by Bryn Donovan
Genevieve looked away from the painting, from the younger version of herself staring back at her.
“I thought a gentleman in Scotland owned that painting,” she said to Mr. Valerio.
“Now it is mine. I am a man who must have many beautiful things around him.” He cast a satisfied glance toward the dark-haired girl. “That is happiness, no?”
But Genevieve wasn’t there to discuss the nature of happiness. “I have modeled before, but I am a painter. As I said before, the Three Graces hanging in your front hall is mine.”
The man shook his head. “You heard that Mr. Visser declined the job, and you want it now.”
“Declined the job?”
“He visited two days ago,” the girl told Genevieve. “He said he was too occupied to do it right now.”
Damn him! She wasn’t surprised that he’d do something so devious. She was only surprised that he remained clear-thinking enough to do it.
Outwardly, she kept her composure. “That is only because I told him he could no longer represent my work as his own.”
Mr. Valerio flipped up his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “You paint a little, perhaps. But you are not an artist.” He pointed to the Venus again. “You inspire art. That is your place in art.”
He looked complacent and smug, as though he just explained the unalterable laws of gravity. His companion frowned and toyed with the tasseled end of the belt on her dressing gown.
“So you refuse to believe me,” Genevieve said.
“I am not a fool. That painting in my hall is very fine. It is no woman’s painting.”
“Come to my studio, and you shall see more that are just as fine.” She attempted to appeal to his vanity. “You know enough about painting that you will be able to recognize my style.”
“Your cousin gave you some paintings?” Mr. Valerio clucked his tongue, as if she attempted a childish trick. “I have no time for this.”
She was out of arguments. Clearly the man didn’t want to believe that he’d unwittingly bought a woman’s painting. To believe that would mean that his taste wasn’t quite so exquisite, for how could a woman paint anything great?
“Since you will not hear the truth, I’ll show myself out,” she said, and then added with some bravado: “But I believe the day will come when you will change your opinion.”
“I do not believe so,” he said, vexing her with his tone of condescension.
Genevieve mustered all the dignity she could. “Time will tell, Mr. Valerio. Good day.”
On the carriage ride back to the rail station, she told herself that not all art lovers were like the Italian. The world was changing. Ida Keating’s exhibition in the Royal Academy proved that, had it not? Surely it was not just the exception that proves the rule? The man was just embarrassed he’d been duped.
She remembered as she left, the girl with him had given her an unmistakable look of sympathy. She appreciated that.
Genevieve wondered if she should feel sorry for the girl, as well. Then again, she seemed sharp enough. Perhaps she had no illusions about love with the Italian. She shared his bed, and because of that shared his fancy house and considerable wealth.
And was this so different from marriage, after all? Marriage was, among other things, an arrangement where the man was allowed to be intimate with a woman in exchange for supporting her.
Except that a mistress wasn’t wanted to provide heirs—she heard they had certain ingenious ways of preventing this. And she was not required to manage a man’s household, or entertain his friends.
True, a mistress knew the man wouldn’t continue supporting her indefinitely. And of course, being a mistress was the height, or rather depth, of iniquity and sin.
Other than that, it wasn’t such a bad arrangement. If one just thought about it logically. Perhaps the girl with Mr. Valerio even had the opportunity to go with him to Italy. Genevieve imagined the chit admiring the work of Da Vinci and Michelangelo.
Anyone was hypocritical to judge mistresses and yet not judge a woman who married for money.
She gazed out the window of the train. As the sun set, the cold sky blushed to a perfect peachy-pink, intersected with the lacy, budding black branches of the trees.
The sight soothed Genevieve. How fortunate that even on a bad day she was able to notice and enjoy the beauty of the world around her. Maybe that was one of the best things about being an artist.
She thought again of her most recent painting, with its awkward Ophelia. If she was to make it as a painter, she’d have to do better than that.
Mr. Valerio’s voice echoed in her mind again. You paint a little, perhaps. But you are not an artist.
The idea infuriated her.
Maybe because she feared it was true. Or would come true if she didn’t find a patron.
****
Genevieve must have still had a fierce look on her face when she came in the door that night.
“Oh, Miss Genny, it didn’t go well, did it?” Flory asked.
“No.” Genevieve stripped off her gloves. “It most certainly did not.”
“I am so sorry, ma’am. Let me take your coat, and come over and sit by the fire. I made you a pot of tea, and some sardines on toast, if that sounds good to you.”
“It does. Do you want to join me?”
“Why thank you, Miss Genny. I shall.”
They took their familiar places on either side of the hearth where they sometimes spent a quiet evening, Genevieve reading and Flory doing needlework.
“A letter came for you,” the maid said, and handed her the missive.
She frowned at the sender’s name...she’d never heard of the man, as far as she could recall. Good Lord, surely it wasn’t another creditor? She sliced into the envelope with her pearl-handled letter opener.
She drew out crisp bank-notes. Forty pounds.
Will Creighton’s banker had included a note. Mr. Creighton must truly trust his banker in order to involve him in such a matter. Of course, the note mentioned none of the arrangement’s details, and she supposed that men in finance probably knew enough to be discreet about the affairs of the rich.
It gave her a peculiar feeling to hold the money in her hand. On the one hand, she felt appalled, as though she’d been an accomplice in a crime. At the same time, she couldn’t help but think that here was enough to pay off her creditors and still have a good deal left over.
Genevieve knew the sight of the money piqued her maid’s curiosity, so she decided to confide in her. She trusted Flory. The woman had been with her almost since the time Adam abandoned her. She’d always been loyal.
“It’s from Will Creighton’s banker,” she told Flory. “He says after this they’ll come every month, starting on the first of April. April Fool’s Day,” she added in a murmur.
“Well, ma’am, that’s what the gentleman said he’d do. He ain’t stingy, I’ll say that much for him.” Flory extended a hand toward the bank-notes. “If you want, I’ll put the money on top of the cupboard, till you can return it to him.”
“Perhaps I won’t return it.”
“What?” Flory gaped at her. Then her eyes narrowed. “Miss Genny, are you trying to tease me? I know you too well for that.”
“Yes, I’m just joking. How could I teach anyone about such things?” She gave a rueful laugh. “Mr. Creighton seems to be under the impression that I’m quite sophisticated in these matters.”
“Yes.” Flory’s voice held a hint of a question, but she didn’t ask it.
Genevieve answered it anyway. “And I am not. Not in the least.” She knew she shouldn’t discuss such things, but she was tired, and it was Flory, after all.
She lowered her voice to confide, “I was only with a man three times, and each time it was a thoroughly disagreeable experience. Thank goodness it only lasted a minute or two. But if I understand right, it can be more pleasant than that.”
“Oh, Miss Genny. It can be far more pleasant.” She blushed and ducked her head. “I
f you don’t mind my saying, ma’am.”
Genevieve recalled that Flory had been married for more than thirty years. Her husband died just a few years before. Still, she was surprised by the wistful look that passed across her maid’s face. A look of remembered pleasure.
What had she missed out on? Genevieve cast aside that depressing thought.
“Well, at any rate, I could never give Mr. Creighton lessons. For a ruined woman, I am woefully ignorant. I have no idea what sorts of things an experienced mistress might do.”
“I don’t suppose you would do it, even if you could, ma’am.”
“I’ll be damned if I wouldn’t,” Genevieve said bitterly.
Flory looked shocked, both at the language and the sentiment. “Now, Miss Genny.”
“What?” With her booted foot, Genevieve kicked a log farther into the fire, sending up sparks. “You know, there are rewards for women who always behave well. But there are no rewards for behaving well after behaving badly. That’s what I’m finding out.”
She was already a ruined woman. Why did she continue this self-imposed, joyless imitation of propriety? Even if she were barred from the nuptial feast, might she not taste a few stolen bites of the dessert?
Genevieve leaned over to unlace her boots. The fire felt warm on her wool-stockinged feet.
She couldn’t truly accept Mr. Creighton’s thoroughly wicked proposal. Why even indulge in such nonsensical thoughts? Only because money was tight would she muse idly of such things.
It had nothing to do with Will Creighton’s powerful, lean body, or his intelligent dark eyes.
Of course not.
Lessons. She wondered how a mistress gave instructions? The only kinds of subjects she knew of were the kind a governess taught. First the ABCs, and all that, and then on to the advanced lessons.
An idea dawned on her. Could a mistress do that? Begin with rudimentary lessons, and then on to more advanced ones? Perhaps she could start with kissing!
Why not, if a gentleman wanted to learn things properly? Genevieve had heard about men who were deplorable kissers.
Though she doubted this would be the case with Will Creighton.
She always liked kissing. Even with Adam, she’d enjoyed that. And she was sure she would enjoy it with Mr. Creighton more.
But surely a man wouldn’t be content with kissing, even for one lesson? Unless he was convinced that she was an expert...
She imagined herself playing the worldly woman with Mr. Creighton. If he complained about the slow pace, she could scold him. How dare he question her? She knew everything about the art of love!
She supposed she could have one or two lessons like that, and then call off the whole thing.
He’d be angry at her, but so what? She’d been angry at him for making the offer in the first place. If a rich man was disappointed in not getting the sex he paid for, well, that wasn’t a tragedy. It would do him good to learn that some things you can’t buy.
He wouldn’t ask for his money back. She was sure of that. He wasn’t that sort of gentleman.
But it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t dare.
“Can you imagine if I did such a thing, Flory?” she asked, as though in jest. “You would think me terribly depraved.”
“Oh, nothing would shock me, ma’am,” the older woman said. “Now I won’t name names, but you’d be surprised at what goes on in families everyone thinks is so high and mighty. Country-house weekends, and other people’s husbands, and all that.” She shrugged and took another sip of her tea. “But I don’t gossip, the way some do. It ain’t none of my business, is how I see it.”
A defiant, excited feeling rose up in her. Genevieve felt this way before, but not in a very long time.
Years had passed since she’d taken any serious risk. She knew all too well how badly a risk could turn out. But not taking chances could be extremely dreary.
She had half a mind to do it—but would it work?
A man in his prime, he gave every impression of intense sexual appetites, barely suppressed by a façade of good manners and good clothes. Such a man would be too impatient for something as absurd as a kissing lesson.
Adam hardly gave her the courtesy of kissing her, once he took her virginity. A terrible disappointment. When she surrendered her virtue, she’d hoped to exchange it for that overpowering, romantic connection she craved. With Adam, she never quite attained it.
Instead, sharing Adam’s bed brought her no pleasure, physically or emotionally, much as she tried to enjoy it.
But might she have pleasure under different circumstances? With a mysterious, compelling man like Will Creighton, she might experience something quite different...something extraordinary...for at least once in her life.
It would be a horrible waste to not at least kiss him.
“Flory,” she said, “if anyone in the village happens to ask why a fine carriage has been seen outside our cottage...you may simply tell them that I am giving someone art lessons.”
The maid’s face became perfectly bland. “Very well, Miss Genny.”
Chapter Four
On Tuesday evening, Genevieve stood in the middle of her drawing room. She didn’t seem able to remain seated. For what must have been the hundredth time, she checked the mantel clock. Five minutes to seven.
She studied her reflection in the mirror. At least she didn’t look like an unkempt mess, the way she had when Will Creighton visited her last week.
She had put her hair up in a simple chignon in the back, allowing some curls to hang loose at the sides according to the current fashion. She had also persuaded herself to wear a more conventional dark green dress.
Unfortunately, that made it necessary to wear her corset a little tighter. She knew that women in Society cinched their waists much more restrictively than this, but she couldn’t imagine how they suffered it. When she tried to calm herself with a deep, steadying breath, Genevieve felt the pressure against her breasts and belly.
Did she still smell of turpentine, from painting earlier that day? No, surely not; she’d washed and splashed herself with lavender water. Probably it was just the unfamiliar smell of the brandy, which she set out on a tray with a decanter and two glasses.
After she’d paid what she owed to the shop in London, she bought the liquor. A very expensive indulgence, especially considering that Genevieve hardly ever drank as much as a glass of wine. But as silly as it seemed, she’d have felt embarrassed serving anything but good brandy to a fine gentleman. Besides, she still had money left over.
Genevieve took another deep breath and exhaled slowly, but it didn’t make her any less shaky. She grew a bit nauseated, too. Surely she wasn’t going to be sick?
What on earth possessed her to think that she could go through with this? She hadn’t kissed anyone in years, let alone a perfect stranger.
A too-perfect stranger, at that.
And of course he wouldn’t be satisfied with just kissing—that was a ridiculous notion. She’d make a complete and utter fool of herself.
For the last couple of days, she had practiced the things she would say, even imagined speaking in a serene, knowledgeable voice, but now she was sure she’d wasted her time. He’d realize right away that she was a sham, trying to play a game for which she hadn’t the least skill. He wouldn’t be able to resist telling all his grand friends about it, and she’d be the laughing-stock of London.
Why did she have to be so unrealistic? This had always been her problem: she made rash decisions, pursued mad plans that had no chance of success. Any woman with a modicum of good sense would have realized this was a bad idea. No, a sensible woman wouldn’t have thought of the idea in the first place. Would she never learn how to live with just a little dignity?
Two minutes till seven. Maybe she should hide upstairs, and Flory could inform Mr. Creighton that she was ill? Laid low with some dreadful and very contagious disease.
Syphilis, perhaps. That would get rid of him.
But
no, it was no good. Flory wasn’t even here, of course: Tuesday was her night off.
Genevieve heard the clattering of hooves and carriage wheels outside. He’d arrived.
Suddenly, her mind went completely calm. All right then, she thought.
She lifted her chin up higher and walked over to the front door.
****
“Good evening, Genevieve,” Will said when she answered the door. She looked even lovelier than he remembered.
True, she didn’t possess the delicate, sweet features so prized in ladies like the Tudbury sisters. She looked nothing like a bisque china doll. With her large eyes, full mouth, and broad oval of a face, she was too alive for that. Too sensual.
Her hair was more properly arranged than the last time he’d seen her, and Will was sorry about that. He loved to see it tumbling loose past her shoulders and down her back. It made her look like the Lady of the Lake, in the book of King Arthur tales he loved as a child. A beautiful, mysterious woman turning up unexpectedly to offer a precious gift.
“Mr. Creighton. Pray come in.”
“I hope you won’t continue calling me Mr. Creighton,” he said as he followed her inside. “It seems too formal.”
She motioned for him to sit. “Well, Mr. Creighton,” she informed him, “I imagine I shall be calling you whatever I please.”
Will smiled as he took his place on the settee. He’d enjoy this. She knew exactly what she was doing, and as far as that went, he knew exactly what he wanted to do with her, too.
In fact, he wondered why they sat in the drawing room. Maybe she felt it more civilized to talk first before going off to bed. He understood that, and he was content to follow her lead. Especially when she sat down next to him on the settee.
She didn’t wear those blasted cage-like contraptions under her skirts. He felt the captivating contour of her thigh, right alongside his own.
And he smelled her. No heavy French perfume, but something fresh and almost herbal, as if she’d wandered on a heather-filled moor. Just a hint of another scent, too, unusual but too faint to identify.
She smelled good. Felt good. How long since he’d been this close to a woman? Too long, that was certain.
