‘You wanted it, didn’t you?’ His lips moved downwards, finding the touch points of passion below her ears and down her neck. ‘You wanted this.’
‘Yes...’ she breathed, her body helpless to resist. ‘With you. Yes.’
His lips were fierce now as they made their way further down to the crevice between her breasts, past her cameo necklace and deep into her bodice, as at the same time he dragged up the fabric of her full skirt, taking her petticoats with it. He pushed her against the rounded edge of the table so that only the tips of her boots touched the wooden floor. With one strong tear of her pantaloons, she felt his hands slide up the smoothness of her inner thigh.
With sudden force Benedict pushed her breathless against the table and slammed away, crashing his clenched fists on the chimney piece.
He rounded back to face her, his eyes glittering like the glass on the hearth in the firelight. ‘That’s quite an act.’
Cameo’s legs trembled as she straightened her petticoats and steadied herself against the table.
‘It’s not an act,’ she sobbed. ‘Benedict, please. I never expected this to happen. I had no idea it would turn out this way. My family only have one way of living and they want me to live that way, too. They want me to marry and live as my family always have.’
‘And who do they currently favour?’
‘The...the man I ran away from in the park,’ she stuttered.
‘Then may I wish you happy,’ he said, in a sarcastic tone. ‘You are both admirably suited, I have no doubt.’
Tears rained down her face now. ‘We’re not suited at all. I hate him. He isn’t an artist.’
He threw out a bitter laugh. ‘Well, now, thanks to you, nor am I.’
He set his back to her, staring into the fire. His shoulders lowered.
‘Just go, Cameo.’ She barely heard him. ‘Go and don’t come back here again.’
‘Please, no.’ She could hardly speak. ‘Please.’
‘Go.’ The single word formed a command. Then he spun on his heel. ‘Wait.’
From a pouch on the table by the fire he grabbed a clutch of coins. ‘You haven’t been paid in full for posing.’
With a tug of her hand he forced the coins into it.
As the meaning of his words sank in Cameo tried to wrench away. ‘I don’t need money!’
‘Take it. You’ve earned it.’
He slammed away again. Shaking, she flung the money down on the table, sent the coins flying.
‘Benedict, please. Please.’
But he remained motionless. Tears stinging her cheeks, Cameo flung a final glance at the studio. The only sound she heard was her own sobs as she stumbled across the room and the studio door, as it slammed behind her.
Chapter Seventeen
‘Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells—
...perplex’d for utterance,
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
Cameo tried to stem her sobs, but they continued to gush up from deep within her.
Almost blinded by her tears, she accepted Bert’s help down from the carriage. Looking up, she saw Briggs, his face impassive, opening the front door to greet her.
‘Your parents have asked you to go directly into the drawing room,’ Briggs intoned, when she entered the hall.
‘Thank you, Briggs.’
Cameo found her handkerchief and blotted the tears from her cheeks. Her knees shook. A warning in Brigg’s tone told her that her father was in a rage. He’d been in rages before.
But never before had she seen her father so furious.
‘Catherine Mary! What is the meaning of this?’ The earl paced in front of the fireplace, his fists clenched, his reddened face bulging with veins. ‘I can’t believe this! You’ve created a scandal! You’ve dragged our family name through the gutter! Modelling for an artist? How could you think of such a thing?’
Cameo struggled to find the words. ‘I had to get painting lessons and it was the only way.’
The earl’s eyes goggled. ‘Painting lessons! You did this to get painting lessons?’
‘Oh, dear...oh, dear,’ Lady Buxton interjected, her pretty face flushed. She lay on the chesterfield, fanning herself with her handkerchief. George, looking concerned, stood beside her. ‘I knew painting would lead to trouble, Cameo.’
She didn’t appreciate half of it, Cameo thought, hot tears welling up again. If only she hadn’t lied to her family. To Benedict! But to never have met him...
‘It was worth it,’ she said defiantly.
The earl loomed over her, his palm raised. ‘Worth it, was it, young lady?’
Cameo gasped. Her father had never raised a hand to her. To think that her secrets and deception had brought them all to this!
George stepped forward to shield his sister. ‘Cameo’s done nothing wrong, Pater.’
‘Nothing wrong!’ Her father’s face grew redder, but he dropped his hand. She knew he would not have struck her. ‘I’ve spent the whole evening plying members of the damned Academy with drinks at my club. Do you know about this portrait of your sister, a portrait about to be shown to the entire population of London?’
George shook his head.
Cameo murmured defensively to her brother, ‘It’s a wonderful painting. It’s based on a poem by Tennyson. It’s called The Gardener’s Daughter.’
Lord Buxton broke in with a roar. ‘The gardener’s daughter? You’re not the damned gardener’s daughter! You’re the daughter of an earl!’
Cameo lifted her head high. ‘It’s a work of art. There’s nothing wrong with my portrait. I’m proud of it.’
Lady Buxton fanned herself even faster. ‘Oh, my goodness...oh, my goodness.’
‘Did you have to do it, Papa?’ Cameo’s voice shook. ‘Did you have to have the painting banned from the Royal Academy exhibition in such a way?’
‘What else was I to do? Have all and sundry leer at you? There I was, having a quiet drink at the club, when Lord Warley came to have a word with me. He’d seen your indiscretion and came to warn me.’
So Lord Warley had informed her father. She might have suspected. Of course. He’d come to the house that afternoon, left his card when she asked Briggs to say she wasn’t home. He must have hastened hotfoot to break the news to her father at the club. She could only imagine his satisfaction at telling tales on her.
‘I can only thank God Warley told me. According to him you were half-clothed in that painting!’
The countess gave a strangled cry. George rushed to her side and knelt beside her. ‘It’s all right, Mama.’
Lady Buxton clutched her son. ‘Half-clothed!’
‘I wasn’t half-clothed!’ Cameo retorted. ‘My arms and shoulders were bare, that’s all. It’s no more revealing than if I had been wearing a ball dress.’
Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. ‘The disgrace!’
‘By God, Cameo!’ her father exclaimed. ‘Have you no idea what you’ve done? Goodness knows how many people have already seen it or might have if Warley hadn’t acted so quickly. We owe him our thanks. When I think of it...you—modelling! And there seemed to be something else about that painting, Warley thought, something...intimate.’
Her parents mustn’t find out the extent of her relationship with Benedict. She said desperately, ‘Artistic skill. That’s what you saw, Papa. The artist who painted it is the only person who has ever really understood me.’
‘Understood you?’ The vein on the earl’s forehead bulged to bursting. ‘What are you saying “he understood you”? What do you mean by that? Tell me, young lady, did he take advantage of you?’
She gripped her hands together. Never. She’d never reveal what had
happened between them. ‘No, he didn’t take advantage of me. I realise now that I took advantage of him. He didn’t know my true identity, you see. I pretended to be a poor woman with no family. I lied to him to get what I wanted. And as a result I’ve ruined his life.’
‘His life! What about your life? You’ve ruined your reputation!’
Cameo’s temper rose in a mix of despair and frustration. ‘My reputation. Is that all you’re worried about, making sure other people think well of us and that I don’t disgrace the family?’
‘Steady on, Cameo.’ George stood up beside his mother, rubbing his head. ‘It really does seem you’ve gone too far this time. And the St Clair family do have a position to uphold.’
‘That’s right, George. It’s simply too much!’ Lady Buxton added.
Cameo faced her brother. ‘I thought you’d understand, George.’
He ducked from her expression. ‘I’m sorry, Cameo. I don’t think you should keep on with this. It’s not right.’
‘I had to paint. I had to have those lessons.’ She had to be with Benedict, she added in her mind.
‘Well, here’s a lesson for you,’ her father exploded. ‘You’re never to draw or paint again in this house. Do you understand?’
‘Papa! You can’t mean that.’
‘I do mean it. Painting and all this nonsense led you into this. I should have expected as a woman you don’t know what’s good for you.’
‘I do know what’s good for me! Art is good for me—’ she gulped and went bravely on ‘—and Benedict Cole is good for me.’
Cameo saw she’d shocked her father to the core. ‘The artist is good for you? What do you mean? I’ll ask you again—have you been compromised?’
She lifted her chin. ‘My heart has been compromised, Father. I love him.’
‘You love a painter?’ The countess trembled. ‘Cameo, what can you mean?’
‘This is even worse than I thought!’ In her father’s eyes she saw his anger held something else. He wasn’t just horrified, he was terrified for her. ‘I’m going to make sure you never see that artist again!’
‘You don’t need to make sure of it, Papa,’ she said bitterly. The way Benedict had behaved before she left the studio... ‘Benedict Cole doesn’t want to see me.’
Her father seized her by the shoulders. ‘You’re to keep to your bedroom. Do you understand? I’m going to instruct the servants to lock you in. You’re not to leave this house. Somehow we have to cure you of this.’
‘You can’t do that. No, Papa. Please!’
‘Can’t you see I have to protect you, Cameo? You’ve lost your head. You seem to have got some strange ideas from that artist you’ve been associating with. I’m your father and it’s up to me to look after you. This is my fault. I should never have let you take up painting. It isn’t something women should do.’
‘Papa! Please!’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve heard of young women becoming hysterical over writing novels and poetry and such. Never thought such a thing would happen to my own daughter. I’m partly responsible for this. And there’s something else.’
Cameo’s heart thudded with fear. What could be worse than Benedict hating her and being told she must never paint again? ‘What is it?’
‘You’re to marry Lord Warley.’
Cameo’s legs buckled as she shook herself from her father’s grasp and backed away. ‘No!’
‘Lord Warley was shocked, most shocked, at your behaviour, as any gentleman would be. But he’s asked my permission to wed you in spite of the scandal you’ve created. You’re fortunate he’s prepared to marry you. No one else will take you after you’ve behaved in such a manner.’
Cameo clutched hold of the sofa to support her. ‘Papa, please, I beg you, don’t force me to marry him. He’s not a good man. I can feel it.’
‘He’s a safe man, someone from our world. You need stability, Cameo. There’s no choice. You’re ruined if you don’t, young lady, do you understand? You’ll be locked in your room tonight, though I hate to do it. And tomorrow you’ll accept Lord Warley’s hand in marriage.’
* * *
Benedict seized his knife and glared at the painting. The sheet that had covered it lay crumpled on the floor like a shroud. He’d never forget the humiliation of bringing it back to the studio that afternoon when he’d received the politely veiled demand to remove it from the Royal Academy as if it were tainted.
There could be no doubt. It was his best work. There was Cameo posed beneath the ash tree, glorious in her youth and beauty. He’d painted her with such tenderness, as if his brush caressed her flesh.
His fist jerked. He had to hold himself back from running his knife though the canvas, tearing it apart. All the care, all the effort; through all the years he had possessed one goal: to paint such a work. He wanted to smash it, burn it, hurl it into the fire.
You should never destroy your work, he remembered saying to her, there’s always something to learn from it. He’d learned something from this; that was certain. He’d learned never to trust her again.
Why had Cameo burnt the sketch she’d made of him? Yes, he recalled now. She’d been signing it and written her telltale title, no doubt.
Her sketches had been good. Very good. Unbidden, the image came to him of her by the fire, leaning over the table, sketching with the kind of focus he recognised. When he’d clasped her hand within his, he’d seen her arm begin to move in a way he knew made a good painter great. He wasn’t sure she recognised it, but he had discerned it was there. He’d desired to release that talent in her, teach her, guide her.
To love her.
One after another, more pictures of Cameo began to flash through Benedict’s mind. When he’d first opened the door to her, when she’d let down her hair, when she’d laughed in the park, when she’d leant her lovely smiling profile towards Trelawney at the soirée, when she’d dropped her green taffeta dress to the floor and stood in front of him in her petticoats and chemise—
Furiously he shook his head clear of those images and his grip clenched harder around the knife handle. He swore aloud. The combination of his desire mixed with his rage, the force of her beauty twisting as if the knife he held turned in his gut.
She couldn’t possibly believe a mere apology covered the damage.
All the memories, all the pain of when he’d been deceived and cheated... Her deception had brought it all back.
Benedict dropped the knife and stumbled towards the fire. The smell of whisky reached him. Shards of glass lay on the hearth from where he’d smashed it. He reached for the bottle again, pulled the cork and poured himself another, slumping down into the armchair to nurse it. He drank a deep fiery mouthful, but it didn’t erase the taste of her on his lips.
Tears streaming down her face, she had said she loved him. He almost believed her, had almost weakened and wiped the tears away. But he’d hardened his heart. She’d made a fool of him. Part of him almost admired her determination to get into his studio, to learn all she could about art without him even knowing. He’d have taught her properly, if she only had trusted him.
And what he’d suspected the night they had made love, hardly daring to believe it was true.
His alone.
His body flared as he stretched out his legs, his body still throbbing from their physical encounter. The tip of his leather boot hit something hard, sending it skidding across the wooden floor in front of the fire. He leaned down and picked up one of the coins he’d tried to force on her. She’d flung them back at him. The amount doubtless resembled mere pin money to Lady Catherine Mary St Clair.
Something else lay on the floor. He laid down his glass, leant over to see. Rubbed his thumb over the white carving of the woman’s face. It held a resemblance to Cameo, to her fine features, her straight nose, the pointe
d chin she’d lifted at him that night, her blazing passionate fury equalling his.
He groaned as his fist closed on the carved stone.
* * *
Cameo heard the metal key turn in the lock. She flung herself on the bed, sobs racking her body. Caged to an extent she never had been before, she was truly now a prisoner.
Her parents hated having to do it, she sensed that. But they were convinced what they were doing was right—somehow saving her from herself.
Should she try to escape? There was only one place she longed to run to: Benedict Cole’s studio.
‘Benedict,’ she whispered silently, over and over. ‘Benedict.’ But it did no good repeating his name. She would never see Benedict again. She would never go to his studio and watch him pick up his paintbrush, and push the unruly lock of dark hair from his forehead as he focused on the work in front of him. She would never again see his sweep across the canvas in that strong movement she had come to know so well, never feel his touch on her, his lips on her, his keen-eyed gaze that made her body and soul tingle with only a glance.
Trembling, she touched her lips. Perhaps it was preferable not to have experienced the kind of passion he aroused, to have never known a kiss could inflame her, or a touch could bring her body to the point of ecstasy. Better, perhaps, if she had only known her world and not entered his, the world in which he belonged and for which she longed. To not know what she missed out on and what she would now miss for ever. If she hadn’t been awakened by his hands, she would never have to spend the rest of her life in a kind of sleep, for life without Benedict Cole would be death.
She clutched at her hair, the awful moments at the studio replaying over and over in her brain. How maddened he’d been. The cruel words he said to her, the harsh way he looked at her, the ruthless way his lips bruised her own, his rough tearing at her clothes—she juddered with emotion, remembering. And she’d been angry, too, furious he wouldn’t listen to her, all the while desiring him to go on making love to her, until together their fury was spent.
At the ewer and basin, she poured cold water and splashed it on to her tender skin, her sore eyes, her swollen lips. She caught sight of herself in the looking glass on her dressing table.
Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 Page 53
