Averill: Historical Romance (The Brocade Collection, Book 3)

by Jackie Ivie

  He shrugged with one shoulder, shifting his position. Averill was glad she’d finished that part of him already.

  “To add a hint of mystery. Why not?”

  “Because it isn’t the truth. She can see how it is coming along. After all, it’s her coin paying for it.”

  “Do you always tell the truth, Averill?”

  She decided to leave his image alone for the moment, and wiped the black paint from her brush. There was a fleur-de-lis in the design of the wall behind him that she’d roughed in during the previous session. She gathered the rose shades she’d need as she considered her answer. “It’s less complicated, I think.”

  “But, it’s also boring.”

  He tucked some of his hair behind his ear. The suit coat moved with it, catching the light, and making her more certain of the colors she’d already painted in it.

  “I can’t finish if you insist on moving, Antonio.”

  “Day after day, not moving a hair, waiting for you to notice me, and yet you chastise me for it? Why? I’ve been a good subject. Admit it.”

  “I—”

  Averill didn’t finish. She’d noted the sensually arousing side of him the moment they’d met. She’d painted it effortlessly into his portrait. And yet now, when he turned it on her, she wasn’t prepared.

  “I didn’t hear you,” he told her.

  He shifted one leg in front of the other. The material followed his move, as if caressing flesh. Averill already knew he had lean, muscled legs. She’d captured every nuance of them on the canvas in front of her. She also knew he wasn’t doing it purposely. It was simply how attractive he was, combined with how attuned she was to her subjects at the time of their painting.

  Averill dropped her eyes to her palette. She turned her attention to adding pale mauve to her paint and mixing it lightly. She wanted the streaks of mauve, violet and crimson colors to be muted in the design. It took a bit of work to blend it perfectly.

  “I am trying to get the subtle textures about you painted, Antonio. Your image is strong, but it will show better if the background is delicate and soft. I can’t get it right if you move.”

  “You’ve finished me already. Find another reason.”

  “It may look finished, but not to me. I continually touch up my work until I’m satisfied with it.”

  “What should I do to make it more…satisfactory?”

  His voice lowered on the last word. Averill swallowed. He had every woman in speaking distance fawning on his every word already, and yet he flirted with her? It was such a heady feeling. She was amazed she hadn’t giggled.

  “Stay still,” she replied finally.

  He sighed and crossed his arms, in complete disobedience. At least his legs went back to the original position…and she’d thought that was an enticing pose! Averill squinted and concentrated on the flower-like design in the wallpaper. She forced her brush to work. She had it almost finished before he spoke again.

  “Has anyone ever painted you, Averill?”

  “Of course not.”

  She put the final touch to a petal shape before stepping back. It was just as well that he interrupted her. The light was fading, anyway.

  “Why not? You’d be stunning…if we could find someone of a like talent, of course.”

  “Portraits are for the rich, Signori Antonio. As a reminder of their position in life. For posterity. I’ve no need of such a thing.”

  “If I could find a painter, would you sit for one?”

  “Are you thinking of repaying me for your hours of posing? I must tell you, I won’t apologize.”

  “I don’t want one. Besides, that isn’t why I ask. It needn’t be a very big one, anyway. I’d want a miniature.”

  “No one would pay.”

  “I would.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I want to carry it with me after this time is over. I want to remember.”

  There was a sad expression to his features that she’d never seen before. It was very visual, sparking a like emotion, as everything he did seemed to. But maybe it was just her. She cleared her throat in order to answer.

  “You’re very flattering, Signori Antonio.”

  “Please. It’s just Antonio. There are no titles when I’m with you. Please?”

  He didn’t need any lessons in how to sound sincere, either. She wondered how one person could be so gifted. It was feeling warmer in the room, too.

  “The session is over for today. I thank you for your perseverance.”

  “Will you at least think about it? Please?”

  He stepped away from the window and approached. Averill watched him coming. The portrait that came to mind at his cat-like movements blinded her for a moment. And then he was there. Right in front of her. His presence radiating more than heat. It sent shivers.

  “Regretfully, I must decline.”

  “Why? Is it something I said? Something I did?”

  “I...can’t answer that.”

  She whispered it before looking down toward the floor and away from him, exactly as her station in life dictated.

  “Do you dislike me? Is that it?”

  Not at all!

  Averill bit the words back. He was probably her age, yet already so adept at enticing a woman that she was actually able to paint it into his portrait. He was extremely handsome. Personable. Charming. He set her pulse to stuttering, her thoughts to a blur, and made her feel free and unfettered when she was neither. He wasn’t remotely unlikeable. But always, in the background, was the real reason she’d never consider anything he offered.

  She’d already learned her lesson. The thought solidified and hardened. Her back straightened and she lifted her face to him.

  “I am a poor artist in a rich man’s world, Signori Antonio. Your request is an insult.”

  Averill was amazed she actually said the words, and even more surprised at the cool tone she was using. She waited for his reaction. That it was a slight glint to his eyes and a bending of his head, she couldn’t have foreseen.

  “I see. Forgive me.”

  He didn’t wait for her answer. He simply swiveled on his heel and left, looking perfect and graceful. As always.

  ~ ~ ~

  Antonio’s cat-like picture was everything she’d envisioned.

  Averill locked her doors to work on it, using candles for light, since she only worked at it during the night. She didn’t want anyone taking note of how much oil she might be using. And she didn’t want anyone to see it. Or sell it. And strangely, all of that combined for an effect that caused the painting to look like it was lit from within.

  It was a good thing it was almost done. Averill had taken to pilfering candles from the pantry in the early morning hours. She was nearly out of black, too. It was the outlet she desperately needed after every session with him ended.

  Averill was grateful she’d captured the mischievous look in his eyes and his lips on his large portrait, or she’d have lost the opportunity. His entire frame screamed now of passivity and boredom. She spent hours dabbling about the background, doing whatever she could, but the sparkle was gone. She knew why. Averill wondered why she cared. If the beauteous Antonio was rejected by the woman hired to paint him, what was it to her?

  It was his fault. He shouldn’t have put her in that position.

  Averill didn’t know what to do about any of it. She couldn’t apologize, although she longed to. She told herself that it was better that Antonio thought her insulted. It should have helped knowing she’d refused the attention of a beautiful, rich, spoiled young man.

  But it didn’t.

  It felt like she’d slapped the only friendly hand offered in her new life. She couldn’t begin to count the times she’d nearly tossed her brush to the floor in frustration during his sittings and blurted out an apology. She should be grateful she hadn’t.

  She didn’t know what to do, so she said nothing, and stifled the frustration. And that was what was transferring onto her secret painting. The
cavernous black grew until it covered every speck of canvas. At the very center was a small light source. It was the momentum behind the color she spread outward, highlighting the figure at the heart of her painting. It was Antonio, clothed in black, stepping forward, as if to exit the picture, itself. To her, it looked exactly like what it was: A catharsis that wasn’t working.

  Averill had never inflicted hurt on another living thing in her life. She detested that inability in herself, and yet there seemed nothing she could do about it. She was also desperately lonely. She felt like she had to guard her tongue every moment of every day, and she unleashed the inner torment at night on the other painting of Antonio. It was a good thing no one would ever see it.

  And know.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Dona Francesca is being stubborn, Averill,” Vernon said from the doorway of Averill’s studio. “You must go.”

  Averill looked up from the background she was creating for the Dachon family portrait and glared at the maid.

  “Don’t take your temper out on me. I’m only repeating what Lady Brighten asks. I am only the messenger.”

  “Well. I already told her I won’t attend the unveiling of the portrait. I don’t care who commands my presence. Go! You’re ruining my light.”

  That was a stupid thing to say, because the maid was at the door, far from the windows, but Averill didn’t care. She wasn’t attending another society function. She didn’t care what they thought. They could all meet and pretend that they liked each other, as long as it was very far from her. The child kicked as if agreeing with her. “Ah!”

  It wasn’t a scream, but it was close. Too close. Averill tossed the brush at the floor in disgust, crossed quickly to the windows, and stood, looking out, yet seeing nothing.

  “You’re a lot like him, child. Sometimes, I wonder at my own blindness.”

  Averill spun. Antonio’s grandmother stood at the door, wobbling slightly as she leaned on a cane. She was alone. That was fortuitous. Averill didn’t want or need anyone else witnessing her emotional display.

  Especially Antonio.

  “May I come in?”

  Averill nodded before returning to her easel, picking up her brush, and desultorily moving paint around on her palette.

  “You don’t really want to paint, do you? What you’d really like is someone to rage at.”

  Averill glared at her and then lowered her eyes. To her surprise, the old woman laughed.

  “Delightful. Truly. He would’ve been proud.”

  Averill toyed with the colors on her palette. The old woman must’ve been up too long, she surmised. Possibly, she’d missed her nap. The thoughts made Averill smile.

  “You know…Avery had your intensity. I should’ve recognized that much instantly instead of having the proof thrust under my nose.”

  Averill couldn’t get the shade she wanted. She scraped the mess from her palette in disgust. Would nothing make the old woman go away?

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious about my words?”

  There was a hurt tone in Dona Francesca’s voice. Averill glanced at her. Dona Francesca wasn’t looking at her, she was taking in the view out the window, but her gaze seemed farther away than that.

  “Is there something you don’t like about my work, Dona? You must let me know, although I’m not certain I can rework Antonio’s portrait.”

  “It’s superb, child. That was what finally jostled my memory, actually. It should’ve been obvious much sooner. Perhaps…may I sit down?”

  She’s asking me? Averill gestured to the studio sofa and watched as the older woman settled herself, arranged her skirts, and then positioned the cane at her side, her fingers wrapped about the top.

  “My husband was the Marchese Dilan-Fiorri. He carried an ancient title. I was the daughter of a duca, however, so it was no misalliance. Our marriage was arranged. I met him at the ceremony. What can I say? He was a very handsome man. I was quite overcome. But I was also young and willful. My jealousy was easily aroused. As was my anger.”

  Averill turned back to her palette, thinking if she ignored the woman, she’d leave.

  “It was as if we were destined to rage at each other. It’s a wonder we managed to produce Antonio’s father, Sebastian.”

  She chuckled at that, while Averill gathered burnt sienna paint on her brush.

  “He became my only reason for living after...”

  Averill glanced at Dona Francesca before returning to her mix. It wasn’t working. She pulled in a bit of green. That made a disgusting color.

  “Sebastian died when Antonio was very young. There was…a carriage accident.”

  Averill glanced over again. Tears glimmered in the woman’s eyes before she turned away. Averill went back to her mix. It might need a bit of white to lighten it…She added white, but the new color was bad, too. This was annoying. She wasn’t getting anywhere with the old woman in the room.

  “I miss Sebastian so much.”

  Dona Francesca dabbed at her eyes. Averill looked away from the woman’s sorrow, and then something turned her back. The woman’s face had a wash of afternoon light across it, imbuing it with ethereal, aged beauty. It could be transferred to canvas if Averill had the right colors. She went to a fresh canvas and brought one back, listening with half an ear as Dona Francesca started speaking again.

  What she really needed was the color of old lace. Sun-aged linen…

  She mixed paint until she had the right hue. And then she was concentrating, fleshing in Dona Francesca’s face, blurring her eyes with a sheen of tears and the mouth with a drooping sadness.

  “What was Sebastian like?”

  Averill prompted it as the woman sniffed delicately into her handkerchief, apparently lost in memories. The setting couldn’t be more perfect. The sun more becoming. She had to work quickly, though. Averill added lined hands to caress the ivory-topped cane. The faded bloom on Dona Francesca’s cheeks was illuminated in the fading sunlight.

  “He was very handsome, almost the image of his son. And Antonio is very handsome. You agree with me?”

  She turned speculative eyes on Averill, who tried not to blush. Dona Francesca smiled.

  “I wouldn’t blame you, child. Antonio is blessed. Did you appreciate the suit I had made for his portrait?”

  Averill blushed worse and forced herself to concentrate on her work. She chose that suit? Unbelievable.

  Dona Francesca chuckled. “I might be old, but I still know how to dress a man. And with a handsome man, such as my grandson, it’s a joy. I see how it affected you. I had it made as a copy of the suit Sebastian wore for his own portrait. Strange, isn’t it?”

  Averill glanced up. The old woman had a humorous gleam in her eye. It was a good thing Averill had already captured the sad expression. Now, all she needed to do was get the dress right.

  “I have Sebastian’s portrait in my entry hall. It’s the most magnificent piece I ever saw…until this morning. When I saw the one you’d painted.”

  Averill caught her breath in surprise at such praise.

  “I don’t find that surprising…since it was your father I hired to do Sebastian’s.”

  Averill’s brush fell from nerveless fingers, leaving a blotch of pink paint on the floor. She didn’t notice. She stared at the old woman. It was if her mind was as frozen as her fingers.

  “What…did you just say?”

  Dona Francesca tossed back her head and laughed. Averill watched her. She couldn’t seem to move.

  “Your father painted my son, Sebastian. Oh. I see I finally got your attention. I asked for you this morning because I had stupendous news, and you ignored me. You treated me like Avery did. That, if anything, made me even more certain.”

  “My father wasn’t a painter.”

  She had to break this paralysis. Averill forced herself to move, bending to retrieve the brush. Standing back up. Looking at her painting.

  “Oh, yes. He most definitely was. I’m still surprised at my own blindne
ss. Your father was definitely a painter. An Egyptian. His name was Avery Ben-Masiz. However, I don’t believe I would quantify him as a mere painter. The man was a master. There are portraits done by him in nearly every house I can name.”

  “No. No. That’s impossible. My father wasn’t an Egyptian, Dona. You’re wrong. I got my dark skin from my mother.”

  “Dark skin? Oh. Dear Averill. You are very fair. That isn’t the resemblance to your sire. However, I believe, if you were placed side-by-side, the shape of your face and your eyebrow arch are identical, not to mention your hair.”

  “Every Egyptian has hair this color, Dona Francesca.”

  “True enough. Does everyone have such a high widow’s peak, too? Does their hair lay glossy and straight, yet with one wave at the temple? It surprises me how alike you are. I’m amazed at my blindness, but I’ve already mentioned that, twice. That wasn’t what convinced me though. It’s more your attitude, the way you hold your brush, and of course…it’s in your talent.”

  My father can’t be Egyptian! If he was, my mother couldn’t have been a dancing girl! No European women danced in Cairo. She has to be mistaken.

  “I was very fond of Avery, child. Very. I should’ve recognized you immediately. You’re very like him. Truly. You even glare the same way. But come. Don’t take my word for it. Come to my home, and I’ll show you the proof.”

  It was too far-fetched. Averill had heard of the Ben-Masiz family. They were well-known, high-ranking, and wealthy. It wasn’t possible.

  “Now. Let me see how you have painted me, child.”

  Dona Francesca walked around the easel and clapped her hands.

  “Wonderful. I’ll buy this the moment it’s finished, also. Get your shawl, Averill. I’ll have Antonio fetch a gondola.”

  The old woman smiled, and Averill had rarely felt such tenderness directed at her. She looked down.

  “I knew you were painting me, child. It felt exactly the same as when your father did. I knew what you were doing the moment you reached for that canvas. You wanted to capture a feeling. How’d he used to say it? He said he didn’t paint people, he painted the soul within.”

  That was exactly what she felt, but she hadn’t been able to put it into words. And that’s what decided her. She followed Dona Francesca meekly from the studio.