The Master & the Muses

by Amanda McIntyre

  “Stop it,” I said, disturbed by the intensity of his eyes.

  “I do not want you to be uncomfortable, Grace. I want you to feel at home. In fact, after some thought, I’ve decided that if you agree to sit for my project, I’d like you to move in.”

  “Mr. Rodin!” I brushed past him and picked up my hat and purse. “I am not in the habit of taking up residence with men I barely know.”

  He looked completely baffled. “And yet you would give yourself to any stranger for a single night of paid passion?”

  “Sex, Mr. Rodin. Let’s be blunt. The men I accompany are not paying me for passion,” I answered coldly as I prepared to walk out. I had determined by the sparseness of his surroundings that I would not be making much in the way of an income if I were to stay. I was willing to work for a smaller wage, but not for a man who did not, at the very least, respect me.

  “My apologies, Miss Farmer…Grace. Please don’t leave. Allow me to make up for my blatant wrong.” The tone in his voice was apologetic.

  I paused at the door. My pride, all in this world that I truly possessed, was bruised. “And how do you think you will manage that, Mr. Rodin?”

  “Allow me take you out this evening,” he offered. “To a nice dinner, where we can discuss things civilly.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I have other plans. Perhaps another time.” I hurried down the stairs, not stopping for a carriage until I’d put distance between us.

  I cannot say what disturbed me about his offer. Perhaps it was the ease with which he assumed I would accept. It was obvious that Mr. Rodin, try as he might, understood as little about my world as I did his. That alone was reason enough not to proceed any further with this silly notion.

  Was I simply afraid of being as intricately scrutinized as the leaf drawing I’d seen?

  I’d grown accustomed to being a ghost, to providing a service and then fading into the woodwork. There was something off-putting about Thomas Rodin. He was the type of man who could easily break my heart if I got too close.

  Bloody hell, I could not get the man out of my mind.

  “Come on, Grace.”

  Mr. Willoughby was one of my regulars. He smelled like peppermint and cigars. His hands were rough, demanding, as he dropped his trousers in the shadows of the isolated breezeway, shoved up my skirt and lifted my leg around his thick middle.

  “Do you like art, Mr. Willoughby?” His hot breath panted against my neck as he pumped his hips against mine with laborious intensity.

  “What in God’s name are you rambling about, Grace? Art? Hell, I could care less! You’re starting to sound like my first wife!”

  Why I’d not recognized him sooner for the slob that he was suddenly rankled my ire. His first wife? How many did he have?

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Willoughby,” I said, pushing him from me. “I cannot see you anymore.”

  He stood before me, his sausage peeking from beneath his protruding potbelly.

  “But…you can’t! I forbid it, Grace. I paid good money for your cunt tonight.”

  I handed back his money. “Mr. Willoughby, perhaps you best pull up your drawers and heed my words. Do not pester me again or I shall be forced to visit your good lady. Number three, is she?”

  “Five,” he muttered, visibly disgruntled as he hiked up his pants.

  “Five, then.” I brushed my skirts down and looked at him with new eyes. “Mr. Willoughby, if you showed as much fervency with your wife, you may yet be saved from adding a sixth.”

  He frowned, pressing together his bushy gray eyebrows.

  “Do you think so, really?” he asked, adjusting his beaver-fur top hat. “I’ve always had a fear she would find me perverted. You know, a bit naughty.”

  Mr. Rodin’s offer to model for him, if it took me off the streets, was looking more and more tempting. “Certainly, you could be no worse off for at least making the effort. Who knows, perhaps you will find Lady Willoughby enjoys being a bit ‘naughty.’”

  It was clear that the possibility had not crossed his mind. “By God, perhaps you’re right.”

  Mr. Willoughby grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down with enthusiasm. He hurried from the alcove where we’d met on several occasions these past few months. He wasn’t the only man in London who kept his wife on a glass shelf, when he should be taking her to bed for a good poke. Maybe if they all heeded my advice, the whoring business would not be as thriving a trade.

  I took a deep breath, letting out a sigh. I was tired and I wanted something better. Perhaps Mr. Rodin’s offer was it.

  I went back the next day unannounced. Dark clouds hovered over the city all morning, keeping the sun at bay. It was just my luck that they decided to open up, producing a torrential rain, as I waited in front of Mr. Rodin’s studio flat. Worse, I’d told the carriage driver not to wait. I pounded with desperation on the front door, hoping that someone would answer.

  “Coming!” I heard a man’s voice call from inside. The door swung open and a gent closely resembling Mr. Rodin peered at me through weary eyes. He squinted, trying to see who’d awakened him on a Saturday morning.

  “Excuse me. I was hoping to speak to Mr. Rodin.”

  The man rubbed his fist over his eyes, blinking a couple of times, then looked down at me again. Oh, yes, by the stark color of those eyes, he was related, there was no doubt.

  “Was he expecting you?” he asked, stifling a yawn.

  “No, not today. I wonder if I may prevail upon your kindness, sir. I am getting soaked to the skin.”

  He looked up at the sky as if realizing for the first time that it was raining.

  “My apologies, miss. Please step inside.”

  I hurried into the small foyer. There was barely enough room for the two of us. There was a closed door behind me and, with exception of the front door, the only other exit was the stairwell leading upstairs. I brushed the rain off my shawl as best I could.

  “I’m William Rodin, Thomas’s devastatingly handsome younger brother.” He smiled. Apparently, charm ran in the family, too. William took my hand and shook it.

  “And you must be?” he asked.

  “Grace. Grace Farmer,” I replied.

  “Oh, yes, Grace. Thomas mentioned something about you the other night.”

  “Oh, really? I hope it was favorable.”

  The front door opened then, and the latch plowed William in the stomach before he could move.

  “Dammit, Will. Sorry.” A soggy Thomas Rodin squeezed into the entryway.

  “Did you find scones?” Will asked.

  I pressed my back against the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible.

  “Blast, Will, can you move out of the way, it’s impossible—”

  His face came up as his body pushed against mine.

  “Miss Farmer?” He grinned and the delight on his face made me glad I’d decided to return. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  Indeed, as was the sensation of his body so close to mine. I could imagine how well we would fit together.

  And you’re here to get a real job, Grace.

  “The door…if you could just move a little to the right…” William pushed at the door with one hand and reached for the bag in Thomas’s hand with the other.

  “Are they still warm?” William asked.

  Thomas reacted, as would any brother, reaching up to bat his brother’s hand away—and accidentally caught my breast in the exchange.

  “Pardon me, Miss Farmer, but as you can see, my brother is a tyrant with few manners. We let him out of the barn every other weekend. It was my turn this week to keep him.” He smiled and I found myself enjoying their good-natured banter.

  “Mr. Rodin…”

  “Please call me Thomas.”

  His face remained mere inches from mine. My eyes dropped to his tempting mouth, mentally tracing his full lower lip that begged to be nibbled.

  “Almost got it.”

  William shoved the door shut behind his brother�
�s back, projecting him forward. Luckily, my body prevented him from hitting the wall. I turned my head to the side, feeling Thomas’s warm breath against my cheek. “Mr. Rodin, I’ve been considering your proposal.”

  I took a deep breath as Thomas moved past me. He held up the bag, out of his brother’s reach.

  “Tea and scones?” He smiled. “Come, Miss Farmer.” He reached for my hand and pulled me up the stairs behind him. “Our very lives may be at stake until my brother has his breakfast.”

  It was the first time I’d ever felt a man could also be my friend.

  Six months. At times, it felt like six years. Thomas Rodin could be the most aggravating man on earth. Surly, meticulous in his work, he quite often went hours without saying a word and then suddenly he wanted to do nothing more than talk my ear off.

  The topic of my staying at the studio as some type of permanent arrangement never came up again. I came early of a morning and left in the late afternoon, unless one of the members of the brotherhood sold a painting and so created just cause for a dinner celebration. I was often invited to these impromptu, joyful events and was told I was the prettiest of all the brotherhood’s previous models, but I suspect their admiration had more to do with my skills in the kitchen. Thomas, however, enjoyed parading me about town, showing me off as the next famous face in the art world.

  “The Mona Lisa,” he said, “has met her rival.” I admit the attention was flattering, but my previous experiences made me wary that such fame could last, or that even Thomas’s infatuation with me would last. I didn’t deceive myself into thinking that I was his first model, or that I would be his last.

  There were moments when I was allowed to see a different side to him. One such time occurred on a brisk September evening when I discovered there was more substance to Thomas than he allowed most people to see.

  I was clearing the dishes from the table after a party, once again astounded how quickly the studio cleared when everyone was tired and ready for bed. William helped me carry a few plates into the kitchen.

  “The meal was delicious, Grace. Thank you. As always, I am not sure that you receive enough credit for these sumptuous delights you create for us.”

  Embarrassed by his comment, I waved him off and took the stack of dishes in his hands. “I enjoy the company. It’s good to see men with such healthy appetites.”

  He grinned, so much like his brother, and then leaned forward and gave my cheek a peck. “Good night, Gracie.”

  “Good night,” I replied, staring at the door. I heard him say good-night to his brother, as I lifted my hand to my cheek. No one had called me Gracie since I was a child. It was odd that I should think of that after all these years and yet an overwhelming longing for family swept over me and I swallowed a lump in my throat. I shook my head to clear it, wiping my hands as I stepped through the butler’s pantry to the studio to make sure the table was clear. Thomas was standing a few feet away at his writing desk, bottle in hand, pouring himself a glass of wine.

  “Ah, Grace, you’re still here. This is a fine port. Will you join me?”

  I’d been watching him all evening. His demeanor didn’t quite match the jubilance of the others. “No, thank you. Don’t you think you’ve had enough for one evening?” I asked lightly, fully expecting him to ignore me. I picked up some plates that had been left behind.

  “Leave those and come here. I need to talk,” he said.

  The tone in his voice led me to believe that he’d had more to drink tonight than what I could keep track of. “Just a moment, I don’t want to leave the scraps. The insects will have a celebration of their own.” I smiled. He was behaving strangely and I realized I should have probably left with the others, or asked William to help me get him to bed. I dipped the dishes quickly into the suds, whisked the plates clean and dried them, setting them on the sideboard.

  “Grace!” Thomas bellowed.

  I dried my hands and slapped the towel over a chair as I emerged from the kitchen. “Thomas, it is late. You needn’t bellow, I told you I was coming.”

  “You are not my wife, woman, you are my muse.”

  “Your muse I may be, but I am not your slave to be ordered about.”

  He narrowed his gaze on me, looking very much a roguish pirate in the threadbare coat he insisted on wearing. I made a note to see about adding a patch on his left elbow the first chance I could get him out of it.

  “I’m in the mood to sketch.” He slammed his glass on the desk, and the wine sloshed over the rim, spreading over the lovely dark wood.

  Frustrated by his carelessness, I grabbed one of his paint cloths and wiped up the liquid before it could mar the wood. Thomas, oblivious to my endeavors, was preoccupied, searching for his sketching papers and charcoal. I had dealt with my share of drunken sots in my day and drunk, this man was. But why? He was not prone to overindulging in much of anything except flattering his own ego. “Perhaps it should wait until the light of day?” I suggested, mopping up his mess.

  He shook his head. “No, now. That’s what I pay you for, isn’t it?”

  “You are precariously close to insulting me, Thomas. I’ve a mind to leave you here and see if you fall off that balcony.”

  He laughed aloud. I loved the sound, even besotted as he was. Damn, it would be so much the better if he were an ugly drunk. He’d never before put me in a position of compromise, although there had been a time or two I wished he had. That thought prompted my next words. “I should go.”

  “Oh, Grace, don’t be like that.” He walked toward me, his arms outstretched, and caught me by my shoulders. “Are you afraid I might persuade you to do something you don’t wish to do?”

  I pinned him with a look. “I wouldn’t try anything,” I warned him with a raised eyebrow.

  His dimple, an admitted weakness of mine, appeared on his handsome face. “Yet in your eyes I see you cannot resist me.”

  “Are you in the mood to sketch or flirt, Mr. Rodin? Which is it that you pay me for again?” I held his gaze, hoping he could not see what a tangle he had made of my insides.

  “Hmm,” he muttered, eyeing me. “Perhaps sketching might be safer.”

  “Where do you want me?” I asked, as he picked up his drawing papers.

  “Oh, good God, woman, watch that tongue of yours, for I surely have thought of it more than once this evening.”

  “You’ve thought of my tongue?” I asked as I walked to the corner where he kept the props. “In what respect, Thomas?” I tossed back with a grin.

  I heard a growl from behind. I stood and turned around to face him. His eyes had been pinned to my backside. “You’ve had too much to drink,” I stated flatly. “I’m taking you to bed.”

  He tossed the papers into the air. “That’s precisely where I’ve been trying to get you for the past few moments, my muse! How delightful that you would simply offer.”

  I cast my eyes heavenward. “Come on, Cassanova.” I tucked my arm around his waist and guided him into the hall. Once I had him settled, I decided I would stay in the guest room. I made a mental note to lock the door.

  “You are so good to me, Grace,” he said, swaying slightly when I let go of him to light the kerosene lamp by his bed. His hands rested on my shoulders, caressing gently. “Thomas,” I said quietly. His lips found the back of my neck and I fought the urge to like it. His fingers ran up the curve of my throat, his mouth following.

  “I could be your lover, Grace. If only you would allow it,” he whispered, touching the tip of his tongue to the sweet spot below my ear. Only one or two men on this earth knew of that spot and it was because I’d told them. Thomas gravitated to it as if I wore a sign. I was barely aware of his hands gliding over my bodice, undoing the buttons of my gown. His fingers slid beneath the fabric, stroking the swollen flesh above my corset.

  “Thomas, you shouldn’t….” I said halfheartedly.

  “But, my muse, you seem to be enjoying my attention.” His breath fanned over my cheek. “There, I can feel
your heart beating hard against my palm.”

  His fingers spread, taking a taut nipple between his fingertips and gently rolling it into a tight bud. He turned me into his embrace and I did not protest, at least not aloud, when he lifted my chin and kissed me with slow tenderness.

  “Yes, my muse, let me please you,” he whispered, leaving soft kisses on my face. “Let me worship your exquisite loveliness.” His hands continued their quest to open the fastenings of my corset. He offered kisses more potent than opium and I gave myself over to his magic, lured blindly and willingly so, realizing that come the morning, he would likely not remember much of what happened. I told myself this was not why I was here and made a silent promise to put a stop to this nonsense. After one more kiss.

  “Grace, you must tell me, as I do not force myself on any woman.”

  He ran his fingers down the exposed front of my throat, rolling back what part of the corset he’d managed to unhook.

  I was lost in his rapturous kiss. Was that the last one? Yes, it must be…

  “If you only knew what I wanted to do to you,” he said softly, rubbing his cheek against my temple.

  His hands glided down the curve of my back, grabbing my bottom beneath my skirts, caressing it as he pressed his manhood against me. I swallowed, knowing exactly what he wanted, it was in the getting to that end that intrigued me.

  “I want to lay you down on this bed and, with painfully slow precision, remove each piece of your clothing. I want to kiss you from the top of your head to each of your delicate toes, devoting copious amounts of time and attention to the interesting parts along the way.”

  “You’d be my lover, Thomas?” I said, tipping my head to allow his mouth on my shoulder. “You’d do whatever I asked?”

  “Oh, yes, your most devoted slave, designed, created only for your pleasure.” He sighed, his mouth leaving searing kisses on my heated flesh.

  “Would you love me deeply?” My breath caught.

  “Oh, yes, I would, so deep that you would beg for more.”

  “And would you give me more?” I asked, beginning to realize that he was lost in this drunken rapture. I could have been anyone, perhaps anything at this point.