipice of respectability, into the unknown sea of carnality, and he could just shrug it off, as though it was nothing?

  Well, she could shrug too.

  She did so, then said, with as much insouciance as she could muster, ‘Then I will have had a wasted journey.’

  She turned to walk away from him. She wasn’t going to beg him to change his mind, or show a bit more enthusiasm. She wasn’t going to let him see how badly his casual attitude towards becoming her lover hurt her, either.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, coming up and falling into step beside her. ‘Make a definite appointment, give me a fixed time, and I will be there.’

  The way he looked at her calmed her ruffled feathers instantly. He wanted her. He really wanted her. He was just too proud to beg.

  ‘Saturday, then,’ she said. Because in part, he was right. If she didn’t set a definite date, she might never work up the courage to go through with it. ‘And if, by any chance, I cannot keep our...’

  ‘Assignation,’ he supplied, putting paid to any last lingering doubt they might be talking about painting her portrait.

  She swallowed. ‘I will get word to you, so you will not be disappointed.’

  ‘I will be disappointed if you do not come,’ he grated. ‘But—’ he flung up his chin ‘—neither will I pursue you. It must be your choice. Come to me freely, or not at all.’

  With that, he turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving her frowning after him. That last speech hadn’t sounded like the kind of thing a seasoned seducer of women would say at all. In fact, if she hadn’t known better, she might have thought his pride might be wounded if she didn’t go through with what she’d promised.

  Which was absurd. She was only another conquest. Just one more in a long line of women he’d enjoyed and then discarded.

  She meant nothing more to him than any of the others. Of course she didn’t.

  And she’d better not start looking for signs that she might.

  Chapter Six

  Two nights. She’d made him wait two whole nights.

  What kind of game was she playing? What was so important she could put off this raging inferno that blazed between them for two whole nights?

  She was letting him know that she was not as desperate to take him as her lover as he was to become hers. He raised his hand and stabbed his brush at the canvas on which he was currently working—the back view of a woman, her head tilted to one side as she tried to make sense of the picture before which she stood.

  So be it. Let her play her little games. It was what women did. Lucasta was never happier than when she had some poor victim dangling on a string. But he wouldn’t be anyone’s puppet, then or now. However long she made him wait, he would do whatever it took to break free of the obsession that had taken hold of him since the night she’d shown up in Paris. And the one sure way to do it would be in bed. Once he’d slaked his lust, there would be nothing left. Wasn’t that always the way with women?

  Once he’d done with her, perhaps he would be free of the bitterness that had steadily grown throughout his twenties, the rage that made him cruel to his friends, callous towards women and so reckless of his reputation even his father had been forced to agree there was nothing for it but to send him abroad.

  Not that he’d minded coming to Paris. Almost as soon as he’d arrived, he’d started to find a measure of...something in his life that had always been lacking before. It wasn’t just the fact that he’d broken free of his family’s stranglehold, ceased the pretence and the posturing, and was finally doing what he’d always wanted to do. It was more than that. It was the feeling that he could be anyone he wanted here. Nobody thought him odd for tossing aside his entire lifestyle. After all, they’d just overthrown an entire regime. The whole country was making itself over into something new, not just him.
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br />   And if a people could depose their own king, a man could conquer his obsession with the woman who’d sent his whole life into disarray. Yes, he could. He put down his brush and picked up the canvas. The romantic aspirations he’d had as a callow youth had long since charred to ashes. And what was left was something he could handle. He carried the painting to the far corner of his studio, where he put it down, facing the wall.

  It was lust, that was all he felt for Miss Dalby. All she was good for was bedding. And he knew, from experience, that once he’d bedded her even the lust would pass. He would finally know, in his heart, as well as in his head, that she was...nothing.

  * * *

  ‘Are you quite sure you know what you are doing?’ Fenella was practically wringing her hands as Amethyst tied the ribbons of her new bonnet in a jaunty bow under her chin. She’d been unhappy from the moment Amethyst had admitted she’d met Harcourt in the Louvre and commissioned him to paint her portrait.

  ‘It isn’t really...proper...to be alone with a man, you know. And I am supposed to—’

  ‘Do not worry, Fenella,’ said Amethyst briskly, giving her reflection one last assessing glance in the mirror. ‘I know exactly what I am doing. And since nobody in Stanton Basset will ever know what we choose to do while we are in Paris, unless we tell them, there is no fear of them criticising you for allowing me to behave with impropriety.’

  ‘I cannot help worrying. You are so innocent. If you are alone with a man...even if he says he is only going to paint your portrait...the intimacy of the situation might well lead to—’ Fenella broke off, and bit down on her lower lip. ‘I am not casting aspersions on your character, please believe me. It is just that you do not understand how very tempting some men can be. And I know that you do find Monsieur Harcourt tempting. Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but he has hardly been out of your mind for years and years. And now that he is showing an interest in you, I am afraid it might be turning your head.’