by Kelly Bowen
“I didn’t know you.”
“You know me now.”
“I do. And I can tell that you’re angry.” She couldn’t say she blamed him.
His answer was slow to come. “I was,” he said eventually.
Charlotte frowned. “But you’re not anymore?”
“You lied to me.” He said it more as a statement than an accusation.
“I never lied to you,” she replied haltingly. “Everything I told you was true. Except my name. That wasn’t the whole truth.” And it still isn’t, a small voice in the back of her mind accused. You haven’t yet told him that you’re a lady. Though given how he felt about titled women, she was not about to mention it now and make this worse. That truth would keep for a bit longer.
“It’s the same thing,” he said, and he wasn’t wrong.
Charlotte closed her eyes before staring up again at the rafters. “You have my apologies, whatever they might be worth now. But what would you have done? If you were me? When you knew deep down that you possess all the ability and skill required, but your whole life you’ve been told that it’s not enough? Would you have risked the truth?”
He didn’t answer that.
“Will you ask Lisbon to replace me now? Make me leave?” Her question fell like a stone into the silence. But she needed to know. Because if she had to, she would fight for this too. She would not fade passively into the background. Not anymore.
His head came up, and he stared at her. “Leave?”
“It’s a fair question.”
“It’s an insulting question. Do you think I am intimidated by you? By your talent and skill?”
“No.” Charlotte shook her head wearily. “I don’t think you are intimidated by anything, Mr. Rutledge.”
“Then you’d be wrong.” His silver eyes pinned her to the pillows with the sharpness of a rapier. He set the bottle of whiskey aside and abruptly stood, snatching one of the lanterns and striding toward the door. Charlotte frowned in confusion as he made his way across the studio floor to the panel that was still shrouded. Through the open door, she could still see him and the lower portion of the panel.
He set the lantern down, turned and met her gaze across the space, and yanked the sheet from the panel.
Charlotte couldn’t see the top of his work, but what she could see was stunning. St. Michael, in all his defiant glory, stared out larger than life from the surface. Everything that Rutledge had captured in his sketch was also visible here. A raw emotion of the sort that made his Madonna portrait so breathtaking.
Flynn retraced his steps back to her room, pacing the tiny space near the end of her bed.
“It’s magnificent,” Charlotte said honestly. “But I’ve always known it would be.”
“How?”
“Because I knew how much of yourself you’d put into it. And because I know that you have the talent and skill to do that justice. I’ve seen it.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the panel. “You’re creating something extraordinary.”
“It’s because of you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Rutledge stopped pacing long enough to run a hand through his hair. “I haven’t created anything like that in a long time. I’ve been…lost. Unable to find joy in something that has been as necessary to me as breathing for as long as I can remember. And that didn’t just intimidate me—it terrified me. And then you showed up. And gave me…” He trailed off, visibly struggling for a word. “Direction. Made me remember what was important. Gave me back my purpose.”
Charlotte felt a strange current skitter through her veins that made her shiver. He was making her sound like she had some sort of magical power over him. “I didn’t give you direction, Mr. Rutledge. I deceived you. Ignored you.” She rolled her shoulder with a wince. “Disobeyed you.”
“You tolerated my less than honorable conduct with a grace I didn’t deserve.” He was looking at her now with an intensity that was making her pulse do strange things. “And then defended me. Like my very own Jeanne d’Arc.” There was an odd note of reverence in his statement, and another shiver streaked through her, even as she told herself that it was the historic maiden, not herself, who held his regard. To think otherwise threatened to scatter her wits beyond repair.
“Jeanne d’Arc was burned to death at the stake for her visions of St. Michael,” Charlotte tried, aiming for levity and failing miserably. “I have no such aspirations, I can assure you, Mr. Rutledge.”
“Flynn,” he said, moving closer to the side of the bed again. “Call me Flynn. And I will call you Charlotte. I think it’s about time we got that part right, don’t you?”
Charlotte hesitated. “From a professional standpoint, I’m not sure that—”
“I ripped your shirt in two. Strict professionalism might be compromised.” He gave her a wry smile.
Charlotte felt herself flush to the roots of her hair. If he was trying to make her laugh or put her at ease, he wasn’t doing any better at levity than she had. Because all she could think about now was just how much she might want to do just that to him.
And not while either one of them was insensible.
“Very well,” she managed. “Flynn.”
The smile abruptly disappeared, and his eyes fastened on hers. He reached out, and his finger slowly traced a path down the side of her cheek. It was such a gentle, tender gesture that it made Charlotte want to burst into tears. It was only the fierce burn of her shoulder that kept her from reaching up and catching his fingers with hers as if that could keep him here forever.
“So you won’t make me leave?” she whispered raggedly.
His hand suddenly dropped, and he averted his eyes from her face. “Of course not,” he said curtly, stepping away from the bed. “You should rest. Probably for a few days. And for pity’s sake, stay off the scaffolding. You’ve lost a fair amount of blood, and I have no desire to scrape you off the floor if you get light-headed at the top.” He retrieved the remaining lantern from the washstand and made his way to the door.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said quietly.
“It was nothing. I’ve stitched up more individuals than I care to remember.” He paused in the doorway, though he didn’t turn to look at her.
“Not for that. Well, yes, for that too, but for understanding. Thank you for understanding.” Her throat was still tight. “And for accepting me. And believing in me.”
“I’m only returning the favor,” he said and closed the door firmly behind him.
Chapter 9
He had wanted to kiss her.
When Charlotte had said his name, her cheeks flushed and eyes fixed on his, he had almost lost his head. He squeezed his eyes shut. For the love of God, two hours prior to that moment he had still believed her to be a boy. As a boy, Charlotte’s genuine friendship and beautiful heart had left him humbled. His steady wisdom and gentle acceptance had left him healed.
As a woman, all of that had left him reeling, his sudden desire to kiss her the only thing that had emerged clearly.
He cursed softly to himself. Was there anything in this world that was less romantic than kissing a woman who lay helpless in a bed, pale and bruised, her shoulder a painful mess of stitches? Was there anything less honorable than fantasizing about kissing a woman who was there as his equal—his colleague? Charlotte was not some loose tavern wench hoping to catch his eye for an evening’s entertainment. In fact, she had gone to extreme measures to ensure that that sort of idiocy would never happen. The least he could do as a professional, as a man—as a bloody human being—was respect that. He hadn’t even sought Lisbon out to tell him what had happened as though, by avoiding the architect, Flynn could pretend that nothing had changed and they could proceed with business as usual.
Flynn leaned forward and banged his forehead against the edge of the scaffold gently, wondering if he was losing his mind. Because, despite the stern logical lecture, he still wanted to kiss her.
“Could you imagine if we had to
use ultramarine? How ghastly expensive that would be?”
The comment snapped his head up and he spun, finding Charlotte standing behind him. She was studying the deep blue of the heavens he had added to the background until he had lost his daylight. The same deep blue that she would eventually start adding to hers once she was ready.
“You shouldn’t be up,” he grumbled.
“And you shouldn’t have to wait on me hand and foot any longer while I stare at the rafters. I’m perfectly capable of seeing to myself.”
Her color was much better than it had been two days ago, though she was still a little pale. She had dressed herself in her trousers and another one of her oversize shirts, though the laces were loose to allow room for the bulky bandage he had wrapped around her shoulder.
“Sit then,” he said, fetching a chair and setting it at her side.
She made a face but obeyed readily enough. “I can’t abide not working. It’s not as though the stitches impede my painting hand.” She held up her right hand and waved it around.
“Tomorrow,” he told her. “One more day.”
“But—”
“One more day, Charlotte.”
She sighed. “If this whole art thing doesn’t work out for you, a career as a surgeon might be an excellent option. A tyrannical surgeon, but a surgeon nonetheless.”
He smiled despite himself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
“Would you prefer that I did not sleep here?” he asked suddenly. It had been weighing on him since that night he carried her back here, bloodied and broken.
“What?”
“Would you prefer that I seek other lodgings? I just thought that perhaps you might wish to be alone—”
“Does my being here make you uncomfortable?” she asked, her brows furrowed.
Yes, he wanted to say. Because now I lie awake at night imagining what it would be like to have you beneath me. And above me. And that makes me hot and hard and restless and very uncomfortable.
“Of course not,” he said instead. “I just didn’t want my presence to make this awkward…”
“Now that I’m Charlotte and not Charlie?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate your honor, Flynn Rutledge,” she said, smiling softly at him and making something deep in his chest ache. “Thank you for asking.” She dropped her eyes, her cheeks pink. “But I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want you to go anywhere.”
Warmth flooded through him, and it threatened to ignite into a different sort of heat. “Good,” he said. “I don’t want to go anywhere either.”
She nodded, her eyes still fixed on her hands clutched in her lap, her teeth worrying her lower lip. Wide, impossibly kissable lips. Lips that had featured prominently in his recent fantasies. Flynn had to look away before he did something that was not honorable at all.
“How do the stitches feel?” he blurted.
“Itchy,” she said.
“Good. Then it’s healing.” He took a deep, steadying breath, bringing his gaze back to hers. “Let me take another look.”
She opened her mouth as though she might argue.
“You will not win an argument with a tyrannical surgeon.”
That was met with an eye roll. “Oh, very well.” She loosened the laces at her throat a little more, and Flynn had to look away again, realizing that this was the height of folly. Last time he had examined her shoulder, she’d been half asleep and covered in blankets. She had not been restless and alert, her eyes following his every move.
He stepped around the back of her chair so that she couldn’t see his face or anything stamped across it that might betray his thoughts. Carefully, trying not to touch her skin, he lifted her shirt away from the side of her neck, easing the loosened collar over the bandage on her shoulder. She had beautiful skin, he thought, his eyes tracing the graceful curve of her shoulder where it met her neck. Smooth and soft, begging a man to run his fingers over it. Or press his lips to the sensitive spot just below her ear. It was a crime to conceal such beauty under layers of rough homespun. It should be showcased in silk and satin.
Or better yet, nothing at all.
Flynn gritted his teeth against the arousal that surged through him. His job, at the moment, was only to examine her wound to ensure her health. Not to fantasize about what she would look like sprawled in his bed. Not to imagine what it would feel like to curl his fingers through her thick hair and taste all that gorgeous skin.
He went to work on the bandage he’d secured and gently unwound it. He removed the pad of clean linen he’d placed over the stitches and peered at the cut.
“What does it look like?” Charlotte twisted her head, trying to get a glimpse and blocking his view in the process.
“I can’t see with you in the way.” Flynn slid his hand along the side of her head just above her ear and tilted it back, her hair as soft as he had imagined it would be under his fingers. Unable to help himself, he placed his other palm against the exposed skin at the back of her shoulder blade. It, too, was as soft as he had imagined it would be.
He, on the other hand, was as hard as a rock.
Beneath his touch, he felt her shiver. “Are you cold?”
“No,” she whispered.
It would be so easy to bend his head and place a kiss at the side of her neck. It would be so easy to slide his hands beneath the loose fabric of her shirt to explore more of her glorious skin. To pull away the bindings and trace the slight curve of her breasts. To run his palms over the span of her rib cage to the waistband of her trousers. And in doing so, he knew he would not stop there.
But he would stop now.
Because Charlotte Beaumont deserved better than his libido. She deserved his respect. This wasn’t a game to either of them.
“It looks good,” he said as evenly as he could. He replaced the bandage and rewrapped it to keep the stitches from catching on her shirt, casting about for a topic of conversation that would distract him from the feel of her body beneath his hands. “Why this commission?” he asked as he finished, stepping away from Charlotte and all the temptation that she was.
“I beg your pardon?” She straightened her shirt and began to tug the laces tighter.
“Why did you come here? Why not take something in London? Something that might gain you more recognition?” He had thrown out the original question without much thought, but now he found himself waiting intently for her answer.
She finished with the ties. “Recognition,” she repeated with a slight scoff. “Recognition for whom? Charlie Beaumont?”
“There are women who are successful artists, you know,” he said with a slight frown. “Clare Wheatley Pope, for one. She’s a very accomplished miniaturist. She’s even taught members of the aristocracy. And Maria Cosway has painted—”
“And would the clergy and directors of St. Michael’s have consented to having either of those two women on this commission?” Charlotte asked.
Flynn’s frown deepened. “Probably not,” he admitted.
Charlotte turned in her chair to gaze up at him. “I don’t want to paint miniatures. I don’t want to teach the aristocracy how to execute watercolor renditions of damask roses. I want…” She trailed off.
“What?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
“I want to create something that is greater than myself. Greater than all of us. I want to leave something behind for those to come. Something that has the power to elicit inspiration and contemplation that will endure the test of time.” She paused, her eyes sliding to the panels behind him. “I’ve spent a great deal of time copying the works of others, and it has taught me everything I know. But now, I want to write my own story.”
“Which is what?” Flynn’s throat had gone dry at the passion and the fire in her eyes.
“Redemption. Reinvention. And this commission is both of those things.” Her gaze came back to his. “Tell me what this c
ommission is to you.”
“Reinvention. Redemption.” He hadn’t understood that until this very moment. And without Charlotte Beaumont, he wasn’t sure he ever would have.
He saw her raise a brow.
“I’ve spent too long chasing the wrong things.”
“Like what?”
“The chance to exhibit my work on the walls of the Royal Academy.”
“Any number of artists have realized substantial success from that sort of exposure. Portraitists in particular.” A furrow had appeared in her forehead. “There is nothing wrong with wanting that, especially when your work deserves a place on those walls.”
“Not if it requires me to be a version of myself I no longer recognize. Not if it requires me to be something I’m not.”
Charlotte abruptly stood from her chair and went to stand in front of his panel. “Sometimes that is necessary,” she said quietly. “If you recall, you addressed me as Mr. Beaumont for a good while.”
Flynn shook his head. “You misunderstand me. You have only ever been you, even if you’ve dressed as a boy. You once told me that who we are and the experiences that go with that are what gives our work life. You were right.” The words were tumbling out in a rush in his need to make her understand.
Charlotte turned to look at him, a strange expression on her face. “Flynn, there is something that I should—”
“Please, let me finish,” he implored, afraid that, if he didn’t say this all now, he never would.
Charlotte fell silent.
“When I met Lady Cecelia, I was blinded with her beauty and infatuated with the ease in which she moved through a world that I thought I needed to conquer. She promised me that with her by my side, I would gain both recognition and respect from the members of the Royal Academy and their wealthy, titled patrons. And she made me believe that she loved me, right up until the day that I proposed to her.”
“You asked her to marry you?” She sounded stricken.
Flynn flinched. “Very publicly. And just as publicly, she laughed at me, as did every one of her titled friends. The subsequent scandal sheets and gossip rags reminded everyone that the sons of whores do not marry ladies. That any exposure I had gained as Lady Cecelia’s lover should simply be considered compensation for services rendered. The son of a whore should know how that worked better than anyone.”
