The Portrait

by Megan Chance

  He tilted his head to follow them up. The sky wasn't dark enough for stars, not yet, but it would be soon enough. For now, the gaslights could be stars, their light seemed to penetrate his soul, to fill it with laughter and talk and warm, beautiful places. Prisms of color danced on puddles still left from yesterday's rain, and he stared at them, mesmerized by the changing

  patterns, the shapes, until he heard the creak of the carriage and turned to see Rico helping Genie from the step.

  Jonas caught her gaze. He saw her puzzlement as she looked at the building before them, and it made him want to laugh, to taunt and tease her, to ease her uneasiness away, bit by bit, one piece at a time. Shoes first and then stockings, pantaloons and corset and chemise. One by one, until she stood in front of him, naked and ready to face the world . . .

  He grinned at her and then laughed at the startled look on her face before he strode through the open gate of the brownstone in front of them. He took the steps quickly, stopping at the stoop to wait impatiently for her and Rico. When they reached the bottom step, he rapped sharply on the door.

  It opened almost instantly, flooding the twilight with light and talk, with the tinkling notes of a piano. A man in a checkered waistcoat and heavy gray beard stood at the doorway.

  "Whitaker!" he said, and there was a warmth in his voice that made Jonas smile in return. "Where the hell have you been lately? And Childs too! This is an occasion."

  "It's good to see you, Webster," Jonas said. He looked into the hallway, into the press of people. "A busy night, eh?"

  "Yes, of course. It wouldn't be successful if it wasn't too crowded to move," Leonard Webster said easily. "Come in, come in." He stood back until they'd squeezed inside, and then he shut the door and leaned against it. "Who is this you've brought with you? Have we met, Miss—"

  "Allow me to present Miss Imogene Carter," Childs said with his usual gallant charm. "Miss Carter, this is Leonard Webster, our host."

  She smiled an enigmatic smile, and now that the street lamps were gone, her face looked pale beneath the harsh red bonnet, almost ethereal. "How do you do, Mr. Webster," she said.

  Webster smiled politely, and Jonas knew the man was wondering who the hell she was. It was obvious she was no actress, and though she had her own quiet charm, she was not the kind of woman he and Rico usually brought to the salon. He could almost see Webster ticking off the possibilities in his mind: Actress? No. Mistress? Not their type. One of those Bohemian thinkers? Perhaps, but ... no.

  "Feeling confused, Leonard?" Jonas asked dryly.

  Webster only gave him a bland look. "An original, I see," he said, and then he squinted at Childs. "A friend of yours, Childs?"

  "A student of Jonas's," Rico said.

  Jonas nearly laughed aloud at the look of surprise on Webster's face. "A student of mine, yes," he said, teasing. "She's a brilliant painter, Leonard, the next Raphael—so be kind to her, won't you? Where's Anne?"

  "At the piano." Webster motioned to a wide doorway flanked with velvet curtains of red and gold. 'Where else? That young musician from the Broadway is here tonight."

  Jonas nodded, anxious to get into the crowd, to feel the energy of talk and ideas pulse around him, to see evelation flicker over Genie's skin with the candlelight. He glanced into the parlor. It was crowded tonight; people leaned against walls and filled every seat, and the rush of talk lifted over the piano, heavy and enticing. Anne Webster preferred candles to lamps on these nights, even though the house was piped for gas, and what seemed like hundreds of candles covered tables and the sideboards and the piano, dripping waxy and fragrant over silver and crystal holders, shivering in the drafts caused by movement and talk.

  He saw Anne across the room, resplendent in pink satin, her dark hair caught up in a spray of roses. As if she sensed his gaze, she glanced up and smiled, motioning him over with a silent wave.

  He looked over his shoulder, Rico was watching him, waiting for the next step, and beside him Imogene Carter stood, her brown eyes darting as she looked at the people talking in the foyer, her cheeks unnaturally flushed.

  Excitement made him impatient and a little rough. He grabbed her gloved hand in his and heard her startled little rush of breath as he jerked her closer. She stumbled against him, a quick press of silk and wool and warmth, a whiff of almond, before she pulled away again.

  "Where are we—"

  "Shh," he said, touching his false finger to his lips, then glancing at Rico. "Coming?"

  "As always," Rico said wryly. "Lead the way, mon ami."

  Jonas tightened his hold on Genie's hand, pulling her after him as he made his way through the crowd. Many people he recognized; they were the same artists and writers and actors who were always in attendance at Anne's little soirees, and he smiled a hello and pushed through them on his way to her, anxious to introduce Genie and set his plans in motion.

  By the time they finally reached their hostess, his excitement was at a fever pitch. He saw the way Anne looked at him, the speculation in her stare, but when they approached, she only leaned forward and gave him a brief hug, touching her lips to his cheek before she pulled away again, leaving in her wake the faint scent of roses.

  "Why, Jonas," she said, smiling. "How good of you to come—and you too, Frederic. The two of you have been making yourselves scarce lately."

  Rico took her hand and bent over it, his blue eyes twinkling. "Only because the longer we stay away, the more beautiful you are when we return."

  Anne laughed. "You never change, my dear," she said. "It appears even Paris leaves you unaffected."

  "Or perhaps too affected," Jonas said.

  Anne's smile widened. She drew her hand from Rico's, her eyes were dark with curiosity as she looked at Genie. "I see you've brought a guest."

  "Miss Imogene Carter," Jonas said. "One of my . . . students."

  That surprised her, he noted with a smile. Anne's finely arched brow rose. "A student?" She looked at Genie again, more sharply this time, and Jonas imagined that she saw what he did, the pearl beneath the shell, a mystery hidden by the mundane. His heart beat faster when Anne turned her gaze to him and he saw a knowing look in her eyes and knew she understood. It made him feel vindicated and confident, so exalted he wanted to laugh out loud.

  "I'm pleased to know you," Anne said, looking back to Genie with a small nod. "I hope you enjoy yourself this evening."

  Jonas felt the nervous flexing of Genie's hand beneath his fingers, but she only smiled—a soft, quiet smile—and said, "I'm sure I shall."

  "Come, let me introduce you all to a new friend of mine. I believe he intends to read from Whitman's new poetry collection this evening. It should be quite exciting." Anne took Jonas's arm, leaving Childs and Genie to follow. She leaned close as they moved through the crowd. "A student, hmmm, Jonas? Or perhaps—something else?"

  Ah, she was clever. Jonas delighted in it, as he always did.

  "You never miss a trick, do you, darling?" he asked with a quick laugh. He leaned close to whisper against her ear, and the words came spilling out, he couldn't say them fast enough. "She's my masterpiece, Anne. Can't you see it? She's so fresh, so untried, but I tell you there's something else there—a great mystery—"

  "She's your new model, then," Anne said with amusement. "An interesting choice, Jonas. Though innocents are a bit passé, don't you think? And certainly not your style."

  He was confused for just a moment. Innocents not his style? He'd been corrupting innocents most of his life, or at least women who pretended to be so. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure he'd ever had a true innocent. Not until now. Perhaps that was what captivated him so. Perhaps it was only that she was the real thing, naive and pure, something to despoil. . . .

  The cynicism of the thought put his nerves on edge. No, he didn't want to despoil her. But to teach her— ah, yes, he did want that—to see the change in her eyes, from purity to sensuality, from naivete to wisdom. His own Aphrodite, the most sensual of the gods.

>   "Help me find her divinity," he said urgently, and when he saw the bewilderment on Anne's face, he plunged ahead, wanting her to understand. "I'm looking for a goddess, Anne."

  Anne's brow furrowed. "You speak in riddles, Jonas. I—oh, excuse me, there he is." She pulled away from him, gesturing to a man in the crowd. "Davis! Davis!"

  Jonas threw a curious glance at Rico, who came up just behind him, Genie in tow.

  "Davis Tremaine," Rico explained in a low voice. "He was in Paris during the summer. An art critic who fancies himself another Ruskin." Rico lifted a brow and smiled. "He has a reputation for having a true eye for beauty—as well as an . . . unfortunate . . . hunger for it."

  Anne stepped back, waiting for Tremaine to make his way through the crowd. She spoke sotto voce. "Tremaine's quite popular lately. He'll give the girl the cachet you're looking for." Then, when Tremaine reached them, she straightened, breaking into a practiced hostess smile. "Ah, here you are now. Davis, have you met Jonas Whitaker and Frederic Childs?"

  "Childs, of course. Haven't seen you since Paris. Delighted." Tremaine nodded at Rico. He leaned closer, squinting in a nearsighted way, and held out his hand. "Regret to say I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Whitaker yet. I've heard of you, of course, sir. Saw that last exhibition—when was that, a year or so ago? Particularly liked that provincial thing you did— "Women with Sheaves,' I believe you called it."

  An ass, Jonas thought, dismissing Tremaine summarily. He barely remembered "Women with Sheaves." He'd done it at Barbizon, years ago, and it was an inferior painting, a test of color, a minor work even to his own eyes. It offended him somewhat that Tremaine hadn't seen anything of his new attempts, and the fact that he felt that way irritated Jonas even more. Normally critics mattered little to him—bad critics especially. And he knew instantly that Davis Tremaine, whatever his ambition, was a bad critic. Jonas wondered why the hell Anne had brought him over.

  "And Davis, this is Imogene Carter," Anne continued blithely. "She's one of Jonas's students."

  "Charmed, Miss Carter." Tremaine's words were short and clipped and rigidly polite. Dismissal rang in his tone, disinterest deadened his eyes. It only angered Jonas more. Tremaine was as stupid as he was pretentious. There was a living work of art in front of him, and he failed to even see it. Annoyed, Jonas took Genie's arm and started to turn away.

  "Mr. Tremaine, I'm pleased to meet you."

  Genie's soft voice stopped Jonas in his tracks. It was calm and even, and he released her arm, surprised. Even more surprised when he realized that, but for the flush in her cheeks, he'd never seen her look so calm, so self-possessed.

  Except once. Jonas swallowed as the vision came into his head. A creamy shoulder, a knowing smile—

  "My father admired your writings very much, Mr. Tremaine." She was smiling at the critic now, a quiet, shy smile. "He told me he thought you were insightful."

  Tremaine stopped short. "Insightful?"

  "He liked what you said about Hiram Powers," Her face wrinkled as if she were trying hard to concentrate. "That statue—the 'Greek Slave.' About how the chain she wore made it clear she was a slave, so no one cared about the fact that she was . . . nude."

  Tremaine visibly puffed. "Yes, of course. Once you saw the chain, you knew the story. Perfect sculpture for those too lazy to interpret truly great art." He leaned closer, pulling a pair of fragile glasses from his pocket and settling them on his long, thin face, scrutinizing her though the lenses. "So you're a student, Miss Carter? Are you also an aficionada of fine art?"

  She laughed.

  It was a small laugh, but it startled Jonas. He'd never heard her laugh before—or he supposed he had, once; he thought he remembered seeing her laugh with McBride. But he hadn't heard it then, and now the sound of it galvanized him, made him feel light-headed and strange.

  "I try to understand what little I can, Mr. Tremaine," she said. "Though sometimes I'm not sure it's fine art I'm seeing."

  Tremaine chuckled. Jonas stared. He hadn't expected her to have the presence to hold her own with these people. He remembered suddenly that she'd come from an upper-class family in Nashville; she'd probably spent hours at her parents' parties, had no doubt learned all the niceties of conversation. But he'd forgotten that, had seen that upbringing only in how cossetted she was, how protected.

  And now here she was, not just smiling but conversing. Captivating Tremaine the way she'd captivated him, and looking as if she wasn't sure whether to be confused or delighted by the critic's attention. It was charming—it was more than that. It was so innocently erotic that it paralyzed him. There it was, the mystery he'd been looking for, shining from her so brightly he couldn't believe the others didn't see, that they weren't blinded by her presence.

  "An honest woman," Tremaine said, taking off his glasses and shaking his head as he tucked them back into his pocket. "My compliments, my dear." He looked at Jonas. "She is quite perfect, sir—I look forward to seeing her in paint."

  And then, with a quick good-bye, Tremaine disappeared again through the crowd.

  "Well." Anne turned with a smile. "Congratulations, Jonas, you've captured Davis's attention."

  "An easy enough feat when you've any intelligence at all," Rico commented dryly. He smiled at Genie. "You've another fan, Miss Imogene."

  She smiled back, but it was frayed at the edges, distracted and self-conscious. "Another fan," she repeated, the words so soft it was as if she spoke to herself. She looked at Jonas. "What do you suppose he meant—about seeing me in paint?"

  And it was gone. In that second, the mystery fell away, and she was ordinary again, the colorless girl who had walked into his studio two weeks ago.

  But that was the masquerade, and now he knew it— and knew what he had to do to find the mystery again.

  "Perhaps some wine," he said, looking to Childs.

  Rico smiled, a knowing light in his pale blue eyes. "Ah, yes, some wine." He held out his hand to Genie. "What do you say, Miss Imogene? Shall we have a glass?"

  She watched him the way everyone in the room watched him, and for the same reasons—because it was impossible to look away. He was mesmerizing, intoxicating. A god, almost, Imogene thought, seeing the religious zeal in his expression as he talked and gestured. Though a group of people surrounded him, he stood out from them, tall and finely made, his intense green eyes and flashing smile hypnotizing. He gestured with his glass, but not a drop of wine spilled, and though he drank it almost as quickly as he spoke, his movements were graceful and alluring.

  Tonight, the entire room seemed to spin around him. People flitted to him like moths to a flame, and he kept them there, circling his orbit, flushed and laughing. She could imagine their dazzling repartee even though she couldn't hear them, could imagine the sheer brilliance of their ideas, the sharpness of their wit.

  She wanted to be one of them.

  It was a ludicrous thought, she knew. She could not keep up with them. She was no Bohemian thinker; she was barely an artist. Her father was right, after all, when he told her she needed steel instead of milk and water. But still . . .

  She forced her gaze deliberately to the women who stood beside him. Anne Webster seemed to sparkle beneath the onslaught of his gaze; her dark eyes were vibrant and shining, and her laughter rang through the room. How beautiful she was, flushed with his attention, alive in the sound of his words. And the woman on his left, a woman elegantly clothed in green satin and black velvet, was equally lovely. A woman who smiled into his eyes and hung on his every word. A beautiful, interesting woman.

  Imogene's throat tightened. She was nothing like them. She'd already proved it once tonight, when she'd tried to charm Tremaine, when she'd tried to impress Whitaker, impress them all. She flushed with embarrassment when she remembered the way she'd stammered, offering her father's opinions instead of her own, mangling them in her usual way. When she remembered Tremaine's patronizing comment. "An honest woman. My compliments, my dear." He'd been laughing at her—e
ven Childs's kind attempt to camouflage it hadn't hidden the truth.

  She heard Whitaker's laugh across the room and winced. She wondered why he'd even brought her here. Earlier tonight, in the carriage, she had hoped maybe—just maybe—they were on their way to someplace special, that he wanted to show her something magical, to give her some insight into his art. And that hope had lasted until they stepped into the Websters' glittering parlor, and Imogene realized this was no special place at all. It was only a salon, like all the others she'd been to, like the ones her father had held when Chloe had been alive—a sparkling collection of literati and artists that left her feeling out of place and alone. She could not compete with their wit then, and she couldn't now.

  This time the failing was more painful than ever. More disappointing. Because Whitaker had brought her here and she wanted to impress him, wanted that magnetic gaze turned on her. She remembered what Peter had said, how he'd told her that when Whitaker was in a certain mood, he was brilliant, a shooting star. She understood what he meant now. A shooting star. Yes, Whitaker was that.

  How did one capture a shooting star?

  She wished she knew. She had the feeling that if she could get close enough, if she could wait for just a little while, he might be able to help her understand the things the rest of them all took for granted. Maybe he could make her feel—for even a moment—the sheer exaltation of philosophies and ideas, or give her again the vision, the blinding passion, she'd felt the other day. The vision she had always wanted, the vision that everyone but she seemed to access so easily.

  She saw him lean close to Anne Webster, whispering something in her ear, and Imogene felt a longing so strong it took her breath—and then the quick, hopeless drop of resignation. She would never get that close to him. He would never whisper in her ear that way, or laugh with her the way he was laughing with Anne now. What a silly wish it was. What a silly, stupid wish.