The Portrait

by Megan Chance

  His smile broadened. He knelt before her, setting aside the candlestick, and took her hand, enfolding her fingers in his long, elegant ones. "I want to show you the world, Genie," he whispered. "Ah, what a ride it will be. . . . Will you come with me?"

  There was an urgency in his words, a harsh persuasion, and she realized that he believed she might refuse him. As if she could refuse him anything. His words shivered inside her, an echo of the ones he'd spoken to her earlier, a promise that hovered in the air and made her weak with longing. All her uncertainty, all her questions, faded away, and she no longer cared why he paid her so much attention or what he wanted from her. It was enough that he was paying attention to her. It was enough that he wanted anything from her at all. No one had ever wanted her for herself. Not even Nicholas. Especially not Nicholas.

  She looked up into Whitaker's eyes, shadowed as they were by the dim light of the candle. "Yes," she said. "Of course I'll come with you."

  He laughed, a short, exhilarated sound, and stood, pulling her to her feet, leaving the candle to burn unattended in the hallway as he led her down the hall. His step was fast. She stumbled over her skirt and gripped his hand for support, but he didn't slow, not until they were almost to the foyer and she looked up to see Childs waiting by the door, holding her mantle and Whitaker's hat in his hands.

  "So you found her then," he said as they approached. "Hurry along, chérie, before Tremaine finds us again. He's taken quite a fancy to our brilliant friend here."

  Whitaker only smiled. He dropped her hand to take the hat Childs offered, and she shrugged into her mantle, barely having time to fasten it before they hurried her through the door and out into the clear, chill night.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Whitaker stopped short, his whole body stiffening as he stared up at the sky. "Christ," he murmured. "Look at that."

  She followed his gaze. The night was beautiful; the clouds that had brought the rain earlier were gone, the sky was clear and dark blue, scattered with thousands of stars that twinkled like chips of ice in the freezing air. Imogene hugged herself against a sudden breeze, saw her breath, frosty and smoky in the darkness.

  "What am I looking for?" she asked quietly.

  "The gods," he said, and then, before she could ask him what he meant, he laughed and grabbed her hand again, striding with great, quick steps to the carriage Childs was hailing. "Hurry," he urged. "The night is disappearing."

  Childs gave him an inscrutable look. "We've hours yet," he said, standing back from the door so she could climb inside. When she had pulled her skirts around her, he took the seat opposite, lounging in the corner with his usual indolent grace. "You may want to provide Miss Imogene with a meal, mon ami," he said when Whitaker settled into the seat beside her. "I imagine she's starving, since we took her from her dinner."

  The moment Childs said the words, Imogene realized he was right. She'd forgotten all about dinner, and now that the wine she'd drunk was settling poorly in her stomach, she felt the faint but growing pangs of hunger.

  Whitaker blinked as if Childs's words confused him. "A meal?" he repeated blankly. He looked at her, his gaze boring into her as if he could somehow assuage her hunger with a glance. "We've no time to stop," he said, and there was a faintly accusing tone in his voice, as if he blamed her for needing something as prosaic as food.

  "I'm all right," she said quickly, not wanting to anger him, afraid he would leave her behind if she admitted to hunger. "1 don't need anything, really."

  "Don't humor him, chérie," Childs said dryly.

  "I'm not," she protested. "Truly, I'm not hungry."

  Childs didn't believe her, she knew, but he said nothing as the carriage started. The jerk of the springs forced her against Whitaker, and he grabbed her hand and kept her there, anchoring her to his side, not releasing her even when the carriage swayed and it was obvious he could not support himself with his false hand.

  She wondered why he didn't just let her go. It would be so much easier for him. But she was glad he didn't, even when she saw how he pressed his feet into the floor to keep from falling into her on the turns, even when she felt the flex of his hand, the tightening grip of his fingers. And when he looked down at her and said, "So how did you like our little party, Genie?" she had the absurd feeling that he cared about her answer, that her opinion mattered.

  She hesitated, struggling to find the right thing to say, something worthy of his respect. But his regard was too new and too unfamiliar, and she couldn't concentrate. Finally all she said was, "Your friends are very interesting."

  From the corner, Childs snorted.

  Whitaker laughed. "Friends? Ah, no, darling Genie, I wouldn't exactly say they were friends. Acquaintances, more like. There are more vipers in that room than in the whole of South America, I'd warrant." He looked at her, his eyes gleaming in the passing light. "But some of them are brilliant. Their philosophies are interesting even if their morals aren't. These people

  can make gods or destroy them, darling. And we were making gods tonight."

  She stared at him in confusion. "Making gods?" When he didn't explain, she turned questioningly to Childs, who shrugged but made no attempt to answer. Yet his expression was strangely thoughtful; he watched Whitaker with a careful scrutiny that was somehow disturbing.

  She had no time to discover why. Within moments the carriage stopped, and when she looked out the window she saw they were in front of the studios. Imogene felt a quick stab of disappointment. It was too soon. Whitaker had led her to believe he was taking her someplace else, someplace special, and she wanted that—oh, how she wanted it. But now it was obvious the night was already over. Her throat tightened; she tried not to show her frustration as they got out of the carriage.

  She gestured toward Thomas's brougham, which still waited by the curb. "I should go now," she said politely, reluctantly. "You must have—"

  Whitaker spun around so quickly she faltered.

  "Are your promises so easily broken, Genie?" he demanded. "Or are you frightened after all?"

  "No," she said. "No, I—"

  "Then send your man away."

  "You're safe enough, Miss Imogene," Childs drawled softly, glancing at Whitaker. "Though it may not seem like it."

  The relief that surged through her was overwhelming.

  "Rico, tell him to go on home, won't you? We'll send Genie later."

  Childs smiled wryly. "I'm sure he'll be ecstatic."

  Whitaker ignored him. He urged her toward the steps and the front door. "Hurry now, we're wasting time," he said, his hand a gentle pressure at her waist. He opened the door and nearly lunged inside, ignoring the people crowding the huge open room of the gallery, propelling her toward the stairs at the back of the room as if the other artists and their guests didn't exist.

  She glanced behind her, searching for Childs, but when she saw him enter they had already reached the stairs—she had just enough time to see him follow a man into another room before Whitaker pulled her with him up the steps so quickly she could barely catch her breath. She had no chance to worry about the fact that Childs had left her alone with Whitaker. They were upstairs before she knew it. It felt as if her feet barely touched the ground as Whitaker led her down the hall to the door of his studio.

  He released her long enough to open the door and usher her inside. Then he was grabbing her again, pulling her with him toward the tapestry-covered doorway at the far end of the studio.

  His bedroom.

  Imogene tensed. His words came flooding back. "I want to show you the world, Genie ..." "Ah, what a ride it will be. . . ." Suddenly she thought of the way he'd pressed against her all those days ago, the way his hand stroked hers, the rough desire she'd felt, and fear washed over her, making her throat tight and her mouth dry.

  He gripped her hand tighter and turned back to give her a sensual smile. "Don't tell me you're afraid now," he said gently, in that low, charismatic voice. "Not now."

  She stared at him, unable to
speak. Her heart raced, she felt the tingling of a strange anticipation in her stomach.

  "Come along," he said, and even in her fear she couldn't resist. He pushed aside the tapestry and went inside, and she saw the newel-posted bed in the corner, rumpled and unmade, its threadbare quilt slipping to the floor, saw the paint-stained clothes he'd abandoned in tousled piles, and before she realized what was happening, he was dragging her past them, through a small doorway half hidden by the bed, up a narrow, dingy flight of stairs.

  "Wh-where are we going?" she asked, stumbling behind him.

  "To the roof," he said. He paused at the top, where the passage was barred by a beaten, rickety door, and released her hand. "Here we are," he said, satisfaction filling his voice. He flipped the latch, pushed open the door. She felt the instant rush of cold wind. "There are whole worlds up here, Genie," he said. "Come and see them with me."

  Then he plunged through the door and disappeared.

  It seemed to take her an eternity to follow him. Jonas stood outside the door, throwing off his hat to feel the cold breeze in his hair, to feel the night brush his skin and welcome him. He shrugged off his frock coat, loosened his silk tie until it hung limply around his neck, dragged at his shirt so the chill, crisp air caressed his chest. God, the world was beautiful from up here. He hurried to the edge of the roof, looking at the street three stories below, at the gaslights casting their glowing halos onto the flagstones, painting highlights on horses and carriages that moved like dark shadows in the night. The silhouettes lengthened before his eyes, a kaleidoscope of sound and movement. Ah, yes, so beautiful.

  He was so caught up in the vision he didn't hear her when she finally stepped onto the roof, not until she was right behind him.

  "What are you looking at?" she asked softly.

  He turned to face her. It was only a quarter moon, yet the night was clear enough that its light touched her face. He saw the way she looked up at him, the dark luminosity of her eyes, the way her lips parted, and it was so much like his vision of the courtesan he was momentarily stunned.

  She gave him a small smile and glanced away. "It's a lovely night."

  Her movements were so delicate, so fragile. He stared at her profile, drinking in the sight of her, the line of her jaw, the straight, short nose, the slope of her chin. He watched the shadows shifting on her face, each movement accenting something else, a highlight on her skin, her mouth, her eyes. He saw the way the moonlight glanced off her bonnet. Christ, that bonnet. It was the ugliest thing about her, the ugliest thing about the whole evening, and he grabbed at the ribbons, ignoring her startled jump as he jerked the hat from her head. He heard her "oh" of surprise when he tossed it over the side of the building.

  Then it was only a shadow in the darkness, catching the wind and fluttering to the street, startling a carriage horse, who nickered and shied away. The shout of the driver echoed in the night, the reins jangled as he brought the horse sharply into line.

  Jonas looked back to her. Her hand went to her head, she pushed back strands of hair that had loosened with the bonnet, escaped from the barely held- together chignon. She tried vainly to straighten it, tucking tendrils back into the bun, shoving at pins.

  "Take it down," he said.

  A startled breath again. She stopped midmovement, looked at him with wary eyes.

  "Take it down," he whispered.

  She hesitated. Then she licked her lips and looked away, and he waited while she pulled the pins from her hair, loosening it a little more with each movement, until she held a handful of pins and her hair was falling around her shoulders, straight and heavy and glinting silver and gold in the moonlight.

  "I've been wondering what it looked like," he said.

  She gave him a funny little smile. "Why?"

  "Why? Ah, why?" He laughed, seeing the confusion on her face, a wistfulness that was charming and innocent. The little moth was turning into a butterfly before his eyes, and he wanted more, so much more. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to one of the thick chimneys breaking the shadow plain of the roof, sitting near it and urging her down beside him.

  He leaned his head against the brick and stared up at the sky, at the thousands, millions, of stars, and before his eyes they began rushing at each other, falling stars, streaks of light that reminded him of the gaslights passing by the carriage windows, and suddenly he had the thought that they were the street lamps, that all the lights of New York were gliding through the night, bent on collision.

  "Genie," he said. "Tell me what you know of the world."

  "What I know?" She laughed lightly, self-deprecatingly. "I'm afraid I know precious little."

  "Oh? And how is that?"

  "I—" She looked down, plucked at the fabric of her gown. "I have not gone many places."

  Her voice was soft, so soft he had to strain to hear it. Jonas looked back at the stars. "There is traveling and there is traveling," he said. "Shall I tell you something about the world? The truth of it? One man travels to a hundred places. He knows the scenery in Africa and the canals of Venice, he knows the Pantheon and the pyramids of Egypt. And in each place, he sets up his tent and drinks his tea and orders his servant to press his clothes. Another man lives in Nashville. He stands back and watches the crowd, and he knows what each man's voice sounds like and how to read a face and the smell of every woman's perfume. Tell me, darling, which of them knows more of the world?"

  "But the one knows only Nashville," she protested, and Jonas heard the confusion in her voice, and something else, an exclamation of alarm, or . . . surprise, or perhaps it was only his imagination.

  "Broaden your mind," he said. "See the whole of it, the complexity. Knowing the world is understanding what you see. Apply that to your art and you have all of life before you—all of God." He stared up at the stars, the street lamps of New York. "A world of gaslights," he murmured.

  "Gaslights? I'm . . . sorry. I'm not . . . as worldly ... as your friends. I'm afraid I don't understand."

  He heard the confusion in her voice, the painful reluctance in her admission, and it cut through his vision, erased the beauty of the stars. She thought she was something less than those fools she called his friends, those vipers at the salon, and the realization stole his breath, made his heart hurt, made him want to tell her how wrong she was, how shallow and insipid they truly were. It made him want to show her . . .

  Ah, yes, show her.

  Quickly he reached behind him, grabbing the frock coat he'd abandoned moments ago, digging through the inside pocket until he found the small sketch pad he always carried, and the charcoal pencil. When he had them in his hands, he turned back to her, smiling at the confusion in her expression.

  "Let me tell you what I think of my 'friends,' " he said, opening the sketch pad to a blank page. He grinned at her. "Let's start with Anne, shall we?"

  She gave him a puzzled, uncertain smile. "I don't understand—"

  "Ah, but I suspect you understand very well, Genie," he teased. "For example, tell me about Anne."

  "I barely know her."

  "You don't need to know her to see her," he said. He poised the pencil over the paper. "Describe her to me."

  "But—"

  "Describe her."

  "Well . . ." She paused, staring thoughtfully off into the night before she turned back to him. "I don't know." She shrugged. "She was very beautiful."

  He leaned forward with a laugh, brushing her cheek with the end of the pencil. "Such easy words, Genie. Words that mean nothing. Let me show you what I mean."

  It was an easy talent, one he had possessed since he was very young, one he rarely used now. He drew quickly, a few lines only, but when he was finished, Anne Webster was before him on the paper, her round cheeks a bit too round, her doe eyes very wide and unblinking, her short nose a mere wisp of line. With a flourish, he handed the pad to Genie, who took one look and laughed out loud.

  "A caricature," she said, and he heard the breathless surprise in her voice, th
e delight. "Oh, how ridiculous you make her look."

  "She is ridiculous," he said, feeling a rush of pleasure at Genie's laughter. "They all are." He grabbed the pad from her fingers and drew another—Davis Tremaine this time.

  She grinned when she saw it. "You've been too kind," she said, pointing to the wisp of beard, the huge bug eyes behind absurdly tiny glasses. "He's much more pompous than you've shown him, don't you think?" She gave him an arch look and lowered her voice in an attempt at mimicry. " . . ‘Yes, of course, Miss Carter. It's the perfect sculpture for those too lazy to interpret truly great art.' "

  She did it so perfectly he laughed out loud, and the pure pleasure of it coursed through him, intensified when she laughed along. Her eyes lit in the darkness, he heard the ring of her laughter—soft at first, then more confident, huskier, happier—and suddenly he saw her with a clarity of vision that stunned him. He looked at her and he saw again the woman who had posed for his class. The self-confident beauty who had held her chin high and lowered her dress.

  And in that moment he realized how wrong he was about her. He had thought she was his goddess, his courtesan, but she was much more than that—good God, so much more. There was something else in her too. Something he'd never allowed himself to see before, something that made his soul cry out in yearning. Honesty. Strength. Safety.

  Safety . . .

  It frightened him, how pure the thought was, how reassuring. Safety. Christ, when was the last time he'd thought that about anyone? Had there ever been a time?

  His laughter died abruptly, he found himself trembling. And then slowly, slowly, she stopped laughing too, and he saw the sudden bewilderment in her face when she turned to look at him.

  "Jonas?" she asked. Then she gave him that uncertain smile again, that crooked, beguiling hesitation. It was not as beautiful as her laughter, but he was mesmerized by it all the same. By that, and by the soft touch of her fingers on his hand, the uncertain caress.

  "Draw me another one," she urged. "Show me who they are to you."