Passion Wears Pearls

by Renee Bernard

  But nothing about Josiah evoked calm.

  He unsettled her senses and challenged everything she knew of reason and balance. He looked at her and she forgot all the rules of etiquette and social restraint that had been drilled into her since she could first walk. Nothing about him conveyed quiet resolve or muted affection. Instead, there was the promise of an exotic sanctuary in his eyes, and when he kissed her, she didn’t care about anything else.

  She was falling in love. The attachment was overwhelming, but tangible. It just didn’t seem to match a single sentiment described by Lady M. Eleanor had overstepped infatuation into deeper waters, and every instinct heralded that drowning was a very real danger. But instead of frightening her away, the acknowledgment made her only want to run like a madwoman back to him and throw herself at his feet and beg him for some merciful resolution that would restore her mind.

  Or just beg him to kiss me until I don’t care what any of it means. To touch me until there is nothing of this anxiety and hunger left.

  From the moment he’d rescued her, Eleanor’s ideals of what it meant to be a man had morphed into Josiah until she couldn’t see anyone else. Every gentlemanly gesture and charitable act had laid a foundation of trust, and instead of seducing or mistreating her, Josiah had kept himself in check. She was in the odd position of holding the reins on her own fall.

  I’d have yielded to him completely today, if he’d pressed me. But he saw the fear in my face … and here I am again, sent back to the Grove to recover my senses and decide what to do next.

  He’d said he had no secrets. But Eleanor knew better. And it wasn’t just that mysterious note about the Jaded.

  There was something wrong with his vision. She was more and more sure of it. The intensity of his gaze gave way to the habits of a man who looked as if he were trying to peer around something or constantly working to get something out of his field of vision. Unless something was directly in front of him, it was as if it didn’t exist. At any new sound, he turned his head to look, never leading with his eyes.

  He’d spilled the paints more than once and overturned more glassware than any man had a right to, and when he’d fallen in the park, it had been another clue. He’d even said something about being more clumsy “these days,” as if it were a new experience and not just part of his general physicality.

  There’d been a dozen subtle moments where he’d missed something or made references to colors lost or a quest for more light. And the candles … as the days had passed, more and more candles had been added until his studio rivaled any cathedral nave for its glow. Eleanor tried to recall every incident where he’d given her pause, worrying over each fleeting memory and its implications.

  He doesn’t trust me with his secrets, great or small.

  Not yet.

  A part of her ached to be brought into his confidences and to know more of him if he would allow it. Or did such men only open themselves up to women who shared their beds? Was that part of it—the bond between men and women, sealed with intimacies she couldn’t yet fathom?

  The carriage stopped in front of the Grove, and Eleanor climbed down with the driver’s help and made her way inside the inn’s doors.

  “Are you all right, then, dear?”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Clay.” She started up the stairs and then stopped. “Mrs. Clay?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “How … often are your instincts about people incorrect?”

  “Never, Miss Beckett. Not in all my years have I missed spotting a bad egg.”

  “How can you be so sure?” The question had a sad, desperate edge to it, but Eleanor longed for a reassurance that only the motherly Mrs. Clay might provide.

  “Has something happened, my dear? Has someone—”

  “No, Mrs. Clay! Please don’t worry. I spoke out of turn. It’s just that my instincts have never been very good, and I’m almost afraid to trust my own judgment.”

  “Aren’t you a lamb?” Mrs. Clay wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, I say actions never lie. If you’re not sure, then you look at the work of a man’s hands and not the prattle coming out of his mouth. Does that help?”

  “Yes, I suppose it does.” It sounded so simple.

  Tally met her on the landing, as he often did, shyly making sure she had light enough to find her way into her rooms and that her fire was tended before withdrawing. Her miniature attendant was naturally quiet, but Eleanor had come to enjoy his companionship and she usually chatted with him as best she could.

  But tonight, she was too distracted for conversation and simply handed over a small bag of jellies she’d bought for him. “Here, sweet boy. I only hope your mother doesn’t disapprove. … I should hate to disappoint. … Well, good night.”

  She closed her door only to rest her forehead against it to wait for her emotions and imagination to settle. She felt feverish and giddy, miserable, and yet, oddly, alive and whole.

  Josiah’s actions had been honorable and kind. His behavior was faultless. Eleanor accepted that she had been the one to brazenly press him for more kisses and invite every manner of indiscretion. She was having trouble blaming him for any of it, since it was Josiah who had ended it even after her secretly base nature had almost taken over.

  Eleanor’s heart pounded at the twist.

  Almost is a slender thing to hang one’s virtue on. I’d no thought of stopping, but then—suddenly I did. But what happened? Is he right to think I still fear ruin?

  It hadn’t felt like fear, but more like a seizure of uncertainty. When his hand had slid up her skirt, the panic had come not from virginal terror, but from the intensity of her own shameless reaction. For Eleanor knew that for her there were no half measures. One followed the rules completely. Once set on a path, one did not look back. One did their absolute in all things worthy of their time and attention. Eleanor smiled.

  My passions and affections for him are becoming extremely absolute. But if I’m mistaken … I’ll have lost more than my virginity.

  He was keeping things from her, his failing vision and this business with his friends. And who knew what other secrets he was shielding from her, or what else he was hiding.

  What kind of man pays for a woman’s company?

  She shuddered as a quieter voice inside of her ruthlessly answered. What kind of woman takes a man’s money for her time?

  She found the contract she’d set aside in her drawer after their dinner together at the inn. She’d avoided it, repulsed by the strange commerce of her life. Then, when she’d become so charmed with his presence, she hadn’t wanted to be reminded of it.

  But now, Eleanor broke the seal and opened it, forcing herself to actually read it for the first time. She slowly worked through the short document, determined to understand what it truly meant. For here was the work of his hands and a reflection of his true intentions, was it not?

  Eleanor read on, her hands trembling as the language of the contract sank in.

  It didn’t bind her to him at all. In fact, true to his word, it gave her the money, as he’d said, once the painting was complete or by a certain date if he failed to finish. But then she saw it—a last clause tucked in before his signature and the witnessed signatures of his solicitor and a clerk.

  Whereupon if Miss Eleanor Beckett refuses to participate in the proposed creative venture, all monies are to be transferred to her immediately. She is to have the full amount, despite any objections she may have, with the understanding that if Miss Beckett doesn’t wish to retain the fifteen thousand pounds, she may dispose of it to charity as she sees fit. It is Mr. Hastings’s sole wish that she be happy.

  “He gave me my freedom. I’ve been my own woman all along,” she whispered.

  The paper fell from her numb fingers to the floor, and Eleanor sat down on the floor in a daze.

  Chapter

  16

  He didn’t send for her for three days. For three endless days and nights, Josiah worked alone in his studio, a man possessed.
Escher brought him meals and trays, only to take most of them away untouched as Josiah poured his heart and soul into every brushstroke.

  Everything was coming to a head. The blasted note Escher had read aloud had reminded him that his life was far too complicated to explain to the likes of Miss Beckett and his existence far too precarious; Josiah had barely managed to allow reason to rule over the sweet insanity of kissing the lady.

  Why haven’t you kissed me again?

  He could hear her voice, so innocent and unashamed—and so anxious for affection. He’d been a breath away from every wretched cliché about wicked and wanton artists seducing their heavenly subjects.

  But his honor had held.

  Barely, but he’d decided to treat it like a solid victory.

  All his promises and proclamations of higher morals tasted like ashes in his mouth. He’d sent her a message via courier that she should wait at the Grove and that he would summon her soon. He’d meant to avert any more misunderstandings, but he wasn’t sure how to reassure her when he wasn’t sure of any solution that would rein in his feelings. Every time he closed his eyes, she was there, and in his dreams, she was an erotic queen demanding that he experience and survey every colorful inch of her body for all the paintings to come.

  Each time he awoke, he’d had to talk himself back into exile. Because he knew if he saw her again, he’d forfeit everything to have her.

  Amidst all of his angst, the painting held true. What he couldn’t touch in reality, he could create on canvas. Josiah was like a man teetering on the brink of madness. The hours bled away, and the portrait had taken on a life of its own. He’d worked around the fleeting black spots and shadows that crowded into his vision, and worshipped her the only way he knew how—by immortalizing her. For hours, he stood in front of her image and painted, freed by his inner vision from having to perch like a humble supplicant on the floor.

  Escher knocked on the doorframe to announce his arrival. “She’s come, sir.”

  “What?” Josiah threw a cloth over the canvas to cover it, unwilling to let some stranger see it. “Who’s come?”

  “Miss Beckett, of course. She’s on her way up the stairs, and bein’ that you’ve been a bit … insistent on not being disturbed, I thought you’d want to know.”

  Eleanor’s here. Impossible!

  He hadn’t sent the carriage, but Josiah realized it was foolish to think the woman couldn’t come of her own volition if she wished to. Somehow, he’d been so distracted and lost in his own fog, it had never occurred to him before this moment that she would arrive on her own. After all, the rules of good etiquette forbid an unmarried woman to make such calls or even send correspondence. And if Eleanor Beckett was anything, she was a firm believer in adhering to the rules.

  “Thank you, Escher.”

  “Shall I bring up lunch for you both, sir?” Escher offered. “Rita’s most unhappy that you’re still not eating.”

  “No, but thank her for the worry.” Josiah ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll ring if I need anything.”

  “As you wish.” The older man retreated, and Josiah was left to face the disarray of his studio and the state of his clothing.

  “So much for cleaning up and making a better impression. …”

  “And who would you be trying to impress, Mr. Hastings?” Eleanor asked from the doorway, still wearing her coat and bonnet dusted with snow.

  “I wasn’t expecting you, Miss Beckett.”

  “No,” she answered him softly. “But I have decided not to always do what I am expected to do.”

  “Have you?” Josiah thought his heart might pound out of his chest as he came toward her. “I’m not the right man to argue against a good smattering of rebellion, Eleanor. As we’ve established, I fear I’m a terrible influence on you, Miss Beckett.”

  She held out an object for him, like an offering in her gloved hands. “I bought you something—a small token.”

  He took it from her and opened the oblong wooden box as carefully as if it were glass. “What is it?”

  “You should look and see.”

  Josiah lifted the object, his brow furrowed in confusion. “You brought me a spyglass?”

  “It’s a kaleidoscope. See?” She held it up, directing one end of the small telescope-looking object to the windows to maximize the light. “Won’t you please look?”

  He held it up to one eye and gasped. “Oh my!”

  “It’s what I imagine the colors of India would be. I saw a water-colored print in the window at Able’s and Black’s Bookshop of a palace garden in Bombay. You … said you missed that spectrum.” Eleanor waited for his reaction, hoping she’d invoked the happier moments of that day before it had been spoiled by her demands for his kisses.

  “I did say that. And I can’t believe you remembered it.” He put the kaleidoscope back into the box reverently. “It’s the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received. Thank you, Eleanor.”

  “Mr. Hastings?”

  “Yes.”

  “I owe you an apology. I was too forward when we saw each other last. For all my talk of propriety, I’ve discovered that I am … less restrained than I thought. Perhaps it’s my impending freedom that’s given birth to an impetuous nature.” Her voice trembled, but she’d come too far not to give her heart the full rein it demanded. “Why haven’t you sent for me?”

  “Because I don’t think I trust myself with you anymore. Not alone. It’s gone beyond … I don’t think I’ll be satisfied just looking at you, Miss Beckett.”

  “But the painting—!”

  “The work’s far enough along that you don’t have to risk pneumonia to ensure the painting’s completion.” He leaned against the table, his hands gripping the edge. “You never need to apologize to me, Miss Beckett, and you were not too forward. But you should go.”

  “And if I want to be here?”

  He released the table, a tiger stepping out from the shadows, and Eleanor shivered at the latent power that emanated from him. “Miss Beckett. If I may speak freely and demonstrate what the word forward is. I’m going to tumble you right here if you don’t turn around and go back to the Grove.”

  “T-tumble?” she asked in a whisper.

  “By tumble,” he said softly, one hand reaching out to capture the edge of the ribbon trailing off the wrap at her throat, “I mean I’m going to kiss you out of your clothes, Eleanor. I’m going to bare every inch of you so that I can taste you with my mouth and feel your skin with my hands until there is no part of you that isn’t known to me and open to me. I’ll do everything in my power to get you to beg me to spoil you, and when you do, I won’t hesitate for a single second to take your maidenhead, Eleanor. Do you understand?”

  “Oh!”

  “I love the way you politely request kisses, but there is very little that will qualify as polite once I touch you again. No rules, no restraint, and above all, there can be no regrets, Eleanor. So, there you have it. Run, Miss Beckett. Run while you can, my prim and proper muse, and I’ll send for you when my blood has cooled. Otherwise, surrender, Eleanor, and give yourself to me.”

  Surrender. No rules, no restraint, and no regrets.

  She nodded, and made no move to flee.

  The ribbon caught in his fingers, and he slowly pulled the wrap free from her shoulders to allow it to fall to the floor. “I need to hear you say it, Miss Beckett. I’d not have any misunderstanding between us.”

  She nodded again, her voice temporarily failing her.

  “Say it, Eleanor.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what of respectability?” he asked as he began to gently tug off her leather gloves, slowly pulling them off to bare her hands.

  “I’ll have a lifetime of respectability, Mr. Hastings. A lifetime to reassure me that everything is in its proper place—but for now, I don’t want to be proper.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to be
reckless. I want, just this once, to forget every rule and discover what it is that I’ve been so afraid of sitting over there, staring at you day after day.”

  “Aren’t you afraid now?” He dropped her gloves onto the floor next to her wrap.

  She shook her head firmly. “No. I’m nervous, but I expect that that is perfectly normal, Mr. Hastings, when one is attempting to convince a man to … seduce you.”

  He smiled. “I’d say you’re the one actively seducing me, Miss Beckett.”

  She froze, but a new fire lit her eyes, and Josiah knew he’d hit on the key. The lady liked to hold the reins.

  “I’m—no temptress, sir.” Her eyes were clear and untroubled as she reached up to remove her bonnet and drop it carelessly to the floor. It wasn’t the practiced move of a courtesan, but the maidenly grace of the gesture made every muscle in his body blaze with a flare of heat and desire all the same.

  “Like hell, you’re not,” he whispered. “You’re no milk-toast-bland creature to make a quiet bid for a kiss and then lay back.”

  “And this troubles you?” she asked.

  “Not in the slightest, Miss Beckett. I’d not want you if you were any other way.”

  “Good.” She sighed, then blushed. “Mr. Hastings, may we keep one rule as we proceed?”

  “One rule. Let’s have it.” Josiah watched the delicious play of color across her cheeks, but also marveled at the way her impossibly green eyes sparked when she was roused, their shimmer mesmerizing enough to make emeralds seem pale by comparison.

  “Promise you won’t laugh at me. If I—make a mistake.” Eleanor’s hands found each other as she nervously navigated the last of the conversation while the desire in his eyes ignited her bones and made her long to have it done with. “My courage may not sustain itself if you … laugh.”