by Bryn Donovan
She wore a broad, plain straw hat and had a handful of weeds in one hand. But she seemed to be daydreaming, staring at the sunset over the fields beyond her property. In the last, long blushing rays of light, he saw the outline of her graceful form through her flowing dress.
She started and looked around. “Oh! Hello.”
He stepped closer, leaned forward to rub a smudge of dirt from her nose, then kissed it.
She gave an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I lost track of the time.”
“No matter. What are you up to?”
“Just weeding. See, they were trying to choke my bleeding heart.”
“Your what?”
“Bleeding heart.” With the toe of her boot, she pointed to the flowers. Bright pink blossoms hung like raindrops from delicate arched stems. “They’re one of my favorites.”
“Mm. Too bad they have such a sad name.”
Will recalled how Mr. and Mrs. Tudbury had tried to get Daisy to take him out to their garden. They had barely stopped short of saying, “Please, Will, help yourself to our daughter.”
Of course, they must have trusted that Will’s sense of honor would prevent him from doing anything too dastardly. Or at least, compel him to make a proposal of marriage, if he did.
Will almost wondered whether the Tudburys hadn’t hoped for the latter scenario. God only knew why they were so eager to marry off their daughter in the first Season, but some families behaved like that.
Will hadn’t been interested in the girl or the flowers. In fact, he’d never been interested in any flowers. But even an indifferent topic seemed interesting when Genevieve discussed it. He asked her now, “What else is growing back here?”
“Oh, lots of things.” She tossed aside the handful of weeds. “I want to see if the strawberries are blooming,” she said, pointing down the shallow hill on her property. “Do you mind being out here a few more minutes?”
“Not at all.” He followed her down the slope. Her loose gown couldn’t completely obscure the unconscious, saucy sway of her hips as she walked. Or was it unconscious? She took off her hat and shook out her hair. The tresses shone like polished copper in the last rays of the sun.
“The air smells wonderful out here.” He’d almost forgotten the smell of spring: the damp earth growing warm again, the mingled green and flowery scents on the breeze.
“Doesn’t it? I don’t know how they stand the air in London.”
“People grow accustomed to it, I suppose.”
“I suppose. Do you know what smells really good? I have a huge patch of lily-of-the-valley over there, underneath the tree.” She pointed. “They’re not in bloom now, though. I love those flowers. My sister Christine had them at her wedding.”
“I didn’t know you had any siblings.”
“Just the sister. She’s a few years younger than me.”
“Does she live close by?”
Genevieve shook her head. “I wish she did. Especially now that she’s got two little boys. And Father doesn’t get to see them as much as he’d like, either. He lives in London, you know, but Christie’s in Bath.”
“Is that so? I have a house near there. My late uncle’s estate in Somerset.”
They reached the strawberry patch, at the bottom of the hill along the fence. Will saw white blooms everywhere despite the gathering dusk.
“An estate in Somerset,” Genevieve said. “Good heavens. Why don’t you live there?”
Will pulled himself up to sit on the fence. “I don’t know. My uncle died right before the war, so I had only just inherited.”
“I am so sorry about your uncle.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know him as well as I might have wished, but he was a kind man.” He shook his head. “At any rate, I suppose I may live out in Somerset eventually.”
“I see.”
He looked up at her subdued tone, then realized the significance of what he said. If he moved to the estate, their weekly trysts would hardly be an option. Damnation. He didn’t want to think about that for a long time yet.
“The truth is I have no definite idea of what I’ll do.” He decided not to discuss the possibility of studying to be a physician. The war had motivated his interest, and he’d burdened her with enough talk about Crimea. “No need to worry about it now.”
She nodded. A pond spread beyond Genevieve’s property, and Will heard the orchestra of tiny frogs tuning up for their nightly performance.
“But you like the place in Somerset.”
“Certainly. Stone house covered with moss...can’t even remember how ancient. And the caretaker’s nearly as ancient. I’m sure the place needs a great deal of improving.”
“It sounds lovely.”
Will shrugged. “The grounds are good. Sixty acres, some forest. Some excellent fishing. My brother Stuart’s jealous of that.”
“So you have a brother.”
“Yes. Younger brother, much younger sister. They live with my parents in Essex. But I was starting to ask you about your family. So your sister’s in Bath...”
“Right. Her husband’s a lawyer, like Papa.”
Strange for Will to realize that Genevieve had a father. He didn’t know why. She had not appeared out of nowhere, like Venus springing from the sea. Perhaps he was simply surprised to hear that her background sounded thoroughly respectable.
“Papa lives in London, as I said. Or at least, he usually does. Right now he’s in America.”
“America? Whatever for?”
“He’s trying to convince them to free their slaves.”
Will gave a low whistle. “Admirable. But how does he hope to do it?”
“Mostly he’s giving speeches. He’s gotten fairly well known for his speeches and booklets on reform.”
It was nearly dark as they went into the back door of Genevieve’s cottage. “I’m glad you got to see the flowers in the light.” She stripped off her garden gloves. “But I have something even prettier to show you.”
He looked her over. “I bet you do.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Come on.”
In her studio she lit several lamps. “Wait just a minute.” The room grew almost as bright as noon. Then she beckoned him over to a canvas. “What do you think?”
“It’s the one you started that one afternoon.” He reached out to touch it and she pushed his hand aside. “Don’t! It’s still wet.”
He gazed at the canvas. The colors were so different than those in her other paintings. A luscious wine-colored background and drapery of vibrant rose set off the peaches and pinks of the nude figure.
“It’s wonderful,” he murmured. “Is it finished?”
“Almost.”
“I think it might be your best yet.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Actually, it is.”
The head of her Venus tilted back as though in bliss, eyes closed. Her hair streamed down over her back, not dark like the model’s hair, but red-gold. Like Genevieve’s.
In fact...
He looked closer at the enraptured features she’d painted.
“It’s you.”
“What? No, I just changed it a bit from the model. It’s not me.”
“Yes it is. The mouth, the expression...” He pointed, careful not to touch the canvas this time. “Definitely you.”
“That’s absurd.”
But the woman in the picture looked very much like Genevieve did, right after ecstasy. “What exactly is she doing, anyway? Or rather, what did she just do?”
“She’s just resting! It’s called Venus in Repose.”
“I see.”
Will wrapped his arms around Genevieve from where he stood behind her. He pulled her back against his chest and rested his chin on her head. “I was just thinking she looked very...happy.”
“Why shouldn’t she be happy?”
“Quite right.” Will appreciated the feel of her round buttocks pressed up against the front of his trousers. The effect was simultaneously cozy and erotic.
G
enevieve wriggled a bit against him—maddeningly—but then feigned not to notice the way he was pressed against her. “Of course, now I can’t stop thinking of doing one of Adonis. I’ve wanted to do an Adonis for so long. I even made a few sketches.”
“Adonis?”
“Venus’ lover.” She gave him a mock-critical look over her shoulder. “Weren’t you paying attention in school?”
“Apparently not.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her ear. “Why don’t you paint him next, then?”
She turned around to face him. “I don’t have a model.”
“Ah, I remember. You told me before that no respectable woman artist would paint a male nude.”
“Perhaps I want it for my personal collection.” Genevieve’s lips curved into a smile. “Especially if you are the one modeling.”
He snorted. “Isn’t an Adonis a paragon of physical perfection? I hardly qualify. Certainly not now.” Though he’d never pitied himself for his war injury, he couldn’t deny he was no longer whole.
She pressed her lips together. “My opinion is quite different,” she said softly.
His heart warmed at that, but he said, “At any rate, it’s out of the question.”
“That’s what I feared.” She sighed. “Maybe I shall make discreet inquiries at the art schools. There are usually some young men there who could use a little extra money.”
“Now wait a minute.” Will grew irritated. “You can’t do that.”
She looked at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “Why not?”
“You’re my mistress. Cavorting with other men? It isn’t done.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I wouldn’t cavort. I would just paint.”
“It’s too dangerous. You can’t have a stranger in your house.” He realized as soon as he said this that he had been a stranger in her house not so long ago.
“I’ll organize another group painting session,” she said brightly.
“No.”
Her smile dissolved. “I beg your pardon. I don’t think that’s for you to say.”
He knew she was right. He wasn’t her husband, and couldn’t tell her what to do. He imagined that no one would ever be successful in telling Genevieve what to do.
“I just know it would be a good painting,” she said.
“I’ll do it,” he said, before he had a chance to think about it.
Her mouth fell open.
“You’ll pose for me?”
Damn. What was he doing? He must be insane. “You said it would be only for you.”
“Yes, of course! I can’t exhibit it in public, truly.”
“If your friends know I’ve posed for you, it shall be public knowledge in no time.”
“They wouldn’t even imagine it. Besides, I’ll change your hair. It’ll be flowing.” She studied his face. “And I’ll make you clean-shaven. When can we start?”
He smiled at her eagerness. “When would you like to start?”
“Now.”
“Why the hurry?”
“Because I fear you will change your mind.”
In fact, he was on the verge of changing his mind at any moment. A voice in his head warned this was a bad, bad idea.
But it meant so much to her. And it would be an amusing story to tell Coventry and Jack later. Really, what could be the harm?
“Now is fine, if you’re ready.”
She giggled, obviously tickled by her good luck. “I’m ready if you are.” Then her mirth vanished, her expression more serious, businesslike. “But you’re not ready. Take off your clothes.” She went over to a pile in the corner on the floor, dug around, and produced a new canvas.
Will looked at her, nonplussed. “Take off how many clothes?”
“Oh. Well, you’ll be wearing sort of a fur...loincloth, I suppose, but that’s about all.”
“I take it you have a fur loincloth handy?”
Genevieve laughed. “Why don’t you just get undressed except for your drawers? I’ll paint in the loincloth later.”
Will shrugged and took off his jacket, shirt and undershirt as Genevieve picked up the smock lying on a chair, put it on, and organized her paints and brushes. He removed his boots and socks and unbuttoned and took off the trousers, tossing them over a nearby chair. “Where do you want me?”
She looked up. But instead of answering, she seemed to just stare at him.
“Gen?” he prompted.
“Oh. I...well, I thought you could stand over here. Sort of to one side.” She went over to a place by the window. Will came and stood next to her.
“Good. You’ll have one hand down, like this, because you’ll be holding onto a hunting dog.” She took his hand and put it into position. He was acutely aware of her touch, and of the softness of her breast as it brushed against him.
“Where are you going to find a dog?”
“Oh, dogs are easy. I can make him up. Your other hand goes here, because you’re carrying a bow.” She lifted his hand to his shoulder. “Good. Just stay like that for a moment, will you?” She went back to her easel, then turned and studied him.
Will felt slightly ridiculous. It didn’t help when she frowned and shook her head. “No, I’m afraid that won’t do.”
“What is it?”
“Well, your drawers...I can’t see your legs very well. The muscles. Maybe if you would roll them up...”
“Bloody hell,” Will grumbled. He shucked off the drawers and stood there, stark naked. “There. Will that work?”
“Oh, yes.” Genevieve breathed in. Then she blinked. “I mean, yes, it will. Now I can see all the...the muscles in your thighs.”
“Excellent.” Her enthusiasm amused him. “So you wanted me standing like this?” He took the pose again.
“It’s perfect,” she said. “Will. You are a perfect Adonis.”
“I’m sure I will be in your picture. Didn’t you say you can always improve on nature?” he joked.
She shook her head. “I can’t improve on this.” She snatched up her brush. “Keep looking at me,” she commanded as she dabbed it in the paint.
“With pleasure.” He enjoyed staring at her, and this was a perfect chance to do it. She seemed to paint quickly, perhaps sketching in the basic outlines. Her brows drew together as she worked, her lips parted in her single-minded concentration.
The air of the room filled with a sharp, chemical scent, strange yet also familiar. “What’s that smell?” he asked.
“Hmm? Oh, it’s the turpentine. Sorry.”
He remembered. “You smelled a little of it, the first time I came over.”
She frowned. “Did I indeed?”
“It’s all right. You smelled more like your garden.”
“Still. It’s embarrassing.”
“I don’t see why.”
“It’s not exactly a feminine scent, is it?” she said. “You must be used to ladies smelling like—oh, I don’t know. French perfume.”
He shook his head, then remembered he was supposed to stand still. “Nothing could make you seem unfeminine. Believe me.”
She seemed reassured. Even as they talked, she kept painting, a fact that impressed Will. “It does smell rather strong in here,” she said. “I don’t even notice it, you know. Do you want me to open a window? It makes some people feel light-headed.”
“You’re the only thing making me feel light-headed,” he told her, and she smiled. He loved to make her smile. She fell silent and continued painting with an air of happy absorption.
“I’ll need at least two more sessions with you,” she said, after twenty minutes. “Maybe three. I need some sunlight.”
“I imagine something can be arranged.”
“It’s very kind of you to do this.”
“Anything for art.”
When she lifted her eyes again to meet his, she blushed.
That was one of the things that charmed him most about her—that occasional, unexpected tinge of naïveté. When he saw her cheeks color pink, he thought: so
much for the woman of the world.
And then something about that disturbed him, but he couldn’t for the life of him make out what.
His attention was diverted when her left hand flicked a strand of hair out of her face. She left a faint peachy smear of paint on the side of her forehead. If she wasn’t careful, she’d get paint on her clothes, despite her artist’s smock. He imagined taking it off of her and enjoying again the lush curves he knew were beneath. He’d just become acquainted with her body. He wanted to learn every inch...
“I’d better take a break,” he told her. “My arm’s getting stiff.”
She peered at him. “It’s not your arm that’s getting stiff,” she murmured, as she untied her smock and hung it on a hook behind her.
“True.” Will raised his arms over his head and luxuriated in a long, back-arching stretch. No doubt this only emphasized his aroused state, but that was fine with him. He came over to her easel as Gen wiped her hands off on a clean rag. “So what do you do when your model has this problem?”
He pulled her to him, intending to kiss her and remove her clothing as gently and quickly as possible, but he hesitated when she stiffened.
“What?” he demanded, irritated.
He’d grown weary of this. Had anyone ever kept such a difficult mistress? He didn’t let go of her. “Don’t tell me you have any more rules. We’re beyond that now.”
Her green eyes, fringed with their long lashes, mirrored some unspoken sadness. “I know we are.”
His ire melted into concern. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m an idiot, that’s what’s wrong.”
He waited for an explanation.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she said. “I needed the money, I suppose, but...it’s not as though you really care about me.”
A strange pain cut through the center of him like a scythe. He suspected that if she were getting the prices she deserved for her paintings, she wouldn’t have agreed to this arrangement.
How stupid he’d been when he proposed it. He imagined that women who flouted the expectations of Society were hardened, coarse creatures. Instead, he found himself with an artist who, despite her lurid associations with Micajah Visser and God only knew who else, was a person of sensitivity and feeling.
“But that’s not true.” He clasped her face gently between his hands. “I do care about you, Gen. You must know that.”
