Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2

by Lynna Banning

  Helplessly, Cameo tried to slow her racing breaths. She watched Benedict move around the studio, heard the crackle of the fire, the tick of the clock slower than her heartbeat. Her body continued to tremble and her speeding pulse did not abate until she could no longer explain it by her scare outside. No, a painful jolt of her heart told her. She’d been frightened out on the street, but even more frightening were the emotions raging through her now.

  From between her eyelashes she stole another shaky peep across the room to where Benedict stood stoking the fire. Her mouth dried as she stared at him anew. How could she fool herself any more? Benedict Cole alone, not painting lessons, had brought her to the studio through the fog, through the dark and dangerous London streets. She came to the studio not only for art’s sake, not any more. She came to the studio for the sake of the artist.

  When Benedict Cole had carried her up the stairs in his strong arms, she’d known she never wanted to leave those arms, not ever again. She wanted to stay there, cradled against his chest, breathing him in, her lips close to the skin of his warm neck.

  She loved him.

  Benedict pivoted and saw her watching him. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m quite all right.’ Her voice made a contradictory whisper.

  The smell of smoke reached her as the fire roared into full life. He prodded the logs with the poker before he reached for a whisky bottle on the chimney piece and found a glass.

  ‘You’ve had a shock. I’m not sure if you drink whisky, but I think in these circumstances it’s medicinal.’

  Returning to the chaise longue, he held out the glass.

  ‘Thank you. I think I need some whisky.’ Fumbling, she slipped off her gloves and wrapped two hands around the glass like an unsteady child, took a huge gulp and spluttered.

  A smile played on his lips as he removed the glass and placed it on the floor. ‘Perhaps not.’

  He brooded over her for a moment. ‘Do you wish me to call for a doctor?’

  ‘No, I’m not hurt.’ That wasn’t what she felt. ‘I can’t thank you enough for saving me. You came just in time.’

  He folded his arms. ‘It certainly looked that way.’

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come today.’ No longer could she deceive the man she loved. ‘I want to explain about what happened in the park and—’

  ‘That doesn’t matter now,’ he interrupted. ‘None of that matters. Not any more. What happened outside?’

  ‘I’d just seen the public house, the Lamb, and I went to cross the road when that horrible man came up and grabbed me. I felt so terrified. He tried to get my cameo.’ She struggled up. ‘My necklace!’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got it here.’ He pulled it from his pocket, dangled it on the black ribbon. He gave a faint smile. ‘You don’t seem yourself without it. Shall I put it back on for you?’

  Her reply was a mere nod. She couldn’t manage any more.

  In the silence lengthening between them, her breaths grew uneven as he tied it around her neck. His fingers traced the carved stone, touched the soft hollow of her skin. His touch left her breathless.

  ‘The stone’s not damaged,’ he said. ‘And there’s no bruising on your skin. Do you think you sustained any other injury?’

  She shook her head. She felt no pain in her body, not with Benedict so close.

  ‘But you slipped.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She winced, remembering. ‘I hit my head on the cobbles.’

  ‘May I examine you?’ He leant over her, his fingers pressing through her hair, gentle but firm. ‘It would be easier if your hair wasn’t up in this—’

  ‘Overdone style?’ she broke in irrepressibly, recalling how he had described her hairstyle the first day she’d come to the studio.

  Benedict had the grace to laugh. ‘You’re obviously not too badly hurt then, since your wits remain. But if I might loosen it... May I?’

  Still breathless, she nodded. She might have heard a hairpin drop, so quiet it became between them, as one by one he removed the thin curves of metal, cupping them in his hand as the strands of hair tumbled to her shoulders.

  The hairpins set aside, his fingers once again searched her tender scalp.

  ‘There’s no skin broken.’ He removed his hands just as she thought she could handle no more of his firm pressure seeming to loosen every muscle of her body. ‘You might have a lump in a day or so, I suspect. Do you have a headache?’

  ‘No, I don’t have a headache. I just had a fright.’

  ‘You’re safe now.’ His voice caressed her with reassuring warmth. ‘You’re safe here with me, Cameo.’

  ‘You called me Cameo,’ she said in wonder. ‘And when you saved me on the street, you called me Cameo then, too.’

  He sent her a wry smile. ‘I think we’ve strayed beyond the social niceties now you’re here in my studio in the middle of the night. And perhaps you can call me Benedict from now on. You did on the street.’

  ‘Did I?’ To cover her sudden confusion she reached for the whisky glass and swallowed an enormous gulp.

  ‘Easy. That’s strong stuff.’

  Carefully she replaced the glass on the table, her fingers not quite obeying.

  ‘Lie back now.’

  With the whisky running hot through her veins, she did as he commanded, her head lolling against the curve of the chaise longue.

  ‘That’s better. I think you’re going to have to stay for a while.’

  ‘For the whole night? Here? In the studio with you?’ The words tumbled from her mouth as she tried to raise herself up. Her pulse thumped at the idea.

  ‘I don’t anticipate you staying all night. But you do need to recuperate.’ With narrowed eyes he continued to brood over her. ‘You must stay still.’ With a teasing half curve of a smile he added, ‘Perhaps I should paint you, keep you lying down. You suit the subject of the portrait very well tonight, with your hair loose. Yes, you suit it very well. Except for your dress, of course.’

  For a long moment she stared up at him, her mind awhirl, her heart racing. With a swish of her skirts she slid from the chaise longue.

  ‘What are you doing? I told you to rest.’

  ‘You said you wanted to paint me.’ Cameo’s cheeks flamed. ‘Might it be easier...if I wore my chemise?’

  * * *

  Benedict scanned Cameo’s flushed face as he tried to find words in his dry mouth. ‘You’ve been hurt. You should rest.’

  ‘I’m feeling much better already,’ she protested. She had colour back in her cheeks, it was true. ‘It must have been the whisky. I’m well enough to pose.’

  He fell back on his heels. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes...and...’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘When I first came to the studio, you told me the subject of your painting wore a simple white dress.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You said I could pose in my normal attire, but surely it will be easier to paint my form—’ she swallowed the word ‘—in my chemise.’

  His senses flared up like a stoked fire. ‘Ah, yes. Your form.’

  ‘My chemise is white, you see. I can...undress...if that’s what you need.’

  The instant quickening in his loins he forced himself to ignore. ‘I don’t require you to do that. The painting is coming along well. As for your form—as an artist I’ve studied anatomy of both the male and the female. I can use my knowledge and—’ his inspection lingered over her body ‘—my imagination.’

  Her cheeks coloured more crimson. ‘Will it be easier if I undress?’

  The room became still, except for the sound of her rapid breathing.

  ‘It might,’ he admitted at last.

  ‘You’ll have to help me remove my gown,’ she said. ‘It has
buttons at the back. I can’t reach all of them.’

  ‘Cameo. Are you sure?’

  In silent answer she twirled and with a graceful movement lifted up her hair.

  The back of her neck appeared slender and vulnerable, soft tendrils of midnight-black hair curling about. Benedict swallowed hard as her violet scent assailed him and restrained himself from putting his lips to that tender skin. Forcing himself to focus on his task, he found the small jet-black buttons holding together the green dress. It was one he’d never seen her wear before, an evening gown of exquisite work. It confirmed his suspicions, but he couldn’t think about that now. Slowly he undid the buttons, down, right down, to where they ended at the small of her back.

  Clutching the fabric of the dress in front of her, she spun to face him. His pulse sped as she lifted her chin and let the fabric fall. With a rustle the gown slid down over her petticoats as it dropped to the floor.

  She stepped out of the pool of emerald at her feet. Unable to speak, he beheld the hint of her breasts beneath the whiteness of her chemise on its delicate lacy shoulders, above the boned corset that cinched her waist into a perfect hourglass.

  ‘I can do my petticoats myself.’

  Before he could respond, Cameo released foamy white layers which followed her dress to the floor: a silk outer petticoat, another with a heavy-weighted hem, then one, two, three, four, five, six lighter ones, all frills and lace and silk and cotton and scalloped edges.

  She turned her back, lifting her hair once again. ‘Please help me take off my corset. It’s tight.’

  God help him if he moved now. ‘Cameo...’

  ‘It’s uncomfortable,’ she insisted, without turning. ‘I’ll be able to pose for longer without it. Please.’

  She waited.

  ‘Please.’

  Cursing his stiff fingers, he found the laces of the corset and freed her from its cruel constraints. Neatly she caught it in front of her and cast it aside as she spun to face him.

  He couldn’t look away.

  ‘“Gown’d in pure white, that fitted to the shape...”’ he muttered, quoting to himself. Her natural, unrestrained curves were even more beautiful than when she wore a corset, the outline of her torso a slender stalk beneath the cotton.

  Cameo didn’t seem to hear him. ‘What about my drawers?’ Her lower lip jutted out doubtfully as she contemplated her legs where the cotton chemise ended beguilingly at their lace edges above her stockinged knee.

  ‘No.’ The curt command escaped him. He would lose control himself if she removed those, let alone be able paint her.

  He waited a moment.

  ‘Lie down,’ he said at last, his voice husky. Then he frowned. ‘I don’t want you to get cold. I’ll build up the fire.’

  At the fireplace he threw on logs and made it blaze. Taking the iron poker, he thrust it among the flames, its tip red-hot. ‘Are you warm enough?’

  ‘Yes. I meant to ask—what about my necklace?’

  ‘It’s part of you,’ he responded without thinking. ‘Leave it on. I won’t put it in the painting.’

  Her curls went tumbling as she inclined her head. ‘How do you desire me to pose? As before?’

  ‘Almost. Let’s try some changes. I’d prefer you to recline more to appear natural. Imagine you’re lying under a tree.’

  In a graceful movement she curved her hip so she lay almost on her side, tucking her legs up on to the chaise longue.

  Benedict frowned. Her instinctive pose seemed perfect, but there was something wrong.

  ‘I’m going to have to undo this.’ He pointed to her black boot. ‘Your feet should be bare. May I?’

  He witnessed her teeth catch her lip as he slid off the boot and dropped it to the floor. His hand hovered over her calf and he felt her muscles tense beneath his hold.

  ‘And your stockings?’ His fingers moved down her silk-clad leg in the slightest of caresses. ‘I’ll be careful. They’re so fine. It’s a shame to tear them.’

  Permission was granted by the slightest lowering of her head. He lifted up her chemise, his whole body tensing, and forced himself to concentrate as he folded it over her thighs. His blood pumped as he pushed the lacy edges of her drawers up until the top of her white stocking lay revealed, held up by a blue-ribbon garter. He heard a sigh escape her as he brushed the tender skin of her inner thigh untying the blue ribbon. Time slowed as he unfurled the fragile stocking, peeling it down her leg, like a petal opening to reveal the interior of a bloom.

  His body hardened. How he managed to repeat the process with the other slender leg he had no idea, as he seized hold of her hip, shifting her into a reclining position on her side, one knee slightly in front of the other, her head tilted. ‘Can you stay in that pose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Every animal instinct in him fought as he went to the easel. Desire raged as jealousy kicked him in the gut. Jealousy that another man had touched her, held her as he wanted to hold her. There could be no uncertainty now. She’d come to him in the dark of night, on foot, not in the carriage owned by her wealthy protector, wearing her evening gown because she had to hide coming to him. Perhaps it was fear, perhaps it was shame. Whatever it was, he disdained to make it harder for her.

  Only an artist could have walked away from her at that moment, he reflected with a bitter twist of a smile. Yet he needed time to collect himself, make sense of what he had experienced outside. The way he’d found her, lying there on the street. He still yearned to find the thief and tear him limb from limb. It enraged him anyone wanted to hurt Cameo. Cameo. It felt right, speaking her name at last. How long since he’d stopped calling her Miss Ashe in his mind? He hardly remembered.

  Not bothering with his painting shirt, he lifted his palette, squeezed some paint out on to the board. ‘Damnation,’ he muttered, as too much spurted out. Forcing himself to pick up his brush, he assessed her as she lay in her simple white garments. The moonlight shining through the windows transformed her skin to a pearly sheen. He had never seen her look so lovely, with a purity combined with a sensuality he could barely resist. With an inner groan he dipped the brush into the paint and began to outline her body on the canvas.

  Soon the familiar focus found him in spite of his body’s need. She was right, the chemise helped. He’d guessed the proportions of her body correctly, though her legs were longer than he’d first assumed and the smoothness of her arms he’d barely imagined. He worked on, faster than he had ever worked before, steady and sure.

  He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he noticed her shivering through the cotton of her chemise.

  The paintbrush clattered to the floor as he leapt up. ‘I’ve let the fire go down.’

  After stoking the flames, he went to her. ‘I’m sorry you became cold. I lost track of time. It was coming so fast.’

  A shake of her head sent dark curls spiralling. ‘I just need to move.’

  He felt his own body tauten as she stretched like a cat beside him, arching her back. He ran his hand through his hair. ‘How are you feeling now? No after-effects from your scare on the street?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Do you need to take a break from posing?’ He quirked his eyebrow and added, ‘Perhaps you’d appreciate more whisky.’

  She laughed. ‘No, I’m quite well. But I’ve been thinking, while you were working,’ she spoke with sudden shyness, ‘about the painting’s subject. I’m curious. I thought you quoted a line of poetry before. Was it from the poem for this painting?’

  He nodded. ‘I told you, I think, this portrait is based upon a poem by Tennyson.’

  ‘Yes, but you never told me which poem.’ She smiled, suddenly mischievous. ‘You were most mysterious, Mr Cole.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s time for that mystery to be revealed.’

  * *
*

  Cameo watched as Benedict took out a battered leather-bound volume from the bookshelf by the fire. Even the stretch of his shoulder as he reached for it sent a tremor through her.

  ‘May I?’ He indicated the space beside her.

  Cameo moved aside with a gulp. ‘Yes, of course.’ Her stomach contracted as Benedict stood beside her next to the chaise longue, her awareness of him heightened by the fact she wore only her chemise, her legs bare. She still felt amazed at her boldness in undressing for him, but she didn’t regret it. It felt right, not wrong.

  Watching him paint had only increased her certainty. As he worked she had made a decision. She would stay with him tonight, for as long as he allowed her to remain. Explanations, confessions, they could come later.

  Not tonight.

  She loved him.

  With a finger Benedict opened the book. Her stomach experienced another of those tight surges, lower down.

  ‘The painting is based on a poem entitled “The Gardener’s Daughter; or, The Pictures”. It’s one of Tennyson’s early works.’ He riffled through the pages. ‘It’s long and I’m not using it all, but there’s a description of a woman. I’ll read part of it.’

  Benedict’s voice became a caress.

  ‘A certain miracle of symmetry,

  A miniature of loveliness, all grace

  Summ’d up...she

  So light of foot, so light of spirit—oh, she

  To me myself, for some three careless moons,

  The summer pilot of an empty heart

  Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not

  Such touches are but embassies of love...

  She...said to me, she sitting with us then,

  “When will you paint like this?” and I replied,

  (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,)

  “’Tis not your work, but Love’s. Love, unperceived,