‘I had almost forgotten the estimable Mrs Cotton,’ Benedict said in a dry voice. ‘So she taught you needlecraft, how fortunate. I shall have to take up your services.’
‘My...services?’
‘Alas. As I am a bachelor, I find many of my shirts require attention I cannot give them.’
In a few long strides Benedict left his easel and went to a chest of drawers near his bed. It seemed bigger than ever today, with its great carved wooden headboard. All too clearly she pictured him in that bed. Her neck and cheeks flushed hot again.
From a drawer he retrieved a white shirt, similar to the one he wore beneath his dark red waistcoat. He came across the room and passed her the shirt, brushing her skin. At his touch, Cameo gave a jolt he surely couldn’t mistake.
If he, too, felt the current that flared between them he revealed no sign. ‘There’s a seam gone, there. Can you fix it?’
Holding the shirt up to the light of the window, she saw a seam had indeed torn across the shoulder, given way in what must have been a powerful stretch.
As she lifted the shirt closer the powerful masculine scent coming from the garment made her giddy. She suppressed her unexpected primitive urge to bury her face in the linen.
‘Well?’
Her head bent, she examined the rip with what she hoped appeared a professional air. ‘This is quite easy to mend. I’ve repaired similar garments.’
‘Have you indeed? Is that your trade?’
‘My trade?’ She was echoing him once more, unable to string a sentence together.
‘Yes, your trade. You mentioned Mrs Cotton brought you up. But what do you do now to earn your keep?’
‘Oh. My keep.’ For a moment her mind went as empty as a blank canvas. ‘Well, I, well, I’m a...governess.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘Oh, well, what I mean is, I’m usually a governess, but the family, the children, they’re away at the moment. In the country. Derbyshire. Yes, Derbyshire,’ she babbled. ‘That’s why I can come here and model for you.’
His expression remained dubious.
Cameo coughed. ‘And while they’re away I take in sewing, too. For extra money. I can certainly fix this. Would you like me to do it now?’
‘No, I’m not expecting you to mend it instantly,’ he said, with an impression of amusement. Relief flooded her. If he insisted, he would soon witness her poor performance at plain sewing. Her fancy embroidery stitches would look most out of place on his shirt.
‘Perhaps you can add it to your mending basket in your lonely nursery, with your young charges away. But I must ask you to promise not to do any more sewing too late into the night. If I’m to complete this painting I must have you fresh-faced.’
As if pulling on her cloak, she assumed the meek manner of Miss Ashe. ‘I’m sorry.’
His sharp glance made her realise he suspected her meekness as much as her mending.
Benedict returned to his easel. Yet another story she’d told him. Part of her was pleased she’d come up with something so quickly; part of her felt sick at having to tell more lies. It was beginning to be hard to keep track of them all. She’d told her mama she was taking extra riding lessons. That explained her absence at home. But all the lies troubled her.
It soothed her mind to watch Benedict at work. He’d moved on from drawing to painting now, using a fine brush tipped with black paint. He painted more slowly than he sketched, more deliberately. His strong fist clasping the paintbrush moved powerfully yet lightly across the canvas. His hands... She recalled the firm yet gentle way Benedict had held her, when his lips had met hers, so different from Lord Warley’s attempted grab at Lady Russell’s ball. The way he’d trapped her...nausea rose in her stomach. If only their fathers hadn’t been such good friends.
Benedict’s irate voice shot across the room. ‘Now you’re making a face. Your mouth is all puckered up as if you’ve tasted a lemon.’
Cameo tried to resume her previous expression and put the interlude at the ball from her mind.
‘You don’t need to pose any more just now, Miss Ashe.’ He sent her a fleeting but intense glance. ‘Sit down by the fire for a moment.’
‘Don’t you need me?’
Reaching for his brush, he dipped it into the black paint pooled on the palette. ‘I just want to get this right.’
Eager to watch his technique from another angle, she crossed the room and hovered behind him.
‘I can’t paint with you at my elbow,’ he snapped without turning his head.
The man was infuriating. Cameo sat down with a thump on the armchair by the fire and cast her eyes around. A book lay on the table among all the papers. The red leather binding appeared new. The Stones of Venice, its gilt lettering spelt out, by John Ruskin. She knew the author’s name, of course, for Ruskin was the famous champion of the Pre-Raphaelite movement who was able to make or break a painter’s reputation with a single review. She flicked the book open and found herself immediately held by the magnificent illustrations. She began to read.
‘I didn’t realise you were a reader, Miss Ashe.’ Like a prowling cat, Benedict had silently moved beside her. ‘But as you are a governess, I suppose it makes sense.’
At his sardonic drawl Cameo glanced up from the pages. She wasn’t sure how long she had been reading as he continued to paint, a companionable silence seeming to settle over them both. ‘It’s a wonderful book.’
He studied her for a moment before he reached across and retrieved it. ‘It’s the first volume.’ He flicked it open with his thumb. ‘It’s only just been published last year. It’s a masterpiece, as is Venice itself.’
‘You’ve been to Venice?’ She was relieved he’d dropped the topic of her role as a governess.
‘You sound surprised.’
‘It’s just the expense.’
‘How can an impoverished artist living in a garret afford it, is that what you mean?’ Benedict’s voice remained light, but his face shuttered closed. ‘I received an inheritance of a sort.’
She didn’t press him on where such an inheritance might have come from. A look of pain, quickly hidden, caused by her innocent query halted any such enquiries.
‘It wasn’t a Grand Tour as such.’ His mouth twisted. ‘But all artists must see the works by the Renaissance Masters, such as Titian, Bellini and Giorgione, who are among the greatest of the Venetian school. It’s an essential part of our training.’
‘My bro—’ She had opened her mouth to tell him her brother, George, had indeed travelled on a mandatory Grand Tour as did all young men of means. With a snap she shut it again. She possessed no brother George as the orphaned Miss Ashe.
‘The family I work for have travelled to the Continent. Will you tell me what you saw in Venice?’ Quickly she tried to cover her mistake.
‘How can I describe it in words, instead of paint? You must see it to understand the beauty of the city, with its canals and the palaces reflected in their waters, each a work of art in itself.’
‘I’d love to see it.’
He sent her his unexpected smile. ‘Perhaps you’ll go there one day.’
Her parents would never consider such a thing. Young ladies did not go on Grand Tours, at least, not the kind of tour Cameo dreamed to take, any more than they could be painters. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You never know what might happen,’ he said lightly.
A silence lengthened between them.
Finally, she was unable to take the tension. ‘Do you need me to pose any more?’
‘No, Miss Ashe. I’m making excellent progress, especially with all my preparatory work before you appeared. I think that’s enough for today.’
Feeling strangely light-headed, she buttoned on her coat and replaced her bonnet, sensing his usual aware
ness of her every movement. ‘You’ll still want me again?’
He made no reply but just folded his arms and nodded.
‘Until tomorrow, then.’
* * *
The door slammed.
Benedict waited a few moments, then pelted down the stairs, keeping a safe distance behind Miss Cameo Ashe.
There she was on the street ahead of him, that determined, slim figure, her bonnet bobbing as she hurried home.
But to where? He’d tormented himself speculating about her. Did his model live alone? Or with someone else? With a man? Those thoughts had kept him awake at night. Her claim today to be a governess helped ease his aching suspicions, but something still didn’t ring true about his model.
His model. Wryly he noted the possessive pronoun as he followed her down the street.
Ahead she rounded the corner, just as a woman carrying a basket of fruit and vegetables pushed towards him.
‘Fancy something ripe, love?’ She winked.
‘I’m in a hurry.’ Benedict raced past her.
As he turned the corner he stared down the street in astonishment.
Cameo Ashe had vanished. A crested carriage was pulling away and Becky the match girl stood alone. He gave her a wave. He often gave her food as she sat outside the bakery shop. He slipped her money when he had it; more often he gave her warm bread rolls. It must be torment to smell the baking bread.
Becky waved back. But of his model, there was no sign. As if she was a character in a fairy tale or a creature of his imagination. Gone.
Benedict ran his hand through his hair.
With a suppressed groan he made his way back up to the studio and strode over to the washstand, pouring the jug of water into the basin with an unsteady tilt. Glancing up into the mirror, beyond his reflected face he caught sight of the chaise longue Miss Ashe had just vacated. The scene echoed with presence, like a good still-life painting. So clear was her remembered image it seemed as if she still sat there, that slim upright figure, the sunlight bringing out unexpected glints in her dark hair.
Finishing this portrait was too important. Already his gut told him how good it was going to be. There must be no distractions. Cameo Ashe must not become more to him than a model. He vowed not to go chasing after her again, trying to find out more about her. No. Better that she was an apparition who appeared from nowhere. The flesh-and-blood woman, he must resist.
But he’d almost weakened. He wanted to show her the sketches he had made of Venice, see the curve of her neck as she studied them, to take his paintbrush, and take his finger...
Biting down an expletive, he leant across and pushed back the mirror. It swung like a pendulum. Her image he could surely erase, but the unexpected feel of her in his arms, the touch of those soft lips, the face lifted up to his like a delicate flower... The kiss they had shared, the one he sensed they were both trying so hard to forget, had been a promise of passion that ran deep.
What was it about her? he reflected as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, shrugged it off in a way he wished he could shrug off his persistent thoughts of Miss Ashe. She seemed different from any other model he had ever employed, but in a way he couldn’t put his finger on.
Was it her complete stillness as she posed? She only made tiny breaths. Other than that she hadn’t moved a muscle. Even the involuntary opening and shutting of her lashes seemed slow, as though not to disturb him, while his meticulous nature drove him on to sketch her over and over again, seeking to capture the exact lines of that chin, the shape of those lips. All his other models became bored, unable to hold positions for more than an hour or so. Miss Ashe sat there on the chaise longue unmoving for longer than that, her spine straight, apparently able to hold her pose unendingly.
Something else bothered him. He swore she was watching him. As intently as he sketched her, so she studied him in return, observing the slightest movement he made, taking in each step of the process, each sweep of his hand across the paper. He felt as if she were drawing with him in a strange fusion that bound them together.
Therein lay the difference. His other models, Maisie in particular, wanted him to stop working as soon as possible. Miss Ashe seemed to want him to go on, whilst drinking it all in with those violet eyes.
He’d sensed her complete focus as he finished drawing her mouth, with its full upper lip, and at last began to get her pointed chin right. Then he’d known he could go no further. The high blue collar of her finely woven woollen dress was tight around her neck and he’d only been able to guess at the exact shape of her collarbones that, even beneath her dress, hinted at being delicate and fine. He’d had to see her bare neck, that beautiful slender neck. And then the delicate scent of violets had risen up as he dropped the cameo necklace against her pale skin of her throat...
Damnation. He tore off his shirt and thrust his hands into the basin of water, splashing it against his face. He would resist her. Foundling, seamstress or governess, he had to subdue his curiosity, his need to know more. When she came for the next session he’d continue to paint her, but that was all.
Time to get to work. It would be another long night.
Chapter Seven
‘Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete
Portion’d in halves between us, that we grew.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
Cameo turned the corner. Above her head the sign for the Lamb public house creaked as it swung in the breeze. The street was becoming so familiar to her: the crowds of people buying and selling their wares, the carriages and carts, the busy butcher’s shop, the bakery with the smell of warm fresh bread wafting from inside.
Becky, the match girl, sat on the cobbles with her wares laid out beside her.
‘Good morning.’
‘Morning, miss.’
‘Do you have any brothers and sisters, Becky?’ Cameo asked as she passed her a pocketful of coins.
‘Five, miss. And one more on the way.’
‘Five! You can share these with them.’ In a paper bag she handed over the buns she’d bought at the bakery. The girl looked thinner than ever. No wonder, with so many siblings.
‘Thank you, miss.’
‘See you tomorrow, Becky.’
Cameo sighed as she climbed the stairs with their shabby green runner up to the studio. How many more times would she come here to Soho and to Benedict Cole? She didn’t dare ask him for how many more sessions she might be required, in case he told her he didn’t need her. Her stomach sank at the thought. She would miss it more than she ever dreamed possible. It seemed as if she belonged here now, but that was fanciful.
For the past two weeks, every morning except Sunday, she had faithfully appeared in the studio. So far, no one at home had discovered her deception, but she couldn’t keep it up for much longer. Her mama had begun asking why she needed riding lessons instead of receiving callers. All too often the caller was Lord Warley. Since Lady Russell’s ball, he’d begun sending flowers and notes, too, that she dropped instantly in the wastepaper basket.
She forced her worries from her mind. To her surprise on the attic landing, at the top of the stairs, the door was ajar. She pushed it open.
‘Mr Cole?’ Her voice echoed in the empty studio. Perplexed, she frowned. Where was he? She’d come at the usual time. Slipping off her bonnet and gloves, Cameo sat down next to the table by the fire. It was still smouldering in the grate. He hadn’t been gone long.
The studio was as untidy as ever. Paints and papers were everywhere; on the easel the canvas was shrouded in a sheet. With ease she conjured an image of him standing in front of the easel, how he looked when he painted; his jaw like granite as he concentrated, his hair wild, his movements fierce. Her heart skipped a beat.
Unthinking, she reached for a sheet of pape
r lying on the table. A piece of charcoal—she took that, too, and began to sketch furiously, trying to capture the image of him in her mind, the way he looked when he worked. Soon there was only the sound of the clock ticking on the chimney piece as her hands tore across the paper, using the same strong strokes she watched him make when he sketched her.
How much she had learnt by observing him. She had never drawn in such a way before. At home in her bedroom, or in the drawing room in front of her easel, she’d been so tentative. Now it was as if all the emotion inside her had been released to live and breathe in her art.
‘Miss Ashe.’
The charcoal clattered on to the table.
Benedict stood beside her, unloosing a red scarf from his neck. It ruffled his hair. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I worked all night. I had to get some supplies.’
He crouched to check the fire. As he straightened his glance fell to the sketch on the table. She tried to cover it, but he was too quick for her.
‘What’s this?’
A trickle of perspiration formed at the base of her spine as he picked it up and studied it. She was merely an amateur. What would he, a professional artist, think of her work?
‘Who taught you? Who taught you to draw?’
‘You did.’
In amazement he threw back his head. ‘I did?’
‘Yes. I’ve done some sketching before, but I’ve learnt so much more from watching you.’
His brooding expression held hers for a long moment and then dropped down to the sketch in front of him.
‘But you’re good. You’re very, very good.’
He moved behind her, enclosing her body in his as he leant over her shoulder. He lay the paper down on the table and picked up the charcoal, replacing its length in her shaking fingers. ‘You’re going wrong here. Let me show you.’
Cameo held her breath as he pressed closer, the charcoal in her fist within his strong grasp, drawing together as if they were one. His movements were gentler than she’d expected, slow and steady.
Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 Page 43
