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Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2

Page 44

by Lynna Banning


  His closeness made her light-headed. She forced herself to concentrate on what he showed her, tuning into his smooth rhythm. Tense at first, she started to sense through his grip a powerful force, a certainty about where to place each line, each curve. She knew such sureness existed, she saw it in him, but she had never experienced it. Her fist easing in his, she curved back into his broad chest, into the security of his embrace, turning her liquid.

  ‘You need to be easier here.’ His warm breath was on her neck. ‘You’ve got the perspective right, but your lines are too limited.’

  In a broad sweep he lifted her arm as if it were a wing. ‘Can you feel that? Can you stretch the expanse of that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her breath came in choking gasps.

  ‘That’s the sense you need to have even if the drawing is on a small scale. You need more movement, more passion.’

  More passion! She dropped the charcoal as if it burnt her. If only she could tell him how the rest of her life faded to black and white, like a cameo stone, while the hours in the studio with him blazed with colour.

  He came to the other side of the table, looming over her, his brow darkening. ‘Something’s wrong.’

  ‘No! I think I’ve had enough of sketching, that’s all.’

  A fierce glance told her he wasn’t fooled. He picked up the charcoal and passed it to her. ‘You must sign your sketch. It’s good.’

  She smiled, her mood lifting. He meant it. She hadn’t been wasting her time, all the hours she’d spent trying to improve, all the times she’d argued with her parents that it was worth giving her a chance. She began to write her name. Lady Catherine Mary...

  Petticoats twirling, she leapt up and seized the revealing paper. With wild fingers, she tore it across the bottom where she’d started to write her telltale signature.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Whirling around, she threw the paper into the blazing fire. ‘It isn’t good enough!’

  ‘No! Don’t destroy your work!’ He grabbed at her, but it was too late. They watched as the paper curled and blackened, turning to ashes in front of them.

  He seized her by the shoulders. ‘There was nothing wrong with that sketch. What’s the matter with you?’

  Her lips quivered. She couldn’t explain.

  His eyes went to her mouth and stayed there.

  Her breathing quickened.

  His head came closer.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’

  ‘Trelawney.’

  Cameo spun around to see a short, round-bellied man enter the studio.

  ‘Indeed it is.’ A pair of twinkling eyes alighted on her with interest. ‘And who is this vision of loveliness?’

  ‘My new model.’ Benedict fell back, away from her, leaving her chest heaving. ‘This is Miss Cameo Ashe.’

  Trelawney smiled and bowed. ‘How appropriate to such beauty. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Cameo.’

  Cameo smiled, too. It seemed impossible not to instantly like the man, with his bald smooth head, pixie ears and pointed beard, a red-spotted cravat tied jauntily at his neck. He looked like a wicked faun.

  ‘I,’ he said with a bow, ‘am Nicholas Trelawney, sculptor. You’ve heard of me, I presume?’

  ‘Well, no...’

  ‘Of course she hasn’t heard of you, Trelawney. Why would she?’

  The sculptor put his hand to his heart as though fending off a dagger. ‘Oh, wounded, wounded! You will hear of me one day, I am certain of it. My work will live and breathe for ever!’

  ‘It will live and breathe if you ever finish anything,’ Benedict commented. ‘You’ve started and stopped more sculptures than I can count.’

  Cameo supressed a smile. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Trelawney.’

  ‘And I you, my dear. Ignore this painter’s disparagement of my work. His bark is much worse than his bite as no doubt you have discovered.’ He turned to Benedict. ‘Now then, admit it. I don’t imagine you’ve remembered. You get caught up in your painting. I’ve come to remind you of my soirée next Friday evening. You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’

  Benedict spread his hands. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘It’s not healthy,’ Trelawney protested. ‘Stimulating company is essential for the artist. That’s why I hold my soirées. It’s a service to you all.’

  He turned to Cameo.

  ‘I hold the most marvellous soirées, you see. Everyone who’s anyone in the art world attends. Help me to persuade him to come. In fact—’ he glanced from one to the other ‘—why don’t you come, too, Miss Cameo? I’m sure you’d enjoy it.’

  Benedict broke in. ‘I’m sure it isn’t Miss Ashe’s kind of affair.’

  ‘How can it not be? Other artists’ models will be there, too. She’ll be among friends.’

  Cameo lifted her chin. ‘Thank you. I’d love to come.’

  ‘Marvellous. Benedict will bring you or just come along as you like.’ He gave his address.

  ‘Until the soirée, my dears!’ With a wave of his hat, Trelawney disappeared down the stairs.

  Glancing up, Cameo witnessed Benedict’s scowl.

  ‘Is there any difficulty if I attend the soirée with you?’ she asked. ‘Mr Trelawney has invited me, has he not?’

  The expression in his eyes made her quake. ‘Yes. But I don’t think you should come, Miss Ashe. I prefer our relationship to remain purely professional.’

  ‘This is professional, Mr Cole. Mr Trelawney said other artists’ models will be there, along with other artists. Are you denying me the chance to meet painters who might also wish me to model for them?’

  The corner of his mouth lifted. ‘You wish to ply your trade, is that it?’

  ‘If that’s how you wish to put it.’

  For a moment his challenging regard held hers. Then he shrugged, freeing her arm. ‘In that case I suppose I will have to take you,’ he said, then added with a warmth in his voice she hadn’t sensed since he’d kissed her. ‘There’s not much I can do when you point that determined chin of yours at me. Would you like me to collect you?’

  ‘Oh, but I’ll come in the carriage,’ she replied without thinking.

  A terrible silence fell. She refused to meet his eyes.

  ‘Your employers make the carriage available to you, do they? How unusual.’ His voice remained flat.

  ‘Not all the time. I mean, only by day. I mean, by night. I mean, the driver is a good friend of mine. In the servants’ hall,’ she added wildly. ‘I can make my own travel arrangements, thank you.’

  ‘I see.’ His expression told her he didn’t see at all.

  He knew she lied.

  ‘Shall we get back to work?’ he said at last.

  ‘Yes, Mr Cole.’ As she took up her pose, Cameo tried to ignore the way his eyes stared into her soul.

  * * *

  The earl clapped his son on the back. ‘You’ve made an excellent choice for your future wife. Well done!’

  Cameo and George burst into stifled laughter.

  ‘Why are you and George so amused?’ Maud asked them plaintively.

  Cameo hugged her. ‘Don’t mind us. We knew what Papa would say. Everyone is so pleased. Tell me, are you happy?’

  Maud, in a rose-sprigged dress, gave a radiant smile. ‘How can you ask? I can’t believe it. Of course I’m happy. I always dreamed I’d marry George one day.’ She threw a proud glance in his direction, not dissimilar to the looks she used to bestow on him when he climbed to the top of trees, as George received congratulations from the earl and from Mr Cartwright, his future father-in-law. ‘And we’re really to be sisters!’

  ‘I couldn’t have hoped for a nicer one.’

  ‘You’ll be my chief bridesmaid, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course
I will. I’ll be delighted. When is the wedding to be?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. That’s for Mama to decide. I think perhaps next June. She’s already fussing about arrangements.’

  Maud’s mother, Mrs Cartwright, sat beside Lady Buxton on the leather chesterfield sofa, their heads bent together. Both were clearly delighted by the match between their children.

  Who would not be pleased for George and Maud? Cameo sighed. Their love for each other lit up their eyes and brought an even rosier pink than usual to Maud’s cheeks.

  Benedict Cole’s image appeared in Cameo’s head. Just for a moment she pictured him standing beside her in the drawing room among them. In spite of his bohemian lifestyle he wouldn’t appear out of place with his height and broad shoulders, his dark good looks and an innate gentlemanliness.

  How she wished there was no deception between them.

  Briggs popped a cork on a champagne bottle and brought the silver platter around, offering them each a delicate, rounded glass.

  ‘May I offer my best wishes to you, Miss Cartwright,’ he said with a bow. ‘We’re all delighted below stairs.’

  Once again Maud revealed her radiant smile. ‘Thank you, Briggs.’

  Briggs gave Cameo the faintest flicker of a wink as he glided away.

  ‘Oh, Cameo.’ Maud laid her hand on Cameo’s sleeve, her huge new diamond betrothal-ring dwarfing its small size. ‘I hope you’ll fall in love next. It’s bliss!’

  For a moment Cameo longed to confide in her about Benedict Cole. But she couldn’t ask Maud to keep such information from George.

  No. It must remain a secret, no matter how it tore at her.

  Deceiving Benedict Cole was the only way.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘And up we rose, and on the spur we went.’

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

  ‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

  ‘My dears!’ Nicholas Trelawney flung open the door. ‘How delightful. Now I know how to get you here, Cole. It’s by bringing the charming Miss Cameo with you. Come this way,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Welcome to my humble abode!’

  Untying her cloak, Cameo followed their host into the crowded drawing room. The walls were covered by a bold red-and-gold-flocked paper that would surely astound even her fashionable mama and there were books, paintings, stuffed birds in glass domes and other strange objets d’art crammed everywhere. Coloured-glass gas lamps balanced haphazardly on wooden chests and tables and a merry fire blazed in the grate beneath an oversized marble mantelpiece, which was topped by a fat gold clock, clutched on either side by a pair of Cupids. Smoke emanated, not only from the hearth, but also from pipes being smoked by more than one gentleman in the room and, she noticed in amazement, by a woman who was talking animatedly by the fire. In one corner an artist sketched madly; someone else tinkled on the piano. A pair of men were arguing with a woman laughing as she stood between them, her palms on each of their waistcoats.

  ‘This is one of mine.’ As they passed it Trelawney proudly patted a clay bust, massive and misshapen, on a wooden plinth. It appeared to resemble a Roman god.

  ‘Oh!’ Cameo searched for the right words. ‘It’s most...’

  ‘Original,’ Benedict supplied from behind her. Over her shoulder she flashed him a grateful grin.

  Trelawney bustled away. ‘I’ll fetch you both some wine. Sit down, sit down.’

  Benedict lightly touched her waist. ‘This way.’

  Her back stiffened at the slight, courteous gesture. Why did it ignite a passionate flame within her, sending tongues of warmth to colour her cheeks? It’s the fire, she told herself. She’d just come in from the cool outside into a warm room. Yet she knew no external fire caused her inner surge of heat. What was happening to her?

  Benedict led her to a red-velvet sofa and sat down beside her. She became instantly aware of his thigh only inches away. She sensed his awareness of her body, too, as he crossed one of his long legs over the other in his usual relaxed gesture. She loosened her pink-paisley shawl, a touch of frivolity she’d allowed Miss Ashe.

  ‘French vintage, my dears. Partake.’ Trelawney returned to them and held out two glasses.

  Cameo murmured her thanks. Rapidly she scanned the room. She experienced a sudden anxiety that there might be someone from her circle of acquaintance at the gathering of artists. But she spotted no one she met in society.

  Benedict swallowed deeply, drawing Cameo’s eyes to his strong neck. She sipped her own. It tasted fruity and delicious, even if not as smooth as the wine served by Briggs at home. Her papa was very fussy about his claret.

  Trelawney sat down opposite them. After a swig from his own glass he gave a satisfied smile. ‘Quite the crowd today.’

  ‘Do you have these gatherings often?’ Cameo asked.

  ‘The great days of the artists’ salon are long gone, alas.’ Trelawney sighed. ‘All we have are my soirées to ensure those in the art world can meet each other. Artists, writers, poets, critics, sculptors akin to myself. They all come to my gatherings.’

  Benedict leant towards Cameo and jerked his head towards a man on the other side of the room. ‘Over by the window. Ruskin. The art critic.’

  The whiskered critic met her glance and gave Benedict a nod of recognition the artist casually returned.

  ‘He knows you,’ Cameo breathed.

  ‘Of course.’ Benedict sounded amused. ‘It’s a small community in a way, the art world. We all know exactly what each other are up to, what we’re doing, what we’re trying to achieve.’ He indicated a ruddy-skinned man. ‘That’s William Holman Hunt, one of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. And that’s Rossetti, the leader.’

  She stared at the artist with the curly black hair, waving his arms about emphatically. A pale, ethereal red-haired woman stood close by his side. ‘That’s his model, Lizzie Siddall.’

  ‘I believe Rossetti is teaching Miss Lizzie to paint.’ Trelawney chuckled. ‘That reminds me, Cole, did that society matron who wanted lessons from you write to you again?’

  Cameo froze.

  Benedict rolled his eyes. ‘She appears to have given up.’

  Trelawney turned to Cameo. ‘You should have heard him. My dear, he was irate. Some poor Mayfair matron wrote to him asking for art lessons. Refused in no uncertain terms, wasn’t she, Cole?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Why did you refuse her?’ Cameo found her strangled voice. ‘Because she’s a woman?’

  ‘Of course not. That would be ridiculous.’ Benedict shrugged. ‘I simply have no desire to mingle with the upper classes.’

  She gulped her wine. ‘But...why?’

  ‘Let’s just say art would be a hobby, nothing more, an accomplishment to boast about. Many aristocrats claim to value art and artists, but it’s all too often not true. It’s an affectation, or worse, an investment.’

  ‘How do you know? Surely you’re wrong. There might be a society lady...’ Cameo furiously swallowed the words with another gulp of wine ‘...who is passionate about art.’

  ‘I doubt it. I refuse to waste my time finding out.’

  ‘Ooh!’ The exclamation escaped from her lips before she contained it.

  Benedict quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘This angers you?’

  Trelawney chuckled again. ‘I’m not surprised. You do sound a radical revolutionary when you talk like that, Cole. I had a German fellow at my last soirée I should have introduced you to. He’s moved into Dean Street in Soho not far from you. Name of Karl Marx.’

  Benedict’s lips thinned. ‘I’m not so radical or revolutionary. I prefer to avoid the aristocracy, that’s all, as well you know, Trelawney. I had too much to do with them at one time of my life and I vowed never to again.’

  So that explained the rude reply he had sent her in response to h
er request for painting lessons, Cameo thought to herself. He didn’t merely disapprove of society ladies dabbling in art. That was an excuse. He had an aversion to mixing with upper-class society. But why? What had happened that he’d made such a vow? In any case, she couldn’t reveal her real identity now. He would despise her, think her typical of her class, as arrogant as someone like Lord Warley, snatching whatever she wanted.

  Cameo jerked her head away, tears smarting in her eyes. Her pleasure at being at the soirée amidst all the bohemian artists and writers vanished. She didn’t belong. She’d never belong in this bright, wonderful, exciting world.

  Benedict stood up. ‘Will you excuse me for a moment? There’s someone I need to speak to.’

  ‘Miss Cameo is safe with me.’ Trelawney twinkled. ‘Fear not, my boy.’

  * * *

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Nicholas Trelawney enquired after Benedict had gone, patting Cameo’s hand. ‘You look a trifle upset. You mustn’t mind what Benedict says. It’s the artistic temperament. They’re all the same, such passionate people. It’s frightening to have them all in the same room. My dear! The fireworks!’

  She offered him a smile. It was difficult to be downcast in the company of Nicholas Trelawney.

  ‘I have great hopes for our Benedict. He’s extremely talented.’

  Cameo nodded. She’d known it the moment she first saw his painting in the Royal Academy and was drawn to it like a magnet.

  ‘He’s the typical artist, so focused on his work and nothing else. A tendency to be, how can I say it, somewhat obsessed. And now what do I see?’ Trelawney leaned forward confidentially. ‘If you knew how hard I’ve tried to get him here! My dear, what have you done?’

  At what must have been her look of puzzlement, he chuckled. ‘To Benedict, my dear. He’s quite transformed.’ She heard sincerity in the sculptor’s voice. ‘You’re making him very happy.’

  ‘I... I’m not...sure what you mean, Mr Trelawney.’

  ‘Oh!’ He jolted in surprise. ‘Do forgive me. The way you both... It seemed... I thought...’ The sculptor patted her hand again. ‘My apologies.’

 

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