Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2

by Lynna Banning

  He grabbed the paintbrush. ‘The only artist you’ll model for is me,’ he growled and, rearing up, pulled the sheets over their heads.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘“Now,” said he, “will you climb to the top of Art.

  You cannot fail...”’

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

  ‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

  Maud held out a swatch of blue fabric. ‘What do you think of this one?’

  Leaning against the sofa, Cameo examined the soft silk. ‘It’s lovely, Maud. Don’t you think it’s a little soon to be planning the bridesmaids’ dresses?’

  Maud giggled, her dimple appearing. ‘You’ve forgotten. I’ve been planning this for years. You used to draw the dresses for me, don’t you recall? I wish I still had some of those drawings. They were lovely.’ Maud lowered her voice and darted a glance towards the velvet chairs by the fireplace, where their mothers were inspecting lace. ‘Mama told me the other day that soon we’ll all be wearing some kind of cage, a hoop to hold our skirts out. It’s coming into fashion. Can you imagine? Now, consider this pale green. Or perhaps this violet blue—it’s pretty and it suits your eyes.’

  ‘I’m happy with any colour you choose. It will be your special day.’ She gave her friend’s arm an affectionate squeeze, yet as she spoke wistfulness crept over her like a climbing vine. She loved both George and Maud so much and she couldn’t have been more pleased for them.

  But they didn’t need to lie about who they were. Or what they’d been doing.

  The passion of her night at the studio with Benedict returned with a flush.

  She loved Benedict Cole.

  At dawn, when she had arrived home in a hackney cab Benedict hailed for her, she’d breathed a sigh of relief at managing the feat. She had worried she might not make it. She’d crept into the house through the kitchen and upstairs to her bedroom, her lips, her whole body aching for more of him. She’d tried to sleep, but instead had lain awake in a kind of blissful languor. She’d heard it whispered that lovemaking was painful. Apart from that first sting, it hadn’t been, for her. She desired Benedict too much. Even today the flicker of fire in her belly told her that her passion for him hadn’t abated.

  As she’d dressed in the morning she had stared at herself in the looking glass, studying her reflection. She appeared no different, yet she had given herself, completely, to Benedict Cole.

  She could tell no one. Not even Maud, who loved her. Her friend would be shocked, deeply appalled to learn what Cameo had done. In the eyes of society, she was no longer chaste. But she felt no shame, no disgrace. There could be no shame or disgrace when there was such passion, such love. No, she would never regret making Benedict that gift.

  Maud’s gentle touch on her sleeve brought her back to the drawing room. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No.’ Nothing was wrong. Everything was right, in her heart.

  ‘You can’t fool me,’ Maud said. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  What had happened between her and Benedict was too sacred to share.

  Instead, Cameo pointed to her necklace. ‘Last night someone tried to relieve me of this.’

  ‘Do you mean you were robbed?’ Maud sounded terrified.

  ‘Yes. A thief tried to grab my jewellery and he pushed me down on to the street.’

  Maud fanned her face. ‘I would have had hysterics! It sounds frightful. Are you quite all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Someone—’ her heart gave a thump just thinking about Benedict and the way he’d swept her up in his arms ‘—someone came to help me and luckily the thief didn’t get away with it.’

  ‘Where did it happen?’ Maud glanced anxiously around the drawing room as if the thief might instantly appear.

  ‘Don’t worry. It didn’t happen in Mayfair.’

  It had happened in Soho, near the studio. Her cheeks burned.

  ‘What have you been up to, Cameo?’ Maud asked anxiously. ‘George and I know there is something happening you’re not telling us. We’re worried. I have the feeling you’re doing something dangerous.’

  ‘I’m only doing what I must.’ Cameo knew in her heart how true those words were. It was no longer simply a whim of hers to go to the art studio. It was an aching need, a scorching desire she couldn’t fight. Benedict Cole had opened up a new world for her, as an artist, as a man. As a lover.

  ‘Oh, Cameo,’ Maud wailed. ‘What do you mean? Where were you, out at night, somewhere so dangerous you were robbed? It’s because of this learning about art, isn’t it? Please tell me. You can trust me.’

  Cameo hesitated. She trusted her friend, but it wasn’t fair to tell. ‘I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can, Maud. I promise.’

  * * *

  After Maud had gone Cameo went upstairs and stared out of her bedroom window at the ash tree. To think she once believed she hated Benedict Cole when she had received his letter. She chuckled. That was before she knew him. She had gone to his studio with the intention of punishing him and having lessons without him knowing who she was. But now—

  She must have fallen in love the first moment she saw him. Perhaps when he’d opened the door of his studio, or perhaps... She fingered the necklace at her throat, recalling his first touch, when he’d dropped the cameo stone on to the bare skin between her breasts.

  She wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened. All she knew was how she felt about him now.

  Benedict Cole. The man she loved. The artist. That was why he was temperamental and moody and totally focused on his painting and all the other things that went with being an artist, but she wouldn’t have him any other way.

  She understood.

  But people from her world, her kind of circles, didn’t usually fall in love with artists. Mayfair and Soho rarely mixed. What would her friends and family think? George? Maud? Her parents? They were going to be furious when they found out she’d been having art lessons. And if they knew she had fallen in love...it didn’t bear thinking about.

  And what about Benedict? She clenched her fingers. What would he say when he discovered who she was and the world she came from?

  Cameo gulped. He knew she was an artist, but he still didn’t know she was Lady Catherine Mary St Clair.

  Why, oh, why hadn’t she told him? She’d meant to, but the way he’d made love to her... She flushed again, remembering. She’d refused to spoil that moment, on that sacred night, and she sensed he would have sent her home, if he knew.

  He wouldn’t have taken her into his arms and into his bed.

  ‘I’ll tell him the truth when I get back from Warley Park,’ she said aloud. The night they’d shared demanded her truthfulness. She knew that, deep in her soul.

  Was it wrong, the lovemaking they had shared? she wondered anew as she ran her fingers over her necklace.

  No. She refused to regret it. The passion she had experienced with Benedict didn’t feel wrong, it felt natural and right. So right.

  She bit her lip. For a moment she was sure she had witnessed in his eyes the knowledge that it was her first time. She sensed that he’d felt it in her body. But that had been right, too. He was the only man for her.

  It was time to tell Benedict the truth. The honesty between their bodies must be matched in words. She couldn’t maintain such a barrier between them.

  If only she didn’t have to go away, to Sussex. If only she could rush to the studio, up the stairs and into Benedict’s arms. She’d heard people call Warley Park the finest estate in Sussex, but it wasn’t enough to make her wish to spend time with Lord Warley.

  Far away from Benedict Cole.

  * * *

  Clutching her sketchbook, Cameo hurried down the long gravel drive of Warley Park, trying to avoid being seen. She’d been desperate to be alone ever since she’d arri
ved with her mama and papa for the dreaded visit.

  Before they left she had tried to persuade George to come with them.

  ‘Not likely, little sister!’ He laughed as he stood by the carriage, ready to see them off. ‘Warley’s your beau. I’m staying here in London with Maud.’

  ‘Stop calling him my beau!’ she insisted furiously, making George laugh.

  ‘You and Warley might join Maud and me at a double wedding.’ He waved their carriage away, calling, ‘Enjoy Sussex!’

  How could she enjoy it with Lord Warley always standing too close, introducing her possessively to neighbours as though she were part of the property? That afternoon, pleading exhaustion and saying she needed to retire to her bedroom, Cameo had declined his offer to show her the grounds. ‘We have some magnificent woods,’ he’d said, with a suggestive lift of an eyebrow.

  She shuddered. She did want to see the woods she’d noticed as they drove through the lodge gates, but not with Lord Warley. ‘How kind,’ she’d demurred. ‘Thank you, but I’m afraid I need to rest this afternoon.’

  After luncheon she had duly gone upstairs to the guest bedroom she’d been allocated, with its painted yellow-silk panels lining the walls and magnificent French furniture the colour of honey. After a quick look out the window to ensure the coast was clear she had slipped out.

  The weather had turned unseasonably warm. Cameo pushed back her bonnet and lifted her face to the spring sunshine, letting it seep into her. Its golden light spilled over the undulating lawns edged by flower beds waiting to burst into summer bloom, dazzling the water on the lake, with its graceful bubbling fountain, a statue of four mermaids, sirens rising from their rock. She had to admit the grounds were spectacular. Indeed the whole of Warley Park was glorious. She’d heard its name so many times spoken with awe and she understood immediately why it was so admired. The house was simply breathtaking. Not much remained of the original building, a central ‘E’ that dated to Tudor times with ancient wood panelling and stonework. When the family had bought and renamed it, a Georgian front and two Georgian wings had been added, making the house enormous. The later additions could have made the proportions wrong, but instead they enhanced it. The house blended together over the decades as if it had grown there instead of being built by human hands. It was a setting that deserved better than Lord Warley. How horrible of him to have rushed to tell her mama that he’d seen her unchaperoned in the park. But there’d always been something unwholesome about him, something sly.

  * * *

  At last, after crunching for a mile along the drive, Cameo found the woods. These, too, were magnificent. Laying her palm on the bark of a huge oak tree, feeling its sense of rooted calm, she entered them almost reverently. They were ancient, a magical place to be sure, quiet and serene. Full of oak, willow and ash trees, wild garlic grew there, with its earthy pungent scent, along with pale yellow primroses and a glade of snowdrops, their nodding heads beckoning her deeper and deeper. She selected a dry log in some dappled sunshine and, with her back against a tree, started to sketch her surroundings.

  She found it impossible not to dream of Benedict. She longed for him. Was that what love was, she wondered, this longing? Was he longing for her, too, at the same moment? Did he love her? He hadn’t said the words, as such, only read from Tennyson’s poem. And then, his paintbrush...

  A shudder of desire coursed through her. Even as she sat there, alone.

  Laying her sketch pad aside, she took out the leather-bound book she’d tucked into her pocket. She flicked through the pages to ‘The Gardener’s Daughter; or, The Pictures’. The full poem was much longer than the section Benedict had read to her, a narrative, a story in itself. The love and yearning in it, did he feel it now, just as she did?

  A twig snapped.

  ‘Hello,’ Cameo said gently. A soft brown baby rabbit was poised near her, sitting up as though it were listening for something. The creature flopped its long ears towards her, its brown eyes bright with interest. She reached for her pencil and sketchbook, but her movement sent it leaping away further into the wood. How she’d have loved to follow it, she thought with a sigh, as she stood up and brushed off her skirt.

  Reluctantly, she made her way back. At least she’d enjoyed some blissful solitude. She saw no one in the wood, though nearby she spotted two thatched cottages, with whitewashed walls. They must belong to the estate workers.

  In her guest bedroom she bathed in front of the fire in a hip bath before dressing for dinner. Sponging her limbs brought yet another vivid memory of Benedict’s touch, of him releasing her from her corset, peeling back her silk stockings... She bit her lip. She must halt these constant thoughts, yet the sensations of being held in his arms flooded her body: the masculine scent of him, that heady mix of soap, paint and turpentine, the strength of his flexed muscles, his lips on her... Oh, to be in the studio, in his arms. She preferred a garret to a great estate so long as Benedict was there.

  The dinner bell rang as she finished dressing. Her feet dragged as she descended the broad marble staircase. Another dinner. She wasn’t sure if she could face it. She paused in the central hall under an exquisitely painted cupola of gods and goddesses reclining above. After craning her neck at it she turned with a sigh towards the dining room and noticed an open door to another room, a room bright with candles she hadn’t entered before. Her heart quickened. It must be the gallery Lord Warley had mentioned at the ball. She could see the paintings. Even from this distance Cameo could tell they were Old Masters. Surely there was enough time before dinner for a quick look.

  * * *

  Benedict measured the frame with his hands. He had no need of more precise instruments. His eye told him where to cut in much the same way a sculptor knew where to apply the chisel. Use your hands and eyes, lad, that’s what you need to carve, Arthur Cole had told him, and Benedict followed his example.

  There seemed to him something sensuous about wood. It felt warm to the touch, not cold, even when it was no longer rooted in soil. To him it felt animate, still breathing with the life of the tree from which it came.

  For his paintings he only ever used wooden frames he’d made himself with individual carvings to amplify the work’s subject. It was his trademark. Let others have their gilt.

  He stroked the piece of wood for the frame of Cameo’s portrait. He was using ash, of course, an added homage to the girl in the Tennyson poem upon which the painting was based, with her hair blacker than ash buds. The Venus of the woods, the poet Gilpin called the ash tree. With its elegant beauty and its slender grey trunk, it reminded him of Cameo as he’d first seen her in her grey dress.

  Flexing his aching muscles, he stretched his stiff shoulders. His tired limbs wouldn’t obey him for too much longer. He’d been locked away in the studio for days now. He barely recalled the last time he went outside for air, and not until swaying with hunger did he remember to eat.

  The ash cut well as he carved the frame. He handled it with respect for its beauty, for nothing was more beautiful than an ash tree burst into leaf. It was believed by many to be magical, used for charms and remedies, and his mother had been able to predict if the summer would be wet or dry by whether the ash came into leaf before the oak. It was uncanny; she’d always been right.

  He’d carve ash leaves and ash buds on the frame, too, as well as its flowers, to add another layer to the painting. He glanced over to where the portrait stood on the easel, drying. So close now to completion. He brooded over the work, more pleased than he dared to admit. The colours were the exact tints he sought, the lines were the cleanest he’d ever accomplished and the natural detail appeared true and painstakingly fine. He’d hoped to paint so well, suspected it, worked towards it, dreamed of it. But he hadn’t been sure of achieving it, not until he’d stood and studied the almost-finished portrait. Then he’d known for certain. He’d found his muse. She’d entran
ced him right from the start, with her quickness, her spirit and her unique ability to focus as he worked. She was the perfect model for him, perhaps because she was an artist, too. His smile faded, thinking of the sketch she’d burnt. It had shown real promise. He still wasn’t sure why she had cast it into the fire.

  The light shadowed. He lit the lamp, wondered where she was that night. When she’d told him she couldn’t come to pose for a few days, he hadn’t asked her why, because he hadn’t wanted to hear her answer. She had denied having a lover, but she must be with her protector, the man who kept her in such style in Mayfair. It slammed into him again then, the pain in his gut. He’d never felt so possessive of a model before, of any woman. He’d practically lived with Maisie Jones and she had been disloyal to him, probably more than once, but he had never felt this way.

  He frowned. If Cameo had a protector, why had he, Benedict, been the only man to make love to her? He’d only become more certain of it. If he’d known she was untouched, he might not have made love to her that night. But how could a night like that be regretted? It had been unforgettable.

  He wanted all of her, body and soul.

  Again. For ever. In front of his easel. In his arms. In his bed.

  His alone.

  Benedict took up his chisel. When Cameo returned it would be time to ask some questions after all.

  * * *

  ‘I thought I’d find you here.’

  Cameo’s skin prickled. Lord Warley slithered up beside her, silent as a serpent. Perfectly turned out as usual, he wore a black-tailed dinner coat with a maroon waistcoat. He smiled, seemingly pleased to have caught her unawares. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been in the gallery, spellbound.

  He broke the spell. ‘You’ve spoilt my surprise.’ He waved around the gallery. ‘I planned to bring you here after dinner tonight. What do you think of them?’

  What did she think of them? What did he imagine she thought of the most glorious collection of Old Masters she’d ever seen outside the Royal Academy? She stared at the pictures lining the scarlet walls of the long, elegant room with its stone floor. It reminded Cameo of the interior of a jewel box. Its walls like red velvet, the vibrant paintings—da Vinci, Titian, Raphael, Rembrandt—glowing in their golden frames as bright as coloured gems. ‘They’re magnificent.’