They were both tiptoeing round the fact that though Fenella and Gaston were courting, Amethyst was just having an affair. If they talked in private, one of them might speak rather too frankly.
‘With...with him, I suppose.’ Fenella’s face creased into anxious lines.
‘Yes, with him,’ Amethyst agreed calmly, tying the ribbons under her left ear in a manner that looked positively flirtatious.
‘I...I know that you say it is better not to be seen about with Gaston and me, in case someone you want to do a deal with recognises you and starts to ask awkward questions, but...’ She tiptoed into the room and shut the door behind her.
Amethyst sighed. Fenella had apparently decided that she wasn’t going to avoid speaking frankly any longer.
‘I cannot help worrying,’ she said, clasping her hands at her waist, ‘about the amount of time you spend closeted with Mr Harcourt in his lodgings. And I know that it must sound a bit hypocritical of me, given the way I have behaved with my Gaston, but I fear that...’ she took a deep breath and plunged in ‘...I fear that Mr Harcourt’s intentions are not honourable.’
‘Well, of course they are not honourable.’ Amethyst would have spared Fenella’s sensibilities if she’d just carried on pretending she didn’t know what was going on. But since Fenella had broached the topic, she wasn’t going to be mealy-mouthed about it.
‘That was the whole reason for choosing him to become my lover. You know I have no intention of ever getting married.’
‘Oh, dear. Oh, dear.’ Fenella tottered to the nearest chair and sank down onto it. ‘Your...your lover.’ She clenched her hands together again so tightly the knuckles went white. ‘I blame myself. I have been so caught up with Gaston that I have completely failed to do my duty by you as chaperon.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘No, it is not nonsense. I have set you a bad example by allowing my feelings for Gaston to—’ She broke off, going pink in the face. ‘If ever word of this got out in Stanton Basset, you would be quite ruined. Why, even if people only heard that you have been going all over Paris with a man of his reputation, there would be no end of talk. And I...I really don’t want you to have to suffer as I did. Even though I was still a completely respectable widow, then, they had no mercy. It will be worse for you, a single lady, if once they get a hint of...of this.’
‘Do you know, I don’t really care if my reputation does get a bit tarnished,’ she replied, pulling on her gloves. ‘If I was a young girl looking for a husband, or even a poor person, dependent on the goodwill of others, I might pay more heed to what other people may say of me, or think of me. Besides, you, of all people, must know how good it can make you feel to have an attractive...’ She swallowed on the word, as an image of Monsieur Le Brun’s sallow face swam into her mind. Well, there were obviously different kinds of attractive. Fenella saw something beneath the unprepossessing exterior Monsieur Le Brun presented to the world which she found attractive. ‘An attractive man,’ she repeated, ‘paying me so much attention. I am enjoying having my portrait painted and I am enjoying going out with a man with no sense of decorum whatsoever. He makes me feel...’ She paused. She had been about to say he made her feel like a girl again, but on looking back, she rather thought she’d been a bit priggish as a girl. It hadn’t been until she’d met Nathan for the first time that she’d discovered she even had a sense of humour. And she’d never just had fun, the way she had fun with Nathan. He’d introduced her to a whole new world of experience and not just in bed.
They’d talked and talked, as she’d never talked to anyone before. He was genuinely interested in her opinions. He didn’t always agree with them and sometimes their discussions grew quite heated. But he never seemed to think less of her for disagreeing with him. In fact, if she grew too angry, he would get a wicked gleam in his eyes and tell her she was at her most alluring when she got angry, and then defuse all her irritation by flinging down his brushes, stalking to the couch on which she lay and making her come, over and over again, until she lay limp and sated in his arms. And had totally forgotten whatever it was they’d been arguing about.
‘For so long,’ she said to Fenella, ‘I have felt that I have no appeal as a woman whatsoever. And now the most experienced rake in two countries is hanging on my sleeve.’
Not trying to change her, or form her opinions, or punishing her for disagreeing with him, but allowing her, for the first time in her life, to be herself.
‘Do you think worrying about what people might say, if they were to find out, is going to prevent me from making the most of it, while it lasts?’
‘No. I suppose not. But...you will be careful, won’t you? I don’t want you to get hurt.’
She spun round, on the verge of asking Fenella what she thought it was going to do to her when she left her to marry her French Count, and took Sophie away, if not wound her to the core? Sophie had become almost like a daughter to her, while she’d never had a friend as close as Fenella. If Fenella really didn’t want her to be hurt, she wouldn’t be obliging her to return to Stanton Bassett and bear the brunt of all the talk there would be, and suffer the pitying looks, the moralising and the unsolicited advice—alone.
But she bit her tongue. She mustn’t let self-pity or jealousy ruin what they could salvage of their friendship.
Jealousy? She couldn’t possibly be jealous of Fenella, having Gaston, could she? No the notion was absurd. She didn’t want a husband. She didn’t want any man to have the power over her that a husband would have, by law.
‘Thank you Fenella, for your concern,’ she said stiffly. ‘But I can assure you that I have no intention of getting hurt. This is the man who led me on, then changed his mind once before, don’t forget. I know not to trust a single word that comes out of his mouth.’
She’d taken great care not to let Nathan touch her heart. Her body, yes, and her mind. She’d found it liberating to be free with both. But she’d kept her heart safely encased in a block of ice which no amount of passion, no matter how hot, could melt.
‘Oh, dear,’ Fenella said again. ‘That sounds so very...’ She shook her head. ‘So very sad. To have no hope that things might develop...’
‘It is not the least bit sad. It is practical. I am not going to marry some man and let him wrest control of my life from me.’
‘Marriage is not like that. I’m sure Gaston will never attempt to control me.’
‘And has he informed you yet where he plans to set up home, once you are married?’
Fenella flushed and her face fell. ‘Actually, he has. He has a little property near Southampton which he says will suit me and Sophie very nicely.’
‘Southampton! The opposite end of the country from Stanton Basset. About as far away from me as he can take you.’
‘It isn’t deliberate. It isn’t as if he bought the place on purpose to keep us apart. He knew nothing about either of us when he bought it.’
Amethyst drew a deep breath. ‘I will make quite certain he does not keep us apart,’ she said grimly. ‘I had already toyed with the idea of moving away from Stanton Basset. After this trip, going back there would feel like going back to a cage. So I had thought about taking a place by the seaside. Southampton will be as good a location as anywhere.’
It eased all the hurt of hearing Fenella was going to live on the south coast when her face lit up.
‘Oh, that will be wonderful. I was a little worried,’ she admitted, ‘about how I would cope in a new town, all on my own. Because Gaston is going to be away quite a lot.’
‘Is he?’
‘Well, yes. He’s...he’s hoping to continue working as a courier for English tourists. So he can return to France again and again, until the matter of his estates is settled. You will give him a good reference, won’t you?’
‘Is that why he sent you to speak to me this morning?’ A cold sliver of uncertaint
y snaked through her middle.
‘Oh, no! He is convinced that you hate him. He is even a bit worried you might try to take some form of revenge on him for stealing me away from you.’
‘But you don’t?’
Fenella laughed. ‘Of course not! I know you better than that. You haven’t a vengeful bone in your body. You are all that is good,’ she said, pressing Amethyst’s hand affectionately. ‘Otherwise you couldn’t have let that man...Mr Harcourt...back into your life, could you?’
All of a sudden Amethyst felt like crying. Fenella’s faith in her was so touching. She was the one person who always chose to see some good in her, even when everyone else chose to think the worst.
She delved into her reticule for a handkerchief and blew her nose.
‘I suppose I shouldn’t mention him, should I?’ said Fenella. ‘It must be so difficult for you, having to bid him farewell and never be able to hope you will see him again.’
It was going to be a wrench, she couldn’t deny it. Nathan had made her feel...so alive.
‘I will always have the portrait to remind me of this time, though,’ she said, putting her hanky away.
‘You mean there really is a portrait?’
‘Yes. I’m going to view it today. And I’m going to buy it,’ she said decisively, ‘even if it is a bit of a daub.’
‘That is so like you,’ said Fenella, almost worshipfully.
‘Fustian! I won’t be doing it for him.’ Though she’d already decided she would find something complimentary to say about it, because he cared so greatly about his art. More than he cared about anything else in his life, if she’d read him aright. He’d told her, rather wistfully, when they’d first known each other, that he wished being a painter was an acceptable profession for a gentleman. But it wasn’t until these last few weeks that she’d realised that it was all he’d ever really wanted to do with his life. And now that his brief career as a politician had ensured nobody could possibly think of him as a gentleman any more, he was finally free to live the life he’d always dreamed of.
No, after all he’d done for her these past weeks, the way he’d made her feel, she wasn’t going to be the one to tell him he didn’t have the talent, if that was the case.
‘It is just that the painting is a bit, shall we say, risqué. I have to ensure that it cannot fall into the wrong hands.’
‘Oh, my word. Did he paint you...?’
‘Without benefit of clothing, yes,’ she said, checking her appearance in the mirror one last time. ‘I shall most probably have to shroud it in holland covers and hide it away in the attics.’
She walked briskly to the door. ‘I hope you and Sophie enjoy your day. I shall see you...later.’ And with that, she left.
* * *
She was glad she’d gone prepared to speak with tact, rather than total honesty, when she saw how on edge Nathan appeared the moment he opened the door to her.
As she followed him through to the studio, she wondered at her decision to keep the painting, rather than simply burn it the moment she had the freedom to do so. She wasn’t normally prone to making decisions based on sentiment.
Although...it would be pleasant to have a tangible reminder of this heady month, spent in a foreign country, in a handsome man’s arms. When she was old and grey, she could creep up to the attic, pull off the covers and warm herself at the memory of having, for one month of her life at least, had a man who found everything about her utterly feminine, and deliciously desirable, to boot. Or even before then. Whenever her father made one of his sporadic attempts to assert his will, she could remind herself that she’d been right and he’d been wrong about Nathan’s intentions. And by extension, everything else about her.
That wasn’t being sentimental. It was...providing herself with armour against the life she was going to have to live once Fenella left and she stood alone against a harsh, judgemental world.
Nathan paused in the doorway to the studio for a moment or two, before stepping aside and letting her enter. Before he let her see the finished portrait, which he’d turned on its easel to face the door.
‘Oh,’ she said, coming to an abrupt halt as the full impact of it hit her squarely in the chest.
Not that it was dreadful. She didn’t know why she’d ever thought it might be, given the skill he’d demonstrated when producing those swift pencil sketches. There was no problem with perspective, or the way the light shone on the drapery which made it look as though it flowed over her body, or anything like that. There was no mistaking that the woman in the picture was her, either.
Nevertheless, this painting was most definitely going to be consigned to the attics. She couldn’t possibly risk letting anyone see her portrayed like this. And it wasn’t just because he’d depicted her reclining on a couch, strategic folds of linen preserving her modesty, whilst advertising the fact that she was naked beneath it. It was the expression on her face that she daren’t let anyone ever see. He’d made her look like...like a woman in love. She was gazing out of the canvas as though she adored the man who was painting her. He’d made her look... She swallowed back something that felt very like tears. Younger. Less cynical. Vulnerable, even.
Yes, that was what she objected to. She didn’t mind a reminder that she was capable of being feminine, but he’d gone too far. There was not a trace of the hardheaded businesswoman she’d become. Let alone the rebellious daughter, who was the despair of her father, or the shrew from whom Monsieur Le Brun had thought he needed to protect his gentle, ladylike Fenella.
‘You don’t like it.’ His voice was flat.
She shook her head. ‘Nathan, you have real talent. I can see that. You have made me look...beautiful. Which is very flattering. But it is not me, that woman there. It makes me feel as though you don’t really know me. Or as though you have been looking at me through a...through a prism.’
‘That is the most perceptive thing I have ever heard you say.’ He turned her round when she couldn’t tear her eyes from the vision of womanly submission on the canvas, obliging her to look directly into his face. ‘In a way, I have been looking at you through a kind of prism. I have been looking at you through the eyes of a man in love. Desperately in love.’
Something coiled in her stomach and slithered its way up her spine. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
There was only one thing that could account for him saying such a thing. Somehow he must have found out how wealthy she was.
‘Love?’ She shook her head. ‘Do you take me for some kind of fool? You don’t love me. You don’t even know me,’ she cried, waving her hand at the portrait of a woman who was a far cry from the person she knew herself to be.
‘But I do know you, Amy. I know better than anyone else how badly you were hurt as a girl and that it made you close yourself off from the possibility of ever getting hurt again. I understand why you have become a cynic. I also know you don’t want to hear what I’m going to say next, but I’m going to say it anyway. I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself when you leave here and return to England. I can’t bear to lose you again. Marry me, Amy.’ He went down on his knees. ‘Please. I asked you before if I could come back to England with you because I couldn’t bear the thought of you being lonely. But now I can’t bear the thought of you finding someone to save you from that loneliness, if that someone isn’t me.’
She drew back.
‘I am not going to be taken in by you,’ she hissed. ‘I won’t let you deceive me. You chose your last wife for what you could gain and I—’
‘No! That is not true.’ He got up. ‘I’m not going to let you believe that lie for one second longer.’ He clenched his fists. ‘I did not marry my first wife for gain.’ His face leached of colour. ‘I married her to wound you.’
‘You...what? But why? Why would you want to wound me?’
‘I was deeply in love with you, Amy. Well,’ he hedged, ‘as deeply as a boy of that age could be. I’ve already told you that I wanted to marry you. I confided as much to one or two people, one night, at one of my clubs. They’d been teasing me about what a stranger I was becoming there and how I seemed to be spending all my time mixing with, forgive me for repeating their words, but they described your set as the shabby-genteel.’
She flushed. It was true that he’d seemed out of place at most of the gatherings she’d attended. That she’d always known he was way above her own more humble station. But that was no excuse for doing what he’d done.
‘You stopped courting me because your friends teased you about marrying below your station?’
‘No! How could you even think I’d do something so...shallow?’ He turned away, took a few paces away from her, then turned back, his face implacable. ‘I’m just trying to help you see how it must have all come about. I paid no attention to the teasing, knowing it was nothing compared with the opposition I’d have to face from my father. And probably yours. I was plucking up the courage to approach him and ask for your hand in form, knowing that I had little to recommend me. If I could get him to look favourably on my suit, I would have been more than capable of braving my own father’s displeasure. I had reached a crossroads in my life. I’d always been something of a disappointment to him, whereas my brothers had all made him proud. So I stopped asking his permission to travel to Italy to study art. I’d agreed to spend that Season in London considering professions he deemed suitable for a man of my background. And then I met you. And—’
He broke off, paced away, paced back again.
‘Well, before I got round to approaching either of them, one of my friends told me he’d heard something that made it impossible for him to stand back and let me throw myself away on you.’
He was shaking, she noted with surprise. Actually trembling. He licked his lips, with what looked like nervousness, before saying, ‘He told me that he’d heard, from a reliable source, that you were no innocent. That you’d actually borne a child out of wedlock and had come up to town for the sole purpose of luring some poor unsuspecting male into the trap of providing for you and your child. Preferably a man with a title, a man powerful enough to protect you from the scandal.’
Portrait of a Scandal Page 17
