by Jackie Ivie
“My. My. The technique. The coloring. This portrait reminds me of someone, Lady Brighten. I can’t put a finger on it, yet, but it’s there. It’s very extraordinary.”
Averill’s attention was caught by an elderly woman, bent slightly to inspect the painting while tapping her chin with her fan. Lady Brighten laughed, making the light, feminine sound Averill had tried to capture in paint.
“Of course it reminds you of someone, Dona Francesca. It looks like me, but I still don’t believe that I’m that beautiful.”
“Oh. You’re a very pretty woman, Lady Brighten…especially for someone your age. You hold it quite well, too. Quite well, indeed.”
Lady Brighten stiffened. Averill held her breath. This is how they talk to each other?
“Correct me if I’m wrong, please,” the old woman continued, “but wasn’t there another gifted painter in Venice about…thirty years ago? I believe he also came from Egypt, although his name escapes me at the moment.”
“Introduce us, Grandmamma.”
Averill glanced behind the Dona Francesca. Her gaze touched on that of an incredibly handsome young man. Despite the frills of lace around his throat and hands, he was spectacular. His coloring was intense, his eyes were almond-shaped and so dark she couldn’t decipher their color, and his features could have been carved by a master sculptor. He would be a joy to paint.
And then he winked at her! Averill quickly lowered her eyes.
“I’m certain of my memory, Lady Brighten,” the older woman continued. “Now that I’ve raised the question, I’ll do my best to recollect...all right, Antonio, all right! My grandson, Antonio, wishes to meet the artist, Averill. That’s a strange name. Does it have a meaning?”
“Grandmamma, please!” The young man stepped toward Averill and lifted her hand. “I’m pleased to meet with you, the artist called Averill, whatever-the-meaning-is.”
He put her hand to his lips as his tongue rolled the end of her name, making it sound enchantingly foreign. To her dismay, she blushed when his lips touched her skin before he released her.
“Antonio has a way with the ladies, doesn’t he?”
His grandmother smiled fondly at him and walked away without him. Averill found herself gazing into Antonio’s black eyes. He grinned and cocked his head.
“You do portraits well. Have you many to your credit?”
“I—”
“Averill picks her subjects with care, Signori,” Lady Brighten interrupted, answering for her.
Averill watched Antonio eye the Lady Brighten for long moments, and then he bowed slightly. “I understand, my lady. Forgive me for speaking directly to the artist. Would Averill be interested in painting one such as me, do you think?”
Oh, yes!
Averill would’ve blurted it out, but Lady Brighten forestalled her. “For the right amount, we will consider it, of course.”
Antonio flicked his black gaze to Averill again. Her eyes went wide as he licked his lips. And then Tenny’s child moved, returning Averill to her senses. She moved her gaze back to the floor. As if she needed the reminder. She’d learned her lesson.
“Excellent. I’ll have my grandmother speak with you about it. Good eve to you both.”
He moved away. Averill tipped her head so she could surreptitiously watch him. He had a natural grace to go with his looks. Oh! He would be a joy to paint. She was already composing it in her mind, and feeling the shivers of anticipation.
His grandmother’s retinue of servants indicated that she was a lady of importance, perhaps not as high in rank as the woman in the diamond-speckled dress, but Dona Francesca’s elegance was more refined. She had a timeless elegance. She probably possessed an ancient title to match. Her grandson would be expected to marry his social equal. Averill could never—
She didn’t know what she was thinking. She’d never be anyone’s mistress. She’d never be anyone’s wife. She’d never be anything other than a man’s painter. Besides, she would soon make nearly twenty pounds in silver! With only two paintings. She was still reeling at the amount. With such earnings, she never needed to look at any man, even if he was as handsome as Antonio.
She listened half-heartedly to the last of Lady Brighten’s guests. Her eyes kept searching for Antonio, while pretending that she wasn’t. The strange part was, he appeared to be doing the same thing. If she glanced his way, he wasn’t looking, but she could feel his eyes on her. Then, if he looked her way, she immediately looked elsewhere, too.
This Antonio was a beautiful specimen, from his black eyes and hair, the barest hint of a mustache on his upper lip, to the slender muscular curve of his legs, well-defined in the trousers he wore. It was a good thing it was evening and the light gone from her studio, or she’d be starting a painting from memory. She wondered if that was betraying Tenny, and shoved the thought aside as Lady Brighten claimed her attention.
“Why, Averill, just look. I was right. You’re a success. If I’m not mistaken, you’ll not only be painting Her Excellency’s twins and the comte’s entire family, but most likely that horrid woman’s grandson, too.”
“May…I retire now?”
Lady Brighten’s eyes flicked over Averill. “The night is just starting, Averill. You have to learn how to enjoy your youth…while you’ve still got it.”
Averill glanced at the lines that formed around Lady Brighten’s mouth as she frowned. That elderly woman’s words had created this unhappiness. If Lady Brighten could be spoken to with such venom, how much worse could be said about Tenny and her?
“Of course you may retire,” Lady Brighten said. “You’ve been wonderful, and I know how you hate these events. Sleep well, child.” She pasted a smile back on her face and turned back to her guests.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“I refuse to sell it, Lady Brighten. I don’t care what the comte offers.”
Averill turned from contemplating Princessa Maria’s hair against the backdrop her mother had insisted Averill use. It was bad enough trying to get the color right when dealing with a mass of fuzzy, over-managed brown curls without putting her against a backdrop of pale, washed-out blue. Still, Averill hadn’t argued. She felt as if she was just biding time until Antonio’s sitting. What did it matter what colors she used? Or how difficult the subject was to transfer to canvas?
“He’s offering to pay in English pounds, Averill! Fifty of them. In sterling. That’s a fortune! More than you’re getting for painting all the others combined.”
“I realize that, Lady Brighten…and I appreciate his offer, but I didn’t paint The Knight in order to sell it.”
She wished the woman would leave. During the second sitting for the twins, Averill wanted to start the shading of Princessa Maria’s skin, yet Lady Brighten kept interrupting the sessions, and each time Averill’s hands shook.
“I’m not finished discussing it with you, Averill, but I can see I’m upsetting you. Forgive me, Princessa.” Lady Brighten nodded at Maria and walked out.
Averill sighed in relief and turned back to her palette. Princessa Maria was only fifteen. Her features held the promise of loveliness, but she was plump, and stifled in her dress. Sweat glistened on her face, making it difficult to find a flattering hue. Averill messed with a mixture of a hint of vermilion, yellow ocher and iris blue, trying for the bloom on Princessa Maria’s cheeks. It didn’t look right. Nothing seemed to work. Princessa Maria had the same vacuous expression as her twin. Drawing her into conversation was probably as useless as trying it with her sister.
A strange melody filtered into the room through an open window, sounding bright. Crisp. Averill shut her eyes, breathed deeply, and imagined herself back in the waterfall at the oasis. She reopened her eyes to a view of light blue. The feel of water droplets. The caress of the sun. The combination of sensations transferred to her brush somehow. If she glanced at Dona Maria, there was intellect in the girl’s eyes now, while the silk cloth draped behind her sparkled with crystals, not unlike the water surface. Th
e sparkle transferred to the girl’s skin and onto her cheeks. To her lips. Averill noted the girl’s bow-shaped mouth. She painted it with a slight pout to it.
She had almost finished the exquisite shading of the girl’s cheeks before Lady Brighten interrupted her again.
“It’s almost time for Antonio’s sitting, Averill. How has it...? Oh, my! That’s extraordinary!” Lady Brighten clapped her hands and looked from the painting to Princessa Maria and back. “I can hardly believe my eyes. She looks so…fairy-like and youthful.”
Averill wiped her brush and stepped back to eye the painting critically. Lady Brighten was right. There was something about the girl’s image that was lacking in her sister’s portrait.
“Thank you, Princessa Maria,” Averill said. “I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow.”
Lady Brighten escorted the girl out while Averill cleaned her brush. She must ask Lady Brighten for more brushes if she intended to complete three sittings a day. The brushes from Cairo were taking so much use they were losing their fine hairs.
She sighed.
She should never have gone to her rooms to prepare for Lady Brighten’s dinner and left her knight painting on the easel. She never dreamed Lady Brighten would lead her guests to the studio. Then it was nonstop argument over the comte’s offer for her masterpiece. The amount kept going up. Averill didn’t care. She wouldn’t part with it for any amount.
“Ah. Antonio,” Lady Brighten said. “I’m pleased to see you. You are very prompt. Please. Yes. If you’ll follow me? Your manservant can check on you, of course, but Averill finds another’s presence a bit…disturbing while she’s painting. You won’t mind, will you?”
Averill looked up and caught her breath. She barely heard the rest of Lady Brighten’s words. Oh, my! She should have known he’d be in black, but not quite so perfectly arrayed. His suit had been cut by a master tailor. It fit so well, it was displaying rather than covering. A tremor hit her as she stared, realizing the shading evident in such a severe color. Why…if she caught him at the right angle and in the right light? She could already see the image.
“Quickly! Antonio!”
She grabbed his arm and pulled him to the window, shoving a stool aside to place him alongside the frame. She flung the blue drapes aside. Nothing must block the light…and there! She’d been right. The painted window frame contrasted beautifully with him, while the sun cast shadows that defined and highlighted and adored.
She tossed a canvas onto her easel, eyed him critically, and then moved her station several feet to one side in order to get the perfect angle. He watched her with one eyebrow raised. Averill committed the look to memory, hoping to catch the quizzical expression. That alone would earn her commission.
“Don’t move, Antonio, not even a hair. Do you hear me?”
His eyebrow rose higher in response.
Averill couldn’t get paint ready fast enough. She dribbled some in her haste, ignoring the mess it made. She daren’t let anything interfere with the effervescent sensation that filled her. Her entire body seemed to hum with…something. She flung paint onto the canvas creating in a rainbow of hues that reached out to touch Antonio. But by the time they reached him, the colors were barely discernible on the frame he leaned against. She tossed black paint onto the canvas next, pulling streaks of color into it as she worked, glancing up occasionally to make certain of the placement of legs, the hand on his hip, the slight pursing of his lips, the faint shading of his mustache, and that one lifted brow.
The fading light was what finally stopped her. She couldn’t even see his face anymore. Averill threw down her brush in disgust. She watched the blot it made on the floor, and nearly ground her foot into it.
“What is it? What have you done?”
Antonio pushed away from the window and approached soundlessly. And then he was staring from the canvas to her and back. She’d been right. His eyes were extremely black. And he was too close.
“But…this is incredible, Averill. Truly. Why do you rage? I vow this is even better than my father’s portrait. And a great master painted him.”
“I was angry at the fading light, Antonio, not the painting. I can’t tell you how much I longed to paint you.”
“I’ve been longing to see you again, too,” he whispered.
Averill stooped for her brush and stayed down to rinse it. The move put needed distance between them. This was unacceptable. And no one had been in check on them. Not once. Antonio was a stunning man. It was even more apparent up close. He was probably titled. Well above her in social station.
“I look very intriguing. Almost…dangerous. Is that how I really look?”
He asked the unanswerable. Averill swished her brush about for longer than necessary, but Antonio wouldn’t know that. She shrugged.
“It’s almost like I’m displaying myself for a woman. It is...how can I describe it? Stirring? Sensual? Is that a good word? Hmm. I only wish this is how I really look. Or…maybe I do to you?”
Averill blushed. She was grateful it was dim. She was in some strange purgatory, one she’d painted around herself. It was a good thing he couldn’t read her through her paintings like Tenny had. It was almost like she’d painted her own fantasy, barely aware it was there. She’d transferred herself onto the canvas, yet again. She didn’t want anyone looking too closely at her, and here she was putting it on display! She was beginning to think there was a dark side of this incredible talent.
“Well. Well. Where has the time gone?”
Lady Brighten’s voice preceded her. She brought an oil lantern with her. She lifted it high as she scrutinized the canvas. Averill continued swishing her brush.
“My. My. I must say…this painting takes my breath away. I didn’t realize you were so handsome, Antonio.”
Averill felt, rather than saw, him stiffen.
“Good heavens, but you must set the entire female population a-twitter.”
“I shall return for another session on the morrow.”
He didn’t say good evening. He didn’t bow. He simply turned and walked out. Averill only wished she hadn’t watched him the entire way.
“My. What a strange young man.”
Averill stood, calmed any expression that might be on her face, and met her patron’s gaze. Lady Brighten was waiting for it.
“You’re doing exceedingly well, Averill. I can’t tell you how pleased I am.”
“Would it be possible to get new brushes, Lady Brighten?”
“Of course. I wanted to discuss that with you. I have accepted the fee for the twin’s portraits, and I placed your share with my bank. You may draw on it anytime.”
“My...share?”
“In exchange for sponsoring you, I’ll split your commissions. It’s the usual arrangement, I assure you. You’ll never lack for clients while under my protection, either.”
So, that’s why she’s been so interested in me!
Averill stared at the paintbrush in her hands, trying to hide the hurt. She asked herself why it mattered. She was safe, and her child would be safe. That was all that should matter. If the Lady Brighten sponsored her for the money, what was it to Averill?
“And I really must ask you to reconsider the comte’s offer for your knight painting. It will make us a tidy sum.”
“No.” Averill shook her head.
“Well. I didn’t wish to go down this path, but I really need you to reconsider. There’s the matter of your subject, my dear.”
Averill went cold. Then hot.
“No need to confess, Averill. Anyone who’s met the captain will recognize him, and — I don’t know why I’ve been so dense. Perhaps I shouldn’t entertain the comte’s offer, after all. I believe the Tennisons might even double it.”
Averill’s heart thudded painfully. She worked at ignoring it, picking up a cleaning cloth and using several moments to dry her brush before she turned to face her patron again. The light was going to be full on her face. She made certain her expression w
as blank. Stoic. Unconcerned.
“Sell it to the comte for whatever you can get,” she said evenly.
“Excellent decision, Averill, dear. Excellent! I’ll speak with Dachon tomorrow. And…why wait? I believe I’ll just take it with me now. Ah. Here it is.”
Lady Brighten went to the closet and pulled the canvas out. Averill watched as her patron carried it toward the door. She didn’t take the lantern. She didn’t even look back.
“I’ll see you in the morning, dear.”
The lady’s words drifted behind her as the door shut. Averill didn’t answer. It was obvious Lady Brighten hadn’t expected one.
Averill curled into a ball in the middle of her bed, shivering convulsively. She couldn’t seem to get warm. It was worse than her illness aboard ship, or any chill from the streets of Cairo at night. This sensation came from within. Handling three sittings a day was emotionally draining. Finding out Lady Brighten was using her for money and attention was disheartening. Knowing Lady Brighten suspected her feelings to Captain Tennison was frightening. Even more so…was the thought of Tenny actually seeing the knight painting. That mustn’t happen! He’d see how much she loved him. Somehow she’d imbued the emotion into the paint. That’s what made it so special.
She refused to be any man’s mistress. Even his.
Despite her resolve, she still shook, swaddled in covers, atop a thick-stuffed mattress that was sheathed in linen. It was stupid. Her painting would be safe in the comte’s possession. She’d be twenty-five pounds richer. She was creating a future for her and her child. That was what mattered. Not this unbridled emotion. She had to follow the course Harvey had helped orchestrate. Despite how much it hurt.
Still.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“My grandmother wishes to see how my portrait is progressing. I told her no. I told her you were temperamental about it and wouldn’t even let me see it.”
Averill looked up from her canvas and lifted her brush at the same time. “Why would you do that, Antonio?”
