by Megan Chance
Still, she couldn't help thinking it, couldn't help the enticing little voice murmuring in her ear, Oh, I wish he would smile at me that way.
Imogene turned away, taking a desperate sip of wine before she started through the crowd again—away from him, though every step putting distance between them felt painful. She heard snippets of conversations, the glib and abstract flood of thought: "But as Swedenborg said ...""... he claims to be a Transcendentalist, but I have my suspicions ...""... if all men are capable of divine inspiration, then shall we consider that 'sin' is simply a lack of spiritual development ..."
She maneuvered around the crowd, smiling a smile that felt pasted on, murmuring hellos to people who were nothing more than strangers, drifting away again before they could involve her in a conversation she could not maintain. She drank her wine until her first glass was empty, then a second, until her smile was no longer such an effort to keep up even though the room felt too close and too hot.
But she could not ignore him. In this mood he was too irresistible. She searched for a place where she could watch him surreptitiously, without interruption, and found it—a corner where the musty-smelling, heavy drapes were pulled back from the entryway. She settled into the shadows and glanced toward him, expecting to see him gesturing enthusiastically to one of the others.
He was gone.
Anxiously Imogene glanced through the crowd, looking for his tall form, for Childs's bright blond hair. They had simply disappeared. She stepped away from the curtain to scan the room more closely.
"More wine, Miss Imogene?"
She jerked around so quickly her head spun. Childs was standing beside her, a smile on his face as he held out a bottle of wine. Right behind him stood Jonas Whitaker. They'd come from nowhere; it was impossible that she hadn't heard them. It disconcerted her that she hadn't, but her confusion faded in the sharp, soaring joy of their company.
Childs poured more wine into her glass. "You'd best drink up," he said, nudging it toward her. "God knows you'll need it. Tremaine's readying to torment us with a poetry reading."
She looked down at the glass, trying to keep from grinning like an idiot over the fact that they'd searched her out. "A poetry reading?" she asked.
"We're hoping Tremaine knows more about literature than he knows about art," Whitaker said. He leaned close, smiling at her, his green eyes warm and beguiling. "How about you, Genie?" he asked. "Do you like poetry?"
He was teasing her; it made her feel strangely giddy. "Some poetry," she managed.
"That's a greater appreciation than Tremaine has, I'll warrant," Childs said dryly. "The last rhyme I heard him read began 'There was a young lady from Nice.'" He grinned audaciously at her. "And he mangled that."
Whitaker laughed. "Your polish is slipping, Rico."
"Says the man who never had any to begin with." Childs lifted his glass in tribute. He nodded at the goblet in her hand. "Miss Imogene, you're falling behind."
Obediently she took a sip. The wine tasted better than it had all night, rich and spicy and dusty on her tongue. It relaxed her now, and along with the light in Whitaker's eyes, and Childs's quick tongue, the wine took away her isolation, made her feel warm, as if she suddenly belonged. She wanted to stand here and talk with them all night—in fact, she wished she could. Because in this moment, the specter of her father's words, her own inadequacies, faded away. Standing beside them, she was touching the star.
She laughed at the thought.
Whitaker's smile broadened. He curled his fingers around her arm, and then he was bending close, whispering in her ear. "Come with me."
Come with me. She would not have refused even if he'd given her the chance, and before she knew it, Childs was at her other side, and she was being led through the crowd so quickly the flickering lights of the candles made her dizzy, the hot, fragrant smells of beeswax and perfume stole her breath. It took her a moment to realize everyone was moving, the little social cliques were breaking up, heading toward the far end of the room. The piano music grew louder, the chattering voices sang in her head.
Then Whitaker stopped so suddenly she stumbled. She felt his hand tighten on her arm to steady her. They were standing at the front of a half circle of chairs, and she realized the room was already set up for the poetry reading Tremaine had promised. Five minutes ago, she would have taken a seat in the back and listened in silence, feeling out of place and alone. But now everything was different. In five minutes, Whitaker had changed it, and his hand on her arm, his smile, was such a startling acceptance she felt dazzled and a little winded.
"That's the way." Whitaker spoke in her ear, the words sounded strange, breathless and shivery. "You know, you're beautiful when you smile."
The comment startled her. Imogene looked up at him, sure she was hearing things, sure he could not have said the words. It was the wine. It was all illusion.
He laughed and motioned to a huge chair covered in burgundy brocade.
"Sit, Genie," he said, and his voice was deep and smooth and tantalizing. The room seemed to sway to the sound of it, the smooth, deep reds of the furniture and the drapes seemed to shimmer and pulse with light and dark shadows.
You've had too much wine, she thought, sitting, but it felt good—decadent and somehow enlightening. It reminded her of how she'd felt the day she modeled for the class—that powerful, seductive feeling, and when Childs came to stand at the other side of her chair and poured more wine into her glass, she didn't protest. Nothing felt real. It was as if she were in a dream, a beautiful, enticing dream. She watched the people taking their seats, their exaggerated gestures and expressions, the fine satins and velvets of their clothes glimmering, their skin golden and beautiful in the light. The vision elated her, embraced her.
A laughing Anne Webster tore herself away from a group of people and moved to the front. "We've a special treat tonight," she said, beaming. "Mr. Davis Tremaine has offered to read from Walt Whitman's new poetry collection. It's a stunning achievement, I understand."
"Quite stunning," Tremaine said, ambling over to stand beside Anne. "And quite shameless, I might add."
"All the better." Anne laughed. "Please, Davis, the floor is yours."
Tremaine smiled. His frock coat was unbuttoned to reveal a gold-embroidered waistcoat, the shiny threads glinting in the glow of the candles. He reached into a pocket and took out his glasses, settling them on his thin, pointed nose before he reached for the book lying on a nearby table. Though the intricate, tendriled lettering was hard to read through her unfocused eyes, Imogene made out the words Leaves of Grass stamped onto the dark green leather cover of the thin chapbook.
"Which one shall you read, Davis?" Anne asked. "I must confess I've barely read it myself, but I've heard such scandalous things."
"Which is precisely why you decided you had to own it," Leonard Webster teased from his place against the far wall. He toasted his wife with his glass. "Find Anne the most decadent poem, won't you, Tremaine? If you don't, tonight's conversation could be most dreary."
"The one thing Anne isn't is dreary," came a voice from the crowd. "Scandalous poems or no."
Laughter greeted the remark. Imogene heard Childs's chuckle just behind her. He was leaning against the right side of her chair, with Whitaker flanking the left, and the two of them made her feel oddly safe—her own archangels, guardians of the gate. She laughed at the thought.
Far too much wine, she thought, looking down into her glass and knowing she should put it aside. But almost as she had the thought, Childs poured more, and there was such a sense of companionship in his gesture, such an engaging smile on his face, that she took another sip just to please him.
"Perhaps this one," Tremaine said, pausing as he leafed through the pages of the book. He read a few lines silently and then looked up at his audience with a smile. He adjusted his glasses and spread the volume wider and cleared his throat.
" 'I sing the body electric .' . ."'he began, his tones slow and lilting. "'The ar
mies of those 1 love engirth me and I engirth them . . ."'
The room was hushed, the rise and fall of breathing pulsed around Imogene. She saw the rapt faces of those listening, the flushed cheeks and glittering eyes.
" '. . . And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul? And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?' "
She took another sip of wine, and another. She thought the glass was almost empty, but when she looked down again it was full, and she wondered if she'd really been drinking it at all, or if she'd just imagined it, too caught up in the words of the poem to remember the drink. She blinked, looking up at Tremaine, who gestured softly while he spoke.
The words were so pretty, graceful and full of sound, like a lullaby. Imogene closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, feeling drowsy and warm and good, feeling herself sway to the cadences.
"'. . . You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other . . .' "
The poem was seductive—innocently so, the way a spring day was seductive—full of light breezes and sunshine smells. His voice encompassed the rhythms of the words, and she got lost in the sounds and forgot to hear the meaning. It was so easy to fall into it, into darkness and song, to drink the soft, soothing wine and feel her limbs grow heavier and heavier, and listen the way they all did, enraptured, one collective breath, connected by the fine mesh of words and music.
"'This is the female form ... it attracts with fierce undeniable attraction . . .'”
She wished it could go on forever. In the caressing melody of the words, in the heady warmth of Whitaker's care, she almost believed she wasn't plain Imogene Carter. She almost believed she was really part of this night, a Bohemian artist like the rest of them, a philosopher. For the first time she felt capable of offering an opinion on something, on the beauty of Whitman's words, the sublimity of his vision. Yes, she could tell them that. She opened her eyes, feeling a rush of excitement, and leaned forward, ready to speak at the first opportunity—
" 'Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused, Stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching, Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous—' "
The words were razor sharp, startling and so lurid they scattered her thoughts, sent heat flooding her face. She caught her breath, heard the sound echo in the stillness of the room, too loud, too shocked. It cut Tremaine short. There was dead silence.
Tremaine took his glasses off to look at her. From the corner of her eye she saw Anne lean forward, felt the combined breath of anticipation. Imogene felt suddenly sick. In a matter of seconds, she was a pretender again, an outsider who didn't belong and never would. It was ludicrous that she'd thought she could talk to them. She was a fraud, nothing more. A fraud who was shocked at a few lines of a poem they accepted as inspiration. Lord, what a fool she'd been to think she could belong here, how horribly, horribly naive. "Shocked, my dear?" Tremaine asked with a smile. She stared at him, unable to answer. He seemed to be wavering against the red and gold wallpaper, the edges of his body blending into it, soft shadows, blurred details.
Anne laughed breathlessly. "You were right, Davis, it is quite . . . scandalous. 1 loved it."
"Nothing like a little decadence to brighten up an evening," Childs drawled quietly. "Is there, Anne?"
Anne flushed, her eyes hardened, her smile was too bright. "I'm surprised you didn't like it, Frederic," she said brittlely.
"Oh, I think we all liked it," Tremaine cut in. "Except perhaps for Miss Carter."
Imogene flushed. She felt their eyes on her; bright, expectant eyes, and she was immediately tongue-tied. "I—it was fine," she whispered.
"Except for those last lines," Tremaine insisted. "Didn't care for those, did you?"
"Down, Tremaine," Childs said wryly from his place behind her. "Be a good boy."
Davis Tremaine glared at Childs, and then his gaze slid back to Imogene. She felt its scrutinizing heat against her skin.
"For discussion's sake, what was it that offended you, Miss Carter?" he insisted. "Assume you're familiar with the human form—I know you've seen Homer—"
"And having seen Homer, was offended by its simplicity." It was Whitaker's voice, soft and firm and fast with feeling. "Art offends, great or otherwise."
"You're saying if it didn't, it wouldn't be art?"
"I'm saying we all see art differently," Whitaker said. He surged forward, his eyes glittering, his body tense with feeling. "You see it in 'Women with Sheaves,' and I see it in—" He twisted around, and before Imogene could move or think, he grabbed her hand, pulled her to her feet. "I see it in this."
She stood there, too confused to move, too uncertain to comprehend what was happening, or why Whitaker had brought her forward. She was dimly aware of Childs taking her glass, but mostly all she saw was that they were staring at her—all of them.
"Careful, mon ami," Childs said. His voice was soft and chiding.
Whitaker ignored him. "Look at her. Look at her and tell me you don't see art." He talked quickly, his words falling over themselves. "It's as Kant says, everything is point of view—how we see something gives it significance. When I look at her I see art in all its finest forms—art that encompasses the entire universe. Look at her, Tremaine, and tell me you don't see it. Tell me you don't see the whole of life in her face. She is much more than eyes and hair and breasts—she is . . . like music—like the parts of a symphony. Think about it—every instrument is separate, every note, but together they shape the music—they are the music. It is only separateness that offends—sex without interpretation, naked limbs without reference. The notes without the symphony. I can take her clothes off and offend half this room, but it won't change the essential truth of her, and it won't make her any less a work of art."
"Good Lord," Tremaine said eagerly. "And beauty is the same, then? Just an interpretation?"
"Or essential truth?" Anne asked. "Do you think ..."
Their voices swirled around Imogene; she felt dizzy and strange, sick with wine and confusion. She looked at them all around her, at their avid faces, their lips flushed with wine. She looked at Childs leaning languidly against the chair, watching them talk with that lazy, too-jaded gaze, and at Whitaker, who had forgotten her in the heat of discussion, and she felt bewildered and oddly humiliated, an outcast again. She stared numbly at the others. They were gathered around each other now, talking wildly, eyes intense, words fired with inspiration.
She did not belong here. The thought slammed through her, a painful revelation that hurt doubly now, because she knew what it felt like to be part of things, because she'd had those first few minutes of basking in his sun. Misery made a knot in her stomach, pressed behind her eyes in the ache of tears. Slowly, carefully, she made her way through the crowd, slipping past the others until she reached the entryway and then the hall. It was an old habit; during her father's parties she'd often sought refuge in empty rooms. There was a reassuring familiarity in the quiet, in the sound of distant talk echoing from the salon. Now she needed that solitude, needed the comforting stillness to creep inside her until she could tell herself it didn't matter, until her tears disappeared along with her illusions and she became plain Imogene Carter again, a woman who was tired and hungry and wondering what time it was.
Imogene took a deep breath, looking at the rapidly dwindling row of cloaks and mantles and coats hanging on the pegs near the door. It felt late; perhaps she could find a place to lie down. Just for a while, just until Whitaker and Childs were ready to leave.
She wandered down the hall, feeling graceless and clumsy from the effects of wine. The candles only went as far as the foyer; the rest of the corridor faded to darkness. She stumbled along it, exclaiming with pain as she bumped into something. A settee. She reached out and felt the slippery hardness of satin and wood. With a sigh of relief, she sank into it, pulling her legs up and leani
ng her head back, closing her eyes. The upholstery was slick and hard, and combined with the slickness of her gown, it was difficult to keep her balance. But she was so tired, and her limbs felt so heavy, and her mind was befuddled with drink and confusion. She couldn't think, not about tonight. Not about Tremaine or Whitaker, not about anything. But sleep— sleep sounded good now, a way to forget her humiliation, her failure. She let her head fall back, let her hands drop. Just a short nap, just until they came for her—
She heard the step in the hall an instant before the dreams came. Imogene opened her eyes.
Whitaker was standing there, holding a single candle —a candle that sent light glowing around him like a halo. It turned his skin to gold and put colors in his hair, touched his deep-set eyes with radiance and sent his black-clad form disappearing in shadow. For a moment, she thought he was a dream—a vision conjured by her wine- and sleep-befuddled mind. For a moment, she felt no surprise at all, only a warm, reassuring acceptance.
Then he spoke.
"Genie," he said. "Don't run away from me." And his voice was a deep, soft whisper that floated on the soundless air, a voice that hinted of temptation and the dark, secret places of night. A voice that belonged to every nightmare she'd ever had.
And every fantasy.
Chapter 13
She groped for something to say, an "I'm not running," or even a simple, composed "hello." But the words seemed suddenly unnecessary, superfluous, and instead she just stared at him as he moved toward her, a mysterious man of shadow worlds and dream places, a man who existed far better in her imagination than in reality.
A small smile touched his lips as he stopped in front of her. "You look frightened," he said, and his voice was low and sensuous and touched with amusement. "Are you frightened?"
"No." It was true. He didn't frighten her. He never had. He filled her with a sense of promise, of potential, and the only frightening thing about that was the thought that she might not fulfill it. "I'm not afraid."
