by Lucy Ashford
‘Haven’t they?’ Casually drawing out of his pocket his small sketchbook, he flicked through several pages to show her a beautiful watercolour of a young woman with fair hair and a pleasant face, wearing a tiara and necklet of pearls. ‘The archduchess,’ he said.
She gasped. ‘You have been to Austria?’
‘A few months ago, yes.’ He smiled. ‘I’m a wandering wastrel. I pick up commissions where I can.’
‘I’m surprised you’ve not been commissioned by the emperor himself,’ she said rather tightly.
‘Napoleon? Oh, he goes for the rather grander artists. In fact, he commissioned Canova to do a marble statue of him, as Mars the Peacemaker, but it’s still in Rome—I saw it there. Canova is proving awkward about transporting it to Paris, partly because of money, and partly because Canova objects to Napoleon’s far-from-peaceful conquest of his homeland, Italy.’
‘Oh! I would love to see it!’
‘I’m sure you would.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Napoleon is ten feet high, and stark naked.’
Her cheeks flamed. Whistling, Jacques started strolling round in the dim candlelight, examining the pictures for himself, his hands in the pockets of his shabby black frock coat. She was stunned by him. Made a nervous mess by him. He was so handsome. So…at ease.
He swung round and caught her staring. ‘Some of these paintings in here are by David,’ he said. ‘He is the official court artist. Why not get him to do it?’
She clenched her teeth. ‘Because we cannot afford him!’
‘But surely the curators were given sufficient funding for such things?’
‘All gone.’ This time her voice shook, just a little. ‘All gone, except for two hundred francs.’ Which was, in fact, her life savings.
The man called Jacques was drawing nearer. She backed away, and came into collision with a pillar. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘you really are rather beautiful. You must allow me to paint your portrait some day. As for this work—if I agree to do it, how will I get access?’
‘You will have noted that I have a key,’ she said rather tightly. ‘I can let you in here every evening, though we must not take long, because the guards come round on the hour. We will have to be here, say, after six, then leave before seven. Will you do it?’
‘How important is this to you, Sophie?’
‘It means everything, Monsieur Jacques,’ she answered quietly.
Two days ago her father had explained it to her from his sickbed.
‘The paintings,’ he muttered. ‘Of Josephine. They must be dealt with. But there is no money.…’
Her heart had lurched. ‘Surely it’s not your personal responsibility, dear Papa? Surely Monsieur Denon will have seen to it?’ Denon was the chief curator of the Louvre, a stern, soulless man.
Her father had shaken his head. ‘That’s the trouble, my dear. Monsieur Denon asked me to see to it, a month ago. He gave me money, but I spent it, on the restoration of other paintings. I quite forgot about Josephine! If I told Denon now, I would lose my job. And I love my work, Sophie, I love all the paintings.…’
‘I will see to it,’ she’d said resolutely. ‘Trust me.’
And now came the question. Was her father’s job and happiness worth putting herself in the hands of this disdainful stranger?
The question had already been answered. She had no choice.
Jacques had merely nodded at her earlier answer and was already examining another of the paintings. ‘Incidentally,’ he said, turning to her, ‘how did you hear about me?’
She clasped her arms across her bosom. ‘My father follows the gossip of the artists’ quarter, and heard there was a talented portrait painter called Jacques, recently come from Claremont. He said you were known to enjoy a challenge.’
‘How true,’ he answered. He was watching her carefully. ‘I like payment also. And the time has come, Mam’selle Sophie, for me to name my price.’
He was drawing nearer. The dim candlelight softened the harsh planes and angles of his handsome face, but it also lit sparks in his smouldering dark eyes. A wicked little pulse began to beat rather dangerously in all her nerve endings.
She tried to stand firm. ‘Name it, then.’
He was looking again around the softly lit chapel. ‘How many pictures need altering?’
‘Six—no, I counted seven!’
He let his hand rest very lightly on her shoulder, and she jumped as if a burning brand had touched her. He was smiling down at her now. ‘Well, then. For each hour I spend painting here, I want, in return, a kiss.’
She reeled. ‘No. That is despicable. That is a mean, mean trick!’
Someone was coming, along the gallery outside, towards this chapel. They both heard it at the same time. Heard the key in the big lock turning, the squeak of hinges as the heavy door slowly swung open.
Her terrified eyes flew up to Jacques. She whispered, ‘It’s Monsieur Denon. He must not know!’
As quick as lightning, Jacques grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her down with him behind the altar, crouching there with her in the shadow of the lavishly embroidered altar cloth. Old, fat Denon came in and stamped around, muttering, ‘Strange. I would swear that I heard something. Must be those rats from the river. The sooner this business is over, the better. Be damned to Napoleon. Be damned to the whole wedding!’
He marched off again, slammed the door shut and locked it. And Sophie suddenly realised fully her predicament. She was huddled in the dark on her hands and knees, and gently round her shoulders lay the muscular arm of the most handsome man she’d ever met in her life. She ought to spring away, but she couldn’t for the life of her move. His arm was holding her tight; his body was pressed close to hers. The clean male scent of his skin, of his hair, made her senses sweetly swim. And he was shaking, she realised—with soft laughter.
‘I know Denon,’ he whispered. ‘He travels a lot, doesn’t he? Scouring Europe for art treasures for Napoleon. But he doesn’t seem too keen on his imperial master at the moment.’ He was laughing again. ‘“Be damned to Napoleon,”’ he said in a perfect imitation of old Denon’s grumpy tones. ‘“Be damned to the whole wedding!”’
Then she was laughing too, because of course it was utterly absurd, finding herself here beneath the sacred marriage altar with a stranger who was going to paint out poor Josephine. Especially when she was nothing to Jacques at all! Just a rather absurd seamstress from the palace, whose request must strike him as ridiculous.
But then she saw that those compelling eyes were watching her with a mixture of amusement and—could it be desire? A kiss. He’d said he wanted a kiss, for every hour he spent on the task. Suddenly her situation didn’t seem funny at all. Her pulse quickened and she licked her lips, which were dry with anxiety. He was murmuring huskily, ‘An apt time to take payment in advance, I think.’
He was drawing her to her feet and holding her so close that she had to tilt her chin to look into his eyes. He slipped his hands around her waist and drew her even nearer, with gentle but relentless pressure. There was no time to protest as his mouth closed over hers in a slow, sweeping kiss that tore at her reserve and shattered it. His lips were warm, and strong; without realising it her own lips had parted, and his tongue was exploring with sweet demand.
A reckless yearning seized her. For a few magical moments she forgot everything except the feel and taste of this man, who was clasping her pliant body against his own hard one. She was cast adrift from reality, into a world of sensation—a world where the faint candlelight from the gilded altar swooped and dipped as his arms clasped her tighter and his mouth so sweetly possessed hers. A soft moan started somewhere in her throat and she ached for more.
Madness. What was she doing? She’d only just met this man. She knew nothing about him. He could be dangerous… Could be? He’d most certainly lived the life of a rogue and a rake!
Jacques of Claremont. She’d wanted his kiss more than she’d wanted anything. Ever.
He’d drawn away.
Was looking round again, coolly assessing this hallowed chapel. ‘I’ll start work tomorrow, then,’ he said, buttoning up his coat. ‘I’ll meet you outside, just after six. Isn’t that what you said?’
She nodded. Mam’selle Sophie, head seamstress at the Tuileries. Trying to pretend nothing of any consequence had happened, when really her whole life had just been turned upside down by this painter Jacques.
‘Yes,’ she said. But her voice came out like a little squeak; she pretended to cough, and said again, more calmly, ‘Yes, I’ll meet you outside at six. The public galleries will still be busy, which will help. But won’t you need to bring paints, and brushes?’
‘I’ve got big pockets in this coat,’ he said. He was already peering at the nearest painting. ‘I’ll start with that one. Cupid and Venus, in dalliance.’ Then he swung round to her. His smile was wicked. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
Jacques left her outside the Louvre and strolled off thoughtfully along the crowded rue de Rivoli, cheerfully brushing aside courtesans who accosted him along the way, the touts selling souvenirs of the wedding—trinkets adorned with the entwined initials of the happy couple, Austrian sweetmeats and little flags to wave on the great day.
Sophie. So lovely. So dutiful. So repressed… Until he kissed her. And then her reaction had been spectacular. His loins still throbbed at the memory of her sweetly parted lips, of her pert breasts pressing so enticingly against his chest.
And so, still musing, he got home. No artist’s garret for Jacques; instead a rather luxurious four-roomed apartment in the rue du Faubourg St Honoré, where his anxious valet tutted over his scruffy clothes, and—more usefully—poured him a good large brandy while Jacques contemplated this rather intriguing adventure he’d got himself into.
Chapter Three
The wedding drew steadily nearer. Every day, Sophie supervised her small team of skilled seamstresses as they prepared the royal suite in the Tuileries Palace for the Archduchess Marie-Louise. Every day, Sophie hurried away after her work was done to visit her sick papa, seeing all around the vast preparations for the great event: the flags and garlands that were being hung all along the Champs-Élysées; the flower beds of the Tuileries that were being coaxed to exquisite perfection by hundreds of dedicated gardeners.
Poor Marie-Louise, she kept thinking. To be forced into marriage with a man she barely knew! Each evening, an hour before the Louvre closed its great doors to the crowds of sightseers, she met Jacques and together they would move, unseen, into the Salon Carré.
He was a wonderful artist, she realised: speedy yet meticulous. She’d been terrified when he’d started on the first painting. She’d seen his sketches, but this was quite different. What if his work was unacceptable? What if he ruined these precious masterpieces?
But he knew exactly what he was doing—had brought exactly the right brushes and tubes of oils to mutate the dark, vivacious features of Josephine into the fair prettiness of the much younger Marie-Louise. For a while, she even forgot his wicked bargain. When he gestured to her to come and examine his first completed transformation, Sophie gasped. ‘You should not be a lowly street artist! You could be making money!’
He smiled, that lazy, languorous smile that disconcerted her so. ‘I’m not doing this for nothing,’ he drawled, looking at her in such a meaningful way that she almost felt faint.
A kiss. For each hour he spent painting.
That first kiss of his had swept all her common sense to the wind. What would the next one be like?
She waited that second night with a thundering heart for him to claim his due. Yet when he came to her at the end with his brushes and paints put away, and the candles in the magnificently adorned wedding chapel burning but dimly, he just took her hand, lifted it and gently kissed it.
She felt rather faint. With relief—or disappointment?
‘Is that all?’ she breathed.
‘That’s all,’ he answered evenly. ‘I was wrong to take advantage of you as I did last night.’
‘But it was our agreement!’
‘I have had payment enough, believe me.’
She gazed up at him, outwardly calm. ‘Very well. We had better go. It will soon be seven, and the guards will be doing their rounds.’
So she unlocked the door to let them out, and he took his leave. Her heart was welling with bitter disappointment. One kiss was enough. Was she so very unattractive? Yes must be the answer. Yes. She had simply amused him, that was all—presented a challenge, with her devotion to her task, her earnestness, her innocence!
Indeed Sophie guarded her innocence fiercely. But only because she had seen too many women in her position—lowly servants to the great—seduced, then cruelly cast aside. She had sworn that would never happen to her, and had deliberately cultivated her plain attire and her prim manner.
She had been safe until now. But Jacques the insolent artist had sparked something, unleashed something. Not just in that first kiss, but with his very presence—his casual smile, that lithe grace that emanated from every part of his powerful body, even in the shabby clothes and dusty top boots he lounged about in. She dreamed wicked dreams, every night, of being in his arms. Of his lips on her lips, and more.
How he would laugh, if he knew. Well, that was up to her. He would not know.
So each day, as the wedding drew closer, she dressed more severely than ever, and pulled her hair back into her demure cap, and wore her high-necked gowns. Not that he paid her appearance much attention anyway, for his eyes were always on his painting.
But he would often talk, as he painted. And Sophie would listen, enraptured in spite of herself. He would tell her the latest tales from the Paris streets. How the costumiers were running out of seed pearls because the rumour had spread amongst the grand ladies of Paris that this was what Marie-Louise would have embroidered on her wedding gown. How the builders of the Arc de Triomphe had threatened to strike unless they were paid more money. How Napoleon’s outrageous sister, Princess Pauline, had fallen out with the Comtesse de Lyons over who would sit closest to the imperial couple at the wedding feast.
‘How do you know all these things, Jacques?’ she would ask wonderingly. There was gossip aplenty at the Tuileries Palace, but he seemed to know it all the minute it happened.
He turned to her, still stroking his paintbrush in the delicate colours on his palette. ‘One hears everything at the Palais-Royal. One even hears how a very pretty seamstress at the Tuileries Palace has turned down one respectable suitor after another, because she is so devoted to her work, and to her father. Her name—’ and now he was watching her thoughtfully ‘—is Sophie.’
Her cheeks burned. ‘I didn’t think you would stoop to pry. And besides, it is…ridiculous to say that I’ve turned down offer after offer, to say that I am pretty!’
‘Not pretty, I agree.’ He was looking at her, those dark eyes glinting again. ‘I actually said…very pretty. And I’ve heard something else. That this same Sophie signed away four years of her life to work at the Tuileries, so that her father, who is ailing, did not lose his job at the Louvre. Monsieur Denon, who is hand-in-glove with the head steward at the Tuileries, wanted you to stay and reject all suitors, because you were so good at your job. Your price was that your father should keep his. Is it true, Sophie?’
Her heart was beating like a panic-stricken bird trying to get out of a cage. ‘My father is excellent at his job! No one knows the collection as he does—no one cares for it as he does!’
‘But he is becoming careless. Isn’t he?’ said Jacques the painter softly. ‘That’s why he didn’t realise there were pictures of Josephine all around this wedding chapel, until it was almost too late. Even then, he thought there were only one or two, but it was you who spotted them all, wasn’t it, Sophie?’
‘You should not know this,’ she said bleakly. ‘No one should know it.’
‘But is it true?’
Her shoulders drooped ‘Yes.’ Suddenly her eyes blazed again. ‘
But I love my father, I love my job, and besides, I have no wish to marry, to be bargained away like poor Marie-Louise!’
‘Are you quite sure, Sophie?’
In the rich shadows, surrounded by the marble pillars and sumptuous hangings, the gold altar decorations and the priceless paintings, Sophie suddenly felt so full of emotion that she could scarcely breathe. He had moved closer—too close. She had not seen him put down his palette and brush, but he was here, facing her, with one hand on her shoulder, and the other cupping her chin, tilting her face towards him.
‘Payment,’ he said softly.
She lifted bewildered eyes to his dark, intent ones. ‘But I thought you didn’t want anything more from me. I thought I must repel you.…’
‘Repel me?’ He backed away. ‘Dear God, Sophie, I’ve been fighting for the past few nights to keep my hands off you, woman, haven’t you realised?’
‘No doubt it would be the same with any female who was young, and available!’ she cried. ‘You artists have a reputation after all!’
‘Is that why you hired me?’ he stormed. ‘To test out my reputation?’
Her hands were on her hips. ‘Believe me, I would have hired you if you were the wickedest rake in Paris, if you’d said you would fix those paintings for me!’
Suddenly he began to chuckle, very softly. ‘You’re in the mood for a fight, and you look lovelier than ever when you’re angry. I’d like to paint you like that, Sophie. Your eyes become a darker blue, your cheeks are flushed—just a little—and your breath comes in short little sighs. And your beautiful hair has fallen down from its pins.’
Frantically she reached to push it up again. But before she could do so he was drawing her into his arms. Her lips parted in protest.
‘Payment time again,’ he said softly. He lowered his head, and his mouth found the sensitive skin of her throat. ‘Endure it if you must, sweet Sophie. Enjoy it if you dare.’
Sensation curled up from somewhere deep inside her and began flooding her senses. It was all she could do not to groan out loud as his hands slid down her back to clasp her waist, then moved beneath the soft fullness of her breasts.
