by Kelly Bowen
With horror, Flynn felt his throat suddenly thicken. Because when he’d created that portrait, it had been his mother’s face he had painted. A woman who had raised Flynn on her own, who had done what she had to so that they both might survive. A woman who had loved Flynn unconditionally until the day she had died, even though he hadn’t been able to give her her greatest wish.
“Are you really lecturing me on how to paint, Beaumont?” Flynn barked roughly because he couldn’t say any of that to this boy. Wouldn’t say any of that to Beaumont or anyone else for that matter. Ever. He could feel the weight of the boy’s gaze on him, and he resisted the urge to fidget. Dammit, what was wrong with him?
“I’m not lecturing you on anything, Mr. Rutledge,” Beaumont finally said. “I’m…envying you, I think.”
Rutledge made a rude noise. “For what?” he demanded. “You envy me that commission? I did it five years ago, and—”
“I’m envying you that love. Whoever it was in your life who possessed a generous heart like that and allowed you to see what unconditional love truly looks like.”
Flynn found himself staring at Beaumont, utterly unnerved and unable to find words. What the hell was happening? In a handful of sentences, Charlie Beaumont had obliterated the fortifications he had constructed between Flynn Rutledge the professional artist and Flynn Rutledge the man. Seen right through him with a terrifying accuracy. Seen parts of his past that no one else had.
Beaumont abruptly turned. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable, Mr. Rutledge,” he said. “That was not my intention.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” Flynn snapped, lying through his teeth.
“Oh. Then I’m glad.” Beaumont disappeared into his room and reemerged with his sketchbook.
“Where are you going now, Mr. Beaumont?” Flynn asked with an edge to his voice.
“To compose some ideas,” Beaumont replied politely.
“And to capture buckets of emotion on those pages, I’m sure.” He was behaving like an ass but he couldn’t seem to find his equilibrium.
Beaumont paused, silhouetted in the door frame against the winter-dulled grounds. “I certainly hope so, Mr. Rutledge,” he said, before closing the door behind him.
Chapter 4
When she first saw Flynn Rutledge with the light streaming through the windows turning his rich skin gold and his grey eyes silver, she had wondered if perhaps she had stumbled across the archangel she’d been charged to paint.
He’d stood, unfolding his long limbs, and Charlotte had had to look up at him, half-expecting a pair of wings to unfold as well. He had a face of the sort that ancient artists had fawned over—a straight nose balanced by a strong jaw, a wide forehead over thick brows and deep-set eyes. He seemed impervious to the chilled air, his rough shirt sleeves shoved up to his elbows, revealing sandy-blond hair on lean, muscular forearms. The same shade of sandy hair fell over his forehead and ears in thick, careless waves. He was, quite possibly, the most handsome man Charlotte had ever seen in her life.
And possibly, the most angry.
She had known that her youthful appearance was bound to raise brows, and she had been prepared for the inevitable questions and doubt. What she hadn’t expected was the resentment and bitterness that seemed to roll off Rutledge in dark waves. If Charlotte had painted him as a color, he would be a ragged black slash across the canvas, crimson seeping from beneath the unhappy darkness. For a man who looked like an archangel on the outside, it seemed that he harbored more than a few demons within.
Not that it was any of her business. This was a professional partnership, and she would work within its confines. His prickly, defensive response to her more personal comments had been noted. She would keep her distance and do absolutely nothing that might put this precious opportunity in peril. She didn’t need to be his friend; she didn’t need to be his confessor; she didn’t need to be anything other than pleasant, regardless of how he chose to act.
In truth, it was probably best that Flynn Rutledge was so disagreeable. Not only because it made him less attractive, but because a disagreeable man could be handled. Managed. No differently than every other man in Charlotte’s life who had spent the duration of it telling her what she couldn’t do. What wasn’t possible or acceptable or practical. That was nothing she wasn’t used to.
Though the uncomfortably close quarters she found herself in with Rutledge would take a bit more acclimation. When she had arrived, Mr. Lisbon had apologized, but the living arrangements had been set long before he’d known that Miss Hayward was sending Charlotte to be placed with him. He offered to find an alternate solution but warned her that, in his experience, such actions raised slews of suspicious questions neither one of them would care to answer. Charlotte had agreed.
But the reality was far more intimidating. It had taken her a long time to fall asleep last night, something that she attributed to her new surroundings as much as she attributed it to the fact that she was cohabiting with an unfamiliar man.
She continually reminded herself that Charlie Beaumont would think nothing of it. It wasn’t as though she were sharing a bunk with Rutledge. She was sharing a space with separate rooms and doors, and this would be perfectly acceptable—luxurious even—references to banging headboards and all.
Before she’d emerged from her own room, she’d waited until she’d heard Rutledge leave. She’d made herself a cup of tea, wolfed down the remnants of last night’s bread, and then set to work. Rutledge hadn’t returned yet, and Charlotte found herself caught between a strange mix of impatience and unease. Perhaps he had—
A draft of cold air announced his return. “You’ve been busy.”
Charlotte’s hand froze over the last of her sketches before it continued, adjusting the paper to lie straight. “Good morning to you too, Mr. Rutledge.” She heard him shove the door shut and move farther into the room, pacing slowly around the circle of drawings she’d laid out, each capturing a part of the vision that had been gathering force deep in her imagination.
“Soldier and savior,” he muttered as he made another lap.
“Have I managed to convince you?” She kept her eyes on her sketches.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t disagree either,” Charlotte replied, hearing echoes of their conversation yesterday.
Rutledge suddenly stopped, dropping to crouch in front of her.
Charlotte glanced up at him and swallowed reflexively. He was wearing an overcoat today, the well-tailored fabric a snow-cloud grey, and she could feel the cold still clinging to it. His head was bent slightly, and Charlotte could see that his hair was damp from a recent wash, the ends plastered against his neck. The scent of his soap reached her, something that should be ordinary, but somehow, this unguarded closeness made it overwhelmingly intimate.
“Is St. Michael tending a cooking fire here?” Rutledge asked abruptly, stabbing a finger at her drawing. And just like that, the intimacy vanished.
“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte replied, taking care to keep her voice even.
“Your soldier, your defender of heaven, your all-powerful leader of God’s army looks like he has no idea what to do with the sword in his grasp. He’s holding it like a poker—the way one does to stir hot coals. I’ve seen children on the street wield blades to defend a crust of moldy bread with more authority.”
Charlotte bit back the instant and defensive retort that rose. Instead, she leaned forward, peering at the drawing. She had sketched St. Michael, rising above the writhing form of a flame-engulfed serpent, his sword drawn in triumph. Or at least what she had thought was triumph. Her lack of expertise on the handling of weapons was somewhat evident, she admitted.
Rutledge stood, not waiting for her to respond. He moved to her other side and dropped into a crouch again, reaching for another drawing. This he held up, his eyes flinty in the light. It was her sketch of St. Michael descending toward a void of blackness, extending a hand to a soul reaching up. She�
��d spent a great deal of time on that one, feeling a deep kinship with both the angel and the soul being rescued. Proof that one could be reinvented. Saved from a prison of purgatory.
“He’s not tending a fire in that one either,” Charlotte said before she could think better of it. “Though I suppose one might argue that, if one were speaking in metaphors.”
Grey eyes met hers over the top of the sketch. “This one is actually quite arresting.”
“Oh.” Charlotte could feel herself blush all the way down to her toes at the unexpected praise, and she averted her eyes, shying away from his assessing gaze. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, Beaumont. Because while this one has merit, your other drawing is hopeless.” Rutledge rose and set the purgatory sketch aside on a low table.
Charlotte scrambled to her feet. “You have something better then, Mr. Rutledge?” she asked, trying not to sound like a sulky child, but like a professional. Because in truth, she knew that her sketch of the avenging St. Michael had been less than inspiring.
“Of course I do.” He retrieved a leather satchel from just inside the door and opened it, withdrawing what looked like his own bundle of sketches. He rifled through them until he found what he wanted. He set everything else aside on the end of the table except for a single drawing and then hesitated, a curious expression on his face.
“Are you going to show it to me?” Charlotte asked as pleasantly as possible.
“Yes.” He made no move to hand the sketch over.
“Today? Or should I return next week?”
Rutledge seemed to start. He set the drawing beside Charlotte’s purgatory sketch and stepped back. Charlotte eyed him, but he had turned his attention to the wood panels that still waited, silent and empty.
Charlotte approached the table, her eyes falling on the drawing. “Oh,” she whispered. It had been executed in charcoal, the lines sure and deft as the image of an archangel rose up against a constellation of stars. This, however, was not the angel she had created, staring up at the heavens, clutching his sword. This seraph glared out from the page, his expression wild and fierce, convincing her he was prepared to fight to the death. He wielded a curved sword before him, raised in either defense or aggression—it was impossible to tell. A ragged cloth was draped over a shoulder and belted at the hips, displaying broad expanses of muscle, straining and flexing. It had elements that she had seen in works by Raphael and Reni, but the romanticism that softened the edges of those paintings was absent here. This was visceral and real and…violently emotional. And made her wonder just what Rutledge had drawn upon from within to create it.
I’ve seen children on the street wield blades to defend a crust of moldy bread with more authority.
Charlotte wondered if Flynn Rutledge had been one of them.
She ran the tip of her finger along the edge of the paper. She could almost feel the defiance and the determination emanate from the paper itself.
“You haven’t said anything.” Rutledge still hadn’t looked at her.
“It’s actually quite arresting,” she said, taking the coward’s way out and stealing his words.
He made an indecipherable noise.
“Why didn’t you show this to me yesterday?” Charlotte asked.
“I didn’t have it yesterday. I did that last night.”
“Ah.”
“I’m not saying you’re right,” he said, finally turning. “About depicting St. Michael as a savior and as a soldier.”
“But you’re not saying I’m wrong either.” She hid a smile.
“I think there is room for both.” He pinned her with a steely gaze. “Where are you from, Mr. Beaumont?”
“I’m sorry?” The question caught her off guard.
“Where are you from? Where did you study?”
Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. She’d practiced answers to these questions with Clara. Every answer was a version of the truth. Just like the story she had spun yesterday when she had slipped and made her thoughtless comment about the Sistine Chapel. It had been the only time she’d ever traveled with her family, grudgingly included for ten glorious weeks. And it had almost betrayed her here.
“Aysgarth,” she said, answering his question. And hoping that Flynn Rutledge was not familiar with the tiny village. Or the fancy manor house that loomed on its outskirts.
A sandy-blond brow rose. “Yorkshire?”
“You’ve been?” Charlotte asked with trepidation.
“No. But I can read a map as well as the next man.”
Relief trickled through her.
“You didn’t tell me where you studied.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Nowhere.”
“Nowhere,” Rutledge repeated with heavy skepticism. “You’re telling me you are completely self-taught?”
“I suppose.” She shrugged again. “I took a handful of lessons in watercolors.” That was true. One of her early governesses had been enthusiastic if not overly talented. “But I’ve always preferred to work in oils.” Which no governess would ever have taught. Oil paints were not a medium suitable for well-bred ladies.
“Have you publicly exhibited your work anywhere?”
Charlotte almost snorted at the utter absurdity of that question before reminding herself that Rutledge was asking Charlie, not Charlotte, that question. The number of women who had somehow managed to exhibit their work at a venue like the Royal Academy in the last fifty years could be counted on one hand. “I’m afraid not.”
“How did Lisbon find you?”
Charlotte gazed at Rutledge, realizing he had been leading up to this question. “I did a piece for a mutual friend.” That explanation had worked on the Haywards.
“What sort of piece?” Apparently, Rutledge was not so easily satisfied.
“A portrait.”
“Of what?”
“A girl.” Charlotte leaned back against the table and crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the bindings across her breasts pull beneath her baggy clothing. “Where are you from?”
He gave her a hard look, as if he was weighing the sincerity of her query.
“It’s not a trick question, Mr. Rutledge.”
“The art community is a small one. I would have thought…”
“Thought what? That you are that famous? Or that I am that ignorant?” She said it lightly.
“You knew I had painted the Madonna in the apse of the church.”
“Because Mr. Lisbon pointed that out to me when I arrived.”
He scowled. “London,” he said after a moment, finally answering her original question. “I’m from London.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere pleasant you’d want to hear about.”
Charlotte couldn’t say she was surprised, given her earlier suspicions. “Did you attend one of the academies?”
“I attended the same one as you, it would seem.” Rutledge looked grim.
Charlotte tipped her head, trying not to look startled. Now that surprised her. No matter where he’d grown up, his skill should have gained him entry to a collection of academies and schools. “We have something in common then.”
“I really doubt that.” There was bitterness lacing his words, a sort of anguish that made Charlotte want to take his hand and ask what he meant by that. Ask what she could do to help. She jammed her fingers farther under her arms to prevent herself from doing anything so foolish.
“Tell me how you’re going to paint your soldier,” she said instead.
“My soldier?”
“You have captured the warrior in a way I could not. I think there is a great deal of you in this.”
She could almost see Rutledge bristle. “What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything.” Charlotte gazed at him. “I’m only suggesting that one paints what one knows,” she said slowly. “It is impossible for our own experiences to not act as a filter through which we see the world. How we reproduce it here on these pages. It’s what makes us un
ique. It’s what gives our work life.” She glanced down at the sketch, wondering again at the circumstances that had shaped this man’s view.
Rutledge made an odd noise, somewhere between a sneer and a scoff. He advanced and reached past her, snatching her own sketch of St. Michael off the table and holding it up between them. “You are a savior and I am a soldier? Is that the light you see yourself in? How you see me?”
“I’m not anyone’s savior,” she said carefully. Save, perhaps my own. “And I don’t know you well enough to see you in any sort of light.” His eyes flickered down to the drawing again, and Charlotte cast about for words that would extricate herself from the dangerous undercurrents of his challenge. “I was only proposing that the juxtaposition of these sketches is what will make the completed work compelling,” she said quietly. “That is what you wanted, isn’t it? Something compelling?”
The scent of him enveloped her completely now, soap tinged with a hint of wood smoke and turpentine. She could see his chest rising and falling faster than normal, his features tight, his eyes stormy. The ridiculous urge to reach out and touch him again, to brush the hair from his troubled eyes, rose hard and fast. A longing to smooth the deep lines from his forehead, feel the roughness of the stubble that covered his rigid jaw.
He was still staring at her, and Charlotte shifted uneasily under his scrutiny, feeling suddenly and horribly exposed. She took a step back and then another.
“Fine,” he said abruptly, before she could retreat farther.
“Fine?” she repeated, her voice wobbling a little.
“I will present these to Lisbon. See if he agrees with the idea.”
“We should discuss other aspects of the composition first, don’t you agree?” Charlotte said, desperately trying to distance herself from these dangerous feelings and yearnings with practical, safe subjects. “Background and balance. Proportion and the palette.” She thought she might be babbling now, but she couldn’t stop.
