by Bryn Donovan
Shaky with indignation, she opened her mouth to tell him that he’d made a terrible and a very offensive mistake.
But she couldn’t think of what to say. She stood there, staring at his back as he sauntered toward his carriage.
What had she done?
Genevieve closed the door, put her hands against her burning cheeks and sat down. She realized that Flory was in the room, but the maid kept a tactful silence.
Genevieve scarcely believed it. Propositioned like that in her own home—like a common prostitute!
Well, not exactly a common prostitute. More like a high-class mistress. But then again, what was the difference?
She supposed the difference was quite a few pounds.
Inside she groaned. How excited she’d been when he named his fee. How easy things would be with that money! But more than that, the idea of commanding such a price made her feel that she began to be respected as an artist in her own right.
She should have known better. Men thought women good for only a few things, and painting wasn’t one of them.
“I don’t see how he could have believed I was like that with Cage,” she said aloud to Flory. A horrible thought occurred to her. “Good gracious, might other people think that too?”
The maid frowned. “I don’t know, ma’am. Your friend Ruth did say once that folks wondered if you and Cage were secretly lovers.”
“Well she didn’t mean that. She meant that people thought we secretly courted.” People usually meant that when they said “lovers,” after all.
Again Flory said nothing.
Genevieve felt sick. What if her father were to hear of this? But she supposed he wouldn’t. He was overseas, and even if he hadn’t been, Mr. Creighton was very clear about wanting to be discreet.
Genevieve sunk a little lower into the tufted chair and pressed her fingers to her forehead. “How humiliating that I said yes to him. I simply had no idea what he was getting at. How could I have known?”
He seemed so...perfect.
But he was far from that. Perfect men didn’t take mistresses.
She slumped, heavy with dejection. For years, she tried to put the shame of her brief, stupid affair behind her. She’d made painting her only passion, and lived as chastely as a cloistered nun. But it seemed she’d never be seen as anything but a fallen woman.
“I’m going to write him a letter right now,” she told Flory, “and explain there’s been a misunderstanding.” But the idea of having the matter committed to paper, which might fall into anybody’s hands, disturbed her. “No, I won’t write—I shall just explain everything when he visits next Tuesday night. Won’t he be in for a rude awakening?”
She stood, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “What a dreadful business.”
But a strange thought occurred to her: in a way, this was almost a compliment.
Mr. Creighton was obviously a rich and—no sense denying it—very handsome man. He could have any beautiful mistress he chose. And he’d wanted her.
A man seeing her in this light was something of a revelation. She didn’t make a study of attractiveness: as she tried neither to acquire a husband nor to keep one from straying, she’d no need to think about those things. She hadn’t thought of herself in terms of beauty or feminine charm—except as a subject in a painting—for a long time.
But of course, it was not a compliment. He thought her only worthy of fulfilling his most basic needs.
So how was it possible that she found the idea tempting? Not even the money mattered, though heaven knew she could use it.
Mr. Creighton himself was the temptation.
No one would have to know. And people seemed to already consider her that sort of woman. Her father’s favorite saying came to mind: As well hung for a sheep as for a lamb.
Out of the question. Inconceivable. Genevieve was not a rich man’s plaything. What was it he said? He only wanted to have a little fun.
An impression of him, as clear as life, came into her mind again. The dark eyes that spoke of a thousand secrets and even more pleasures. The powerful, elegant body...what did he look like, feel like, under those impeccably tailored clothes? All too easy to imagine his voice, that well-bred baritone, murmuring words for her ears alone.
She had no doubt that being with him might be a little fun.
Genevieve shook the wicked thoughts from her brain. The man had confused her, insulted her, addled her wits.
She said aloud to Flory, “Good gracious. I could never think of doing such a thing!”
Chapter Three
“William!” Will’s mother hurried across his drawing room. “Oh, darling, it is so wonderful to see you.” She had to lean forward to hug him, because her green and black taffeta carriage dress had one of those enormous skirts that appeared to have become a fashion requirement.
Then she stepped back a moment to look him over, and Will took the opportunity to do the same. He didn’t remember the crinkles at the sides of her eyes before, but she had the same air of busy cheerfulness as always. She was like the candy coating on a comfit, sweet but surprisingly tough.
Will’s mother hardly relinquished hold of her son when his twelve-year-old sister Katy rammed into him like a small locomotive. As Will kissed the top of her head, he noticed that she was a good deal taller than he remembered. “How are you, Katy? You look well.”
“I am, now that you’re back!” She snatched up Will’s hand and inspected it. “Why, that’s not so bad,” she blurted out. “It’s not nearly as bad as I feared it would be.”
“Katy!” her mother said. “What sort of way is that to welcome your brother?” The mere mention of the injury, it seemed, brought a sharp, strained tone to her voice. Yet Will saw her eyes darting toward his hand even as Katy released it, ascertaining for herself the extent of the damage.
The butler, Babbage, closed the front door. A man of about sixty, he had thinning sandy-gray hair, spectacles and a neatly trimmed beard.
“Where is Stuart?” Will asked his mother, then added, “And Father?”
“Your father still had some business to attend to, and he needed Stuart’s help,” his mother replied.
Will wasn’t surprised by his father’s absence. William Creighton, Senior, was not a sentimental man. Will did regret not to see his brother again.
“They will be in Town in a few days,” his mother went on to say. “And of course, we had to visit you, even before we went to the house.”
She peered around the room. “Your house is none too grand, but I fancy it shall be adequate. You could do with more things in here, though. It is quite bare.”
Will thought of Genevieve Bell’s home in the country. It hadn’t been what he expected at all, not that he knew what he’d expected. Perhaps some exotic lair of gilded furniture and leopard-skin rugs, though that would have been out of place in a small country village.
Instead, it had looked so simple, but clean and full of light. Her white curtains were pulled back to let the sunshine flood the room, as though she cared nothing at all about the fading of upholstery. A home that seemed to suit and reflect her perfectly.
“Katy and I shall do a little shopping for you,” his mother resolved.
“I’m sure neither of you would find that to be a hardship.” His mother and sister enjoyed browsing through the shops of London, asking to be shown this or that. “Though I may not even stay in Town for the whole Season.”
“Oh, but you must,” Katy objected. “Mama says perhaps this Season you’ll meet the woman of your dreams!”
Their mother laughed, sounding embarrassed. “I’m certain I did not put it quite that way.”
“Do you think you might, William?”
“Now, Katy, leave your poor brother alone. He has just gotten back to his native soil.”
“But it’s ever so exciting to think of,” Katy said. “I wonder what Will’s true love would be like?”
Again, for maybe the dozenth time that day, Will imagined Genevieve’s face. No
t that she might be his true love; he no longer believed in such things. But he couldn’t deny that she captivated him.
And why not? He’d never had an actual mistress before, and couldn’t help but congratulate himself on his choice.
Not a usual choice. She was nothing like the perfumed, tittering demireps and opera dancers whose company Jack enjoyed. Pleasant enough girls, but they never seemed to be the sort of people with whom one could have a decent conversation.
After meeting his new mistress, Will realized that one might actually enjoy intelligent talk and the most licentious of pleasures with the same person. Such a thing never even occurred to him before.
And he’d no doubt that a great deal of pleasure was in store for him. He remembered the frank way she discussed carnal matters...and why should she not be frank? Such words were natural, falling from those lush, exquisite lips. Her mouth was almost heart-shaped, a poetic, erotic Valentine. A mouth well-practiced in the most wicked acts, he was sure. In his mind’s eye, he saw her thick, wavy red-gold hair, falling loose about her shoulders, just the way it would after a night of impassioned lovemaking.
“William, why are you staring like that?” his sister demanded. “You look a bit daft.”
“He must still be dreadfully tired,” their mother said. “Are you, darling?”
“No, I am quite well, Mother. Why don’t you both sit down and have some tea? Babbage, do not forget the sugar for Katy.”
“Very good, sir.” The butler glided away. Although rather short, the dignity of his bearing made him appear taller.
“So what is your first social engagement?” Will asked his mother as she sat down.
“Oh, first we shall pay a visit to Laura, naturally,” she replied, referring to her youngest cousin who lived in Town with her husband almost year-round. “I haven’t seen her since her misfortune—not that we shall speak of that.”
Of course not. Babbage had, in euphemistic terms, told him the news about his relative’s stillborn baby, but it was not the kind of thing his family discussed. As far as the Creightons were concerned, discussing unpleasant topics was tantamount to bad manners.
Maybe that’s why he’d been a little charmed when Genevieve asked about his hand, and denounced the deplorable conditions of the British army. Not that she treated him as an object of pity—that he couldn’t bear—but she expressed an understanding of what he’d gone through. That touched Will more than he expected, or was even willing to admit.
Babbage brought the tea-tray.
“By the by, William, I don’t use quite so much sugar as before,” Katy said. “I am quite grown-up these days.”
“But it’s Stuart who has truly grown up,” their mother said. “Do you know, for a while he talked of joining the Army, like you. But I said I would not stand for it, not while you were still over there.”
“He cannot,” Will said, angry suddenly. “He’d likely be killed if he did.”
“Now, William, don’t let’s talk about such matters in front of Katy.”
Will grew exasperated. Katy was a bright girl; he suspected she understood that men sometimes died in wars. His mother didn’t want to hear anything unpleasant, and therefore it seemed impossible for Will to tell her how stupid he’d been to volunteer...and how fortunate to have made it back alive.
If he had it to do over again, Will would have studied medicine and volunteered as a doctor. Army doctors faced as much danger as anyone else, and did a hell of a lot more good. The army never had enough doctors, not by half. Not enough medicine, blankets, or anything else, either, but still...with more doctors, perhaps more soldiers like Bennet could have survived.
“At any rate, Stuart no longer has any interest in it,” his mother said with a shrug. “I suppose it was just a passing fancy.”
“Good. Better for him to keep his mind to his studies.”
“Yes. And your father has been thinking that perhaps Stuart ought to go into Parliament someday. I believe it would suit him very well. Mightn’t you nudge him in that direction? He looks up to you so, William. Naturally he does.”
As far as Will was concerned, his younger brother could do whatever he damn well pleased, as long as he stayed clear of the army. “If Stuart finds himself in need of my advice, I have no doubt he shall let me know.”
****
Genevieve stood back from the canvas and scrutinized her work. The morning’s results didn’t please her at all.
She’d been so interested in the touching, tragic subject of the drowned Ophelia from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. But somehow, her Ophelia simply refused to look dead. Genevieve sighed and cleaned the paint from her brush with a rag soaked in turpentine.
“There you are, Miss Genny,” Flory said when she emerged from the studio and came downstairs. The maid knew better than to disturb her while she worked. “There’s some mail for you.”
“Oh? Is it—” Genevieve stopped herself. She didn’t want to admit how much her odd encounter with William Creighton, and their upcoming next meeting, lingered on her mind. “Anything from Ruth?” she said instead.
“Why, I didn’t look, ma’am.”
The first letter was from Brace’s, the shop in London, and Genevieve knew what it said before she opened it and scanned the neatly written lines.
They hoped that she’d soon pay for the muslin and wool she bought on credit a few months ago. Despite the patronage of her father, they unfortunately would be unable to extend more credit to her until she did pay. Reasonable enough, Genevieve admitted to herself. They wrote they were sure it was simply an oversight on her part. Of course, they were sure of no such thing, since they’d sent two almost identical letters already.
She’d obtained the fabric the week before her chimney had been damaged in a storm, and she had to pay a bricklayer what seemed like a small fortune to repair it. Since it was the middle of winter, she hadn’t much choice, but Genevieve still regretted owing money to the shop.
The next letter was of a similar kind, but not so civilly worded. A doctor who’d treated Flory for headaches. Or rather, he tried to treat her. He’d given her some pills, but they’d done nothing, other than making the maid queasy. The real cure came from an old friend of Flory’s, who recommended feverfew tea.
Doctor Perkins still demanded payment, naturally. If the matter is not resolved at once, he wrote, I shall have no choice but to take legal action.
Genevieve groaned. Why had she chosen now to break things off with Cage? She wondered if she’d have to find a cheaper place to live. Or would she have to help Flory find a position with someone else? But she’d miss the maid terribly.
She put the letters down. She had to stop thinking like this. With any luck, she’d be able to take care of the bills.
She would travel into Town the very next day to pay a visit to Mr. Valerio, the man who commissioned a painting of the Biblical woman at the well. Of course, the collector believed that Cage was going to paint it, but he’d commissioned one of her paintings through Cage before.
All will be well. She simply had to knock on the Italian’s door, enter his drawing-room, and explain that she was the artist the collector so admired.
****
“You are the artist?” Mr. Valerio chortled. “What do you mean?”
Genevieve sat up straighter in her ornate chair in the man’s equally ornate drawing room—the sort of room that made her worry that she had dirt on her face.
“I mean precisely what I say.”
The collector opened his mouth to speak.
“This is very interesting,” the girl perched on the arm of Mr. Valerio’s chair murmured—the first time she’d spoken.
When Mr. Valerio introduced the girl as a friend, she’d nodded serenely in Genevieve’s direction. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, an English dark-haired beauty who wore a ruby-red dressing gown even though in the middle of the afternoon. Her lips were painted a shocking red to match.
Mr. Valerio had to have been past
fifty, with his graying Van Dyke beard and creased Latin face. He was not a big man, but had a big voice and enough pride to dominate any room.
“Mr. Visser has not painted for two years,” Genevieve explained. “I paint the pictures and he pretends they are his.”
“Why?” he demanded. The skepticism in his eyes made it clear he didn’t believe her.
“Because men are paid more for their paintings—”
“No, no. Why would Signor Visser stop painting?”
“He is a drug addict.” He peered at her. “Opium,” she added.
Mr. Valerio laughed. He laughed, in fact, a bit more than seemed necessary or even natural.
“No. You are not the artist,” he told her. “You are la musa.”
“What...the muse? What does that mean?”
The man stood. “Come,” he said. He led them down the hall to what was clearly his study, lined with leather-bound, gilt-titled books. “Ecco Venus,” he declared.
Genevieve’s gaze followed the sweeping gesture of his arm. There, hanging over his desk, was a small painting for which, several years ago, she’d modeled.
Genevieve felt her body go cold. The painting was one that Adam Forsythe, her long-ago lover, entitled “Venus, the Ruler of the World.” She hadn’t seen it in years, and it shocked her to look at it again.
The last of only a few paintings she modeled for, this was the only full-length nude. Not that the body looked exactly like hers. Like all nudes, the picture omitted the triangle of fleece above the juncture of the thighs, and the figure was thinner than she was, though now that she thought of it, perhaps she’d been thinner, too.
And how foolish she’d been. Right after Adam completed this painting he’d convinced her to come to his bed.
Why, he said, need they wait until they married? Of course they’d get married soon, but who knew what tomorrow would bring? Their love was real; no reason to delay until the day a priest sanctioned it. They were enlightened artists, not bound by the outdated rules of Society.
Not even a month after he’d taken her virginity, he tumbled into bed with another one of his models, a seamstress with no artistic ambitions. She’d posed as his next Venus.
