by Bryn Donovan
“So what is here?” he demanded, gesturing at the boxy bundle she carried in. “Some dabbling from the lady artist?”
Genevieve tried to remain calm. An air of cool superiority, she was sure, would serve her better than shrill defensiveness. But Lord, this obnoxious man rankled her.
“Not just any dabbling,” she said with what she hoped was a sardonic smile. “I painted this one especially for you, Mr. Valerio.”
A lie. Her whole life, she’d never painted anything for anyone but herself. But she had guessed that he’d warm to this kind of flattery.
“Oh, yes? And what sort of thing would you paint for me?”
“Well, Mr. Valerio, the last time I was here, you said you were a man who appreciates beauty. Particularly feminine beauty.”
“Sí, of course.”
“And when you showed me the picture of Venus in your collection, you told me that it was my place to inspire art, not to create it. But all I could think at the time was that a great collector like you ought to have a better Venus.”
The girl in the corner leaned forward in her chair.
Genevieve untied the fabric wrapping around her canvas and unveiled it, saying simply, “Venus in Repose.”
Both of them drew in a breath.
“It’s beautiful,” the girl gushed.
The Italian said nothing. He stepped close to the painting, inspecting it in detail.
Genevieve’s nerves quivered. As much as the collector annoyed her, he did have a good eye. Yet she was proud to know that she’d done her best, and her years of study were evident in her work.
He straightened and walked to the back of the large room to squint at it from afar. Genevieve and the girl both waited in silence.
“Magnifico,” he said finally in a subdued voice.
“He likes it,” the girl translated, unnecessarily.
But Mr. Valerio still frowned. “How do I know it is your work?”
“Only consider this, Signor. I know how you feel about female artists. And I want to get a good price for the painting—an excellent price, in fact. If it were a man’s work, I would say so, to be more sure of my profit.”
He tilted his head and grunted in a grudging acknowledgement. “You say you want a good price. What is a ‘good price’ to you?”
“You are an expert, Mr. Valerio. Now that you have seen the quality of the piece for yourself, you will not insult me with anything lower than an appropriate price for my work.”
Outwardly, Genevieve maintained her dignified demeanor. Inside, she leaped for joy. They talked about prices already!
Mr. Valerio rubbed his chin. “The color. All those pinks and reds, the terra cotta. It’s very...” He waved his hand, looking for the right word.
Feminine, Genevieve thought, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “Sensual,” she told him, “Passionate. The qualities the goddess represents.”
“Mm.” He frowned still. “I suppose you are very happy now. You can paint, yes. But you are a...what is it called...”
“A fluke?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Well, I don’t care a straw what you think about that,” Genevieve said. “I just want to know if you would like a better Venus painting.”
A few moments of silence descended on them.
“It’s ever so pretty,” the girl said.
Mr. Valerio chuckled. “You see how she is? There is no saying no.” He clapped his hands together. “All right, Miss Bella.”
Genevieve smiled at the unintentional mispronouncing of her name.
“One hundred pounds.”
She wanted to say: Oh good Lord! One hundred pounds! Yes, by all means, thank you!
But she’d thought this through ahead of time. No matter what price he offered, she was upping it. He had the money. Rumor said he’d been some kind of count in Italy and was in exile because his wife’s family tried to have him murdered because of his endless love affairs.
So she straightened her spine and said, “One hundred and fifty.”
He gave her a look of withering disgust. “One hundred and fifty,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said, although already regretted it.
He looked up toward the ceiling, as if the cherubs painted on it might chime in on the matter. “I have been very patient. But now you have tried my patience.”
Oh, no. Her confidence crumbled. She’d gone too far. Now he’d decided not to buy it after all. Good Lord, how dismal to have to lug the thing home again...
“One hundred and twenty-five,” he said. “Not a pound more.”
“Very well,” Genevieve said coolly.
Her heart pounded; now she was a real painter.
But deep down, she’d always known that.
Chapter Thirteen
At least fifty people crowded the Tudbury’s spacious drawing room by the time Will arrived for another dinner, his family and Coventry among them.
The maid took his hat and coat. “Good evening, Mr. Creighton.” She was the same woman who had answered the door the first time he visited the Tudburys upon returning to London, back when he thought he’d marry Violet. What a lot could change in such a short time.
In the last few days, he’d grown a little worried about whether Daisy seriously thought he might marry her.
Up until recently, he thought it was a possibility sometime in the distant future. He’d come to realize, though, he could never marry anyone for whom he had no amorous feelings.
In retrospect, Daisy’s behavior at Lady Theddlethorpe’s ball had concerned him. He couldn’t account for her refusal to dance with anyone, or for her mysterious words. What was the secret she’d been too shy to tell him?
He had to make sure Daisy harbored no illusions about him. She was a sweet, innocent girl, and if he caused her any distress, he’d never forgive himself. Before long, he made his way over to the corner where she talked with a friend.
Both young ladies fell silent when Will approached. No one else in the noisy gathering seemed to look in their direction. “Miss Tudbury,” Will said in an undertone, “might I have a private word?”
Daisy frowned slightly. “Certainly, Mr. Creighton,” she answered, also sotto voce.
Her friend smothered a giggle. “Excuse me,” she said, and left them alone.
“What is it?” Daisy asked, talking quietly enough that even the people closest to them wouldn’t be able to hear. “You seem as though you have a secret.”
A secret—the phrase echoed oddly in his mind. Who else had said that, just recently? It seemed significant.
“I do not know quite how to say this,” he told Daisy. “But I should never want to injure your feelings...I am concerned that you or your family may have come to believe that I’m—interested in more than friendship with you.” There. That seemed straightforward enough.
Perhaps too straightforward. Her china-blue eyes regarded him blankly. Oh God, what if she’d expected a proposal? What if she burst into tears, right in the middle of this party, so everyone could see? He’d gone about this the entirely wrong way.
But Daisy didn’t cry. “You are saying that you do not wish to marry me.”
“Yes.” He hastened to add, “Even though I hold you in the greatest esteem...I, um, particularly admire your work with the poor...”
She shocked him by laughing, a silvery sound of pure amusement. An older gentleman in a nearby cluster of guests looked over at her for a moment, half-smiled at her gaiety, and turned away again.
“Mr. Creighton,” she said softly, “I know you have no interest in me. Why do you think I would hardly leave your side at the ball?”
“I...What?”
“It was immediately apparent to me when you came to dinner that you felt no special attraction to me.”
“I was perfectly polite,” Will defended himself.
“Of course you were! I could just tell. And that is why I feel safe with you. Because I don’t want to be pursued. By anyone.”
He was surprised again when Daisy’s eyes misted. She motioned for him to step a little way out of the drawing room, into the adjoining hall.
“There is only one man I want,” she whispered, “and Mama and Papa do not want me to have him.”
The girl carried on a secret love affair? She was just out of the schoolroom. True, Violet had been her age when she exchanged passionate promises with him, but still...
“The vicar I spoke of before,” Daisy went on. “I met him at the Destitute Children’s Dinner Society. We are in love. He’s a good man. The best man I have ever met.”
Well. This was unexpected. “And your parents disapprove, of course.”
“Yes. Because he has no fortune to speak of, although I have told them that he is the son of a gentleman. And they say he is too old for me—but I am sure that would be of no account if he were rich.”
No wonder Mr. Tudbury had been so anxious to push Will and Daisy together. In their eyes, her marriage to this man would be a disaster.
“Daisy,” he said, “you had best be careful. This vicar no doubt realizes you have a fortune...”
“He does not want it. He hates money.”
“No one hates money.”
“You have not met him.”
Will inclined his head, conceding the point.
“I half thought of eloping,” Daisy went on to say.
“You cannot do that.”
“Well, I don’t want to always be at daggers drawn with my mother and father. Especially now that Papa is ill. If I made things worse for him, I should never forgive myself.”
Will sympathized with the girl. “He is not seriously ill, surely?”
“I do not know. You have seen how he is.” She shook her head. “So I have to consider him, and my mother’s feelings, too. But I don’t want to encourage any other gentleman, either. That’s why I thought staying by your side was a perfect solution.”
“It’s not. If you keep doing that, eventually people will think I have trifled with your feelings.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Everyone knows you are very kind, and besides, you’re not as rich as me,” Daisy pointed out. “They would probably think I trifled with you.”
She might be right. “Wonderful.”
“Well, don’t worry. I pray every night that Mama and Papa will change their minds. I believe that soon they’ll understand that the vicar is the best choice for me.”
“They won’t,” Will said. “There is no chance.”
“But why not? Should I not be able to marry whomever I wish? Whoever I am in love with?” The frustration in her voice seemed to have been pent up for some time.
“It doesn’t work that way.” He felt strangely hollow and saddened by her innocent ardor.
“I do not see why.” She shook her pretty blonde head again. “I thought you would understand. Especially after I saw you with that woman the other day.”
“What has that to do with it?” he asked.
“What has that to do with it?” she mimicked him, with more boldness than he’d have expected from such a moral young lady. She was an interesting character, to be sure. Whoever did marry her was unlikely to be bored.
“If what you say is true, and they shall never come around,” she said thoughtfully, “perhaps it would be best if he and I eloped and had done with it.”
“It would be madness.”
She gave him a sharp look. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you? You said you would be my friend.”
“Of course I won’t tell anyone. But you must think of what this would do to your family.”
“I told you, I have been. But I think they would recover eventually,” she said. “Don’t you?”
****
“Well, now,” Coventry said to Will after a long and tedious dinner. Most of the party had sat down to play cards, gossip, or both. “What were you and Miss Tudbury discussing?”
No one was within earshot, so Will admitted, “I wanted to make certain that she did not believe I had a romantic attachment to her.”
“Indeed?” Coventry cast a glance in the girl’s direction. Daisy sat in the corner carrying on a cheerful conversation with a very old lady. “How thoughtful of you. How did she take the news?”
Will snorted. “Very well, since she’s in love with a pauper.” He told his friend about Daisy’s vicar. “Don’t speak of it to anyone. I promised her I would keep it secret.”
“You are hardly off to a good start,” his friend pointed out. “But, enough of that. How are things with you and your provincial bohemian?”
“They are very well. She is just what I need right now.”
“Yes? How so?”
Will couldn’t explain, so he changed the subject. “And did I tell you, she is a painter herself? She is very serious about it, and her work is quite impressive. Not that I’m a judge of those things.”
“Well, I am,” Coventry said, “and I can tell you for a fact that she is very talented.”
“What?” Will started. “You’ve seen her paintings before?”
“Yes, I am sure I must have told you. At a couple of group exhibitions, though it was a long time ago. I thought she had a lot of promise. But then it seemed that she stopped painting.”
“I do not believe she ever stopped,” Will said, puzzled. “When I asked her how long she had painted, she sounded as though she’d been doing it all along.”
Coventry lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Perhaps she only stopped exhibiting, then, I suppose she might have tired of not selling anything. They don’t buy women’s paintings much.”
“So I hear.”
“Or she might have quit exhibiting if Visser was jealous of her talents,” Coventry mused. “It’s not so unusual for the women around those artists to do a little painting themselves. But from what I heard, Visser owed nearly the whole of his style to Miss Bell.”
“What do you mean? She influenced him?”
“Influenced him?” Coventry’s eyebrows raised. “You must know she was the one who taught him to paint in the first place.”
“What?”
“Oh, yes. I heard it from that fellow who did the portrait of Mother, a while back...what was his name? Whitworth, or something.”
“Huh. Think I met him,” Will said, remembering the man in the Oriental robes in Genevieve’s house.
“Did you? Apparently Miss Bell began painting a couple of years before Visser. She gave him lessons for more than a year.”
“Lessons?”
His friend nodded.
“Bloody hell.” Had Will misunderstood, that first day he came to visit?
Genevieve had said something about art lessons, just as he’d left. And he laughed, thinking she spoke in a sophisticated manner about the art of love.
“What?” Coventry peered at him. “It’s not so very strange that she would teach somebody to paint.”
Of course she hadn’t been giving her lover sex lessons. That seemed more than obvious now.
Then why had she gone along with the idea of lessons in the beginning?
The first time, she had been quite strict about what they could and could not do.
She could have found the charade of lessons amusing. Or she might have supposed that was what he wanted, and as a professional mistress, she’d been willing to oblige what she thought of as his fantasy.
Or perhaps she’d used the whole idea as a way to keep things from progressing too rapidly. To give her a chance to get to know him first. After all, he was a stranger to her. A woman in her walk of life probably felt vulnerable, and rightfully so.
He remembered the way she’d trembled when they first kissed. More like a
nervous girl than a worldly mistress...
A sense of foreboding appeared in Will’s mind, like a shadow on a dark stair.
“Coventry, you’ve said she was her cousin’s mistress.”
“Yes. Or at least that was the rumor, among the local artists.” His friend frowned. “What is the matter with you? You look positively disturbed.”
“A rumor. You don’t know for certain?”
“Of course not. Good God, how could I? Have you never talked to her about it?”
“Not much.” Not since their first meeting. He told her that he’d heard her arrangement with Visser had ended, and she acknowledged that this was true. Why would she have done that, unless she’d been the artist’s mistress?
Unless she talked about another kind of arrangement altogether.
Coventry just said they didn’t buy women’s paintings much. And the odd business of Visser claiming her paintings were his, and that he was going to get them back...
“You have gotten into low spirits all of the sudden,” Coventry said. “What is the matter? Does it trouble you to think of the woman having slept with Visser, now that you’re so attached to her yourself?”
“It’s not that.” Will shook his head. “I never cared about that.” How could he have? He hadn’t even known her when she’d been with the painter. And one could hardly expect a courtesan to have a virtuous past.
“But you are attached to her.”
“Haven’t I said so?”
“Extremely attached,” Coventry ventured.
“What, are you suggesting I’m in love with her?”
“Yes.” His friend scrutinized him. “That is exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“That’s ridiculous.” For some reason, Coventry’s words aggravated him, but he didn’t really have a good cause to be angry. “That would be madness.”
“I do not deny that. Nonetheless.” Will’s friend looked at him for an answer.
But Will didn’t have one. To explain the reasons why he was not in love with Genevieve Bell would have sounded ungentlemanly.
Even if he could think of any reasons, which he couldn’t.
“Come now, Will,” Coventry said. “There must be some reason why you’re suddenly acting so grim. If it’s not love, what is it?”
