Passion Wears Pearls

by Renee Bernard

  He had loved and lost.

  To add to his disoriented misery, his vision had deteriorated. His vision was poor enough to hamper any sudden moves to action, but he knew it was due to more than fatigue. He reclaimed his clothes and headed downstairs to his bedroom to clean himself and decide what to do. Josiah briefly considered drafting her a letter but wasn’t sure if his handwriting would hold. He was convinced that sending her some scrawled nonsense in uneven lines wouldn’t assist his cause—and he’d be damned if he was going to dictate his innermost turmoil for poor Escher to spell out.

  It occurred to him that he could summon his solicitor to try to come up with some excuse to see her. A new proposal for another work? Or will she recognize it for some weak personal plea to stay awhile longer … ?

  Until what? Until my vision fails and I need a cane? Until she realizes her mistake and regrets everything?

  He changed out of his clothes and dressed by habit in the simpler darker elements in his wardrobe, ignoring the choices his dressing room displayed for a life he no longer led. Silk coats and tailored waistcoats for parties and social evenings he no long enjoyed. Like the home he’d designed and furnished that now sat mostly unused, Josiah did his best to push aside the ghosts that plagued him and returned to his bedroom.

  He paused in front of his makeshift altar and remembered how Eleanor had asked if he were a heathen, as only Eleanor Beckett could. The memory flooded through him and he had to bite his tongue to keep from speaking her name.

  Pathetic. I’m already pathetic. This is insane.

  Should I send the carriage? Would she come? Or is it worse if I send it and she doesn’t. …

  “Damn it!” Josiah threw the bronze goddess into the corner, the racket of it striking the wall giving him a wicked fleeting satisfaction before the inevitable heartache took its place.

  He walked over to retrieve it, and was forced to fumble about as the shadows bled into the gray cords drifting into the right side of his vision. As he searched on his hands and knees with outstretched fingers, a dozen instances when he could have declared his feelings to her echoed in his head—all lost opportunities that a dozen fortunes couldn’t gain him. He’d come so close to happiness, but Josiah wasn’t even sure that a man could complain of being robbed if he’d deliberately kept his doors unlocked and his most precious treasure unclaimed.

  After a few moments, the familiar outline of small woman in bronze came into his hands. He lifted her up and studied her serene little face. “Are you damaged?” he whispered, running his fingers over the statuette. It was intact, and he sighed in relief. “Well, that makes one of us, my beauty.”

  It was a small thing, but he’d regretted his tantrum instantly. He returned Lakshmi to her place of honor and then lit a stick of incense, centering his thoughts out of habit and taking a few deep breaths.

  “So much for wisdom. …”

  Josiah knelt on the silk cushion and it was a long time before he had the heart to move.

  Chapter

  20

  Later that same evening, Josiah tried to eat his dinner alone in the studio by candlelight, sitting with her painting propped up next to the table. He’d rearranged his food several times, without much hope of deceiving his cook into believing that he hadn’t lost his appetite.

  He raised his glass to Eleanor’s image, whispering in the quiet. “My prim and proper beauty. You’re wiser than I to avoid farewells. I’m not sure I’d have had the mettle for it. Hell, I’d say it’s a sure bet I’d have forfeited every promise I’ve made to myself and thrown honor out the window.”

  “Is this the company you’re keeping these days?” Rowan’s voice interrupted his thoughts from the open doorway. “I’m not sure I can approve of a man talking to—”

  The abrupt end of his speech made Josiah set down his brandy, instantly wary. “Rowan? Are you unwell?”

  “Oh, my God! It’s …”

  “Say it.” Josiah braced himself for the worst. “Don’t let our friendship stand in the way.”

  “Remarkable!” West walked over, as reverently as a man approaching an altar. “I’ve never seen anything like it, but I don’t know why. I mean”—Rowan crossed his arms and took another long, hard look—“it’s a portrait of a woman in a red velvet dress. But it’s … compelling and I’m—the colors, Hastings! It’s so vibrant and … she’s sitting still but I swear it’s as if she’s going to blink at any moment and a man doesn’t want to miss it. I thought you were a good painter before, but this … my God, Hastings! You’ve captured her and in a way I would never have imagined.”

  Josiah lost his voice. All the sarcastic defenses he’d prepared evaporated as the emotional release of a triumph achieved washed over him. I did it. Hell, I did it and I’m not even sure how. … It’s my masterpiece and all I want to do is see the thing away and gone because it isn’t her.

  “You’re not an art critic, West, but I’ll take the praise all the same.”

  “It’s done! And so quickly!” Rowan shook his head in amazement. “I’d come to make sure Rutherford had left you be and then was going to compliment you on that frightful-looking troll you’ve employed downstairs, but if you’ve finished it …”

  “I finished it.”

  “Damn,” Rowan whispered, still staring at the canvas.

  The painting should have been pure scandal, a woman dressed in scarlet with her hair in wanton disarray, but it was the calm, unflinching fire and pristine self-awareness in the lady’s green eyes that defied judgment. Here was a woman refined and proud—who looked out without fear and dared a man to be worthy of touching even the hem of her garment.

  “My sentiments exactly.” Josiah echoed the curse. “I’ve never finished a painting with such speed. I never saw a woman with such clarity. …”

  “Who is she, Hastings?” Rowan asked.

  “She is Miss Eleanor Beckett, a true lady and as pure and proper a soul as I have ever encountered.” And the love of my life.

  “A true lady and not a … professional model, then?” Rowan moved to the worktable and poured himself a brandy. “Not that it matters. Cheer up, old friend. You’ll have Michael off your back, if that’s any consolation. And by God, it’s the masterpiece you wanted, Josiah.”

  “Michael off my back?”

  “You promised to dismiss her from harm’s way as soon as the painting was finished. And the timing couldn’t be better. Did you see the Times today?”

  Josiah welcomed the change in subject, turning his back on Eleanor’s image and its soulful stare. “I didn’t. Is it set, then?”

  “A week from Friday. Michael didn’t want to give him time to regroup or lay any traps. But since his good friend owns the gambling hall we agreed on, I think we’ll be safe enough. I’d considered temporarily closing my Wednesday clinic, but Gayle overruled me.”

  “A wife’s prerogative, Dr. West.” Josiah could taste bitter envy on his tongue. Rowan had his beautiful young bride, and once this Jackal business was over, he could enjoy his life. But Josiah’s pride dictated that he forfeit Eleanor, Jackal or no Jackal, and so it was hard to muster any enthusiasm at all.

  The painting was done, and Eleanor Beckett had left him per their agreement. He’d given himself over to the joys of her company and now he was grieving like a lost man in a storm. The real darkness was coming and he hated facing it alone. But there was nothing else to be done. It was best for her, he told himself, but the words held hollow comfort.

  “Are you going to show it?” Rowan asked.

  “I don’t know.” He pulled out the soft cloth and tossed it over the canvas, ending the siren’s spell. “I’m sure I will at some point. After all, what’s the use of a painting in dark rooms, right?”

  “Josiah, you did dismiss her, didn’t you? Miss Beckett is away from this?”

  At first, he couldn’t form the words to answer his friend. The wound was too fresh. “She’s away. My own poor timing is redeemed.”

  Rowan continu
ed, as if sensing Josiah’s distress. “Call her back when it’s finished, Hastings. If you care for her …”

  “I care for her too much, Rowan.” He poured himself another generous brandy. “She is better off out of this mess and clear of me.”

  “I’m not convinced of that. Every man deserves his happiness and we take what we can. If we learned anything in India, didn’t we learn how tenuous and brief life could be?”

  “Amidst many painful lessons, yes, Rowan. But this is different.”

  “It isn’t my business, but if—”

  “No, it isn’t your business!” Josiah set his glass down a bit too forcefully, the amber liquid splashing out onto the wax-covered table. “It’s my decision! Not the Jaded’s! This is my life and I don’t need any more advice on how to live it. I love you like brothers, but all of you need to take a step back. Eleanor is—I’m not condemning her to life with some sort of invalid, and she’s too softhearted to refuse me, so I cannot even ask her. Now, please leave, Rowan. Just leave me to it.”

  Rowan solemnly nodded and walked out, leaving Josiah to wrestle with his demons and the creeping black that edged into the candlelight.

  Josiah lost track of the minutes, but when he heard the door open again, he almost threw one of the candleholders at the intruder. “Damn it! Can’t a man be alone?”

  “I-if you wish—”

  “Eleanor!” Josiah was on his feet instantly, rushing toward the welcome sight of her in the doorway silhouetted by the lights in the stairwell. It was only when he came closer, his steps slowed. “What are you doing here? Is everything …”

  She reached up and slowly removed her bonnet, setting it down on the table by the door. “It’s late for a call, I know. Poor Mr. Creed! There is so much activity with all of us paying him no mind at all when he fusses. I passed your friend, Dr. West, on the ground floor, and he was very kind. It seems I’m very brave, Mr. Hastings. I slipped out of the Grove without alerting anyone, and frankly, am quite sure that this is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done.”

  “Terrifying?” he asked cautiously.

  “I should never have left, but … it was finished and I thought that it had always been so clear between us, these obligations and agreements that we held to.” Eleanor calmly set her reticule on the table as well. “I ran away because I didn’t want to hear you say it was over.”

  He shook his head, unable to speak.

  She continued, slowly walking toward him. “But that also means I didn’t give you the chance to ask me to stay. I don’t think that this relationship has ever been based on obligations, do you?”

  Again, he shook his head, the first tendril of hope coming to life inside of his chest. “No, Eleanor. I pray not.”

  “I shouldn’t be here, should I? But I tried to imagine a day where I wasn’t here. A day where we weren’t together and you weren’t painting and we weren’t talking, and I … couldn’t.” Her voice was sad, but she looked up at him, smiling through the sheen of tears in her wild green eyes. “I’m under your spell, Mr. Hastings. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “It’s late. Mrs. Clay—”

  Eleanor placed her hand against his chest. “I left a note in my room that you’d summoned me. If she comes looking and finds it, she can make of it what she will, Josiah. I’ll return in a few hours, but … I couldn’t stay away any longer. You see, I realized something, Mr. Hastings.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not so long ago, I was lamenting that I didn’t feel like I had a hand on the helm of my own life, so to speak. I had the ridiculous notion that I was adrift somehow.”

  “Are you?”

  She smiled. “No, not at all. I was feeling sorry for myself, but I am the mistress of my own fate, aren’t I? And I am where I want to be, Josiah. You’ve never pushed, have you?”

  He shook his head slowly. “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who wants to be directed or overcome, Eleanor. I wanted to respect your wish for autonomy.”

  “And so you have.” She reached up to touch his face, cradling his cheek in her palm. “Are you glad to see me, Mr. Hastings? Will you … ask me to stay awhile longer?”

  “I have no right. What I want—is impossible. But you … I’m so glad to see you I can barely speak, Eleanor. I want you to stay, but I don’t know if I can survive letting you go again.”

  “Josiah.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll break me, Eleanor.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, then whispered into the shell of his ear, “Never.”

  “I don’t want to break you either.”

  “Never,” she whispered again, and Josiah pulled her tightly into his arms, banishing fear and ignoring the darkness that lurked in the edges of the room. The heat of her body, the points of her breasts against his chest, and the magic of her mouth against his skin were a deafening symphony of sensations that made the room spin. Josiah inhaled the floral scent of her skin and kissed the warm column of her throat, a fierce joy seizing him.

  Mine! She came back because she’s mine!

  It was the illusion of a happy ending and he knew it.

  Can’t keep her. Can’t even try. Shit.

  He kissed her more deeply, and savored the instantaneous power of it, the power that healed the breach and made the world stand back. Eleanor sighed, a soft sound of contentment that made his heart soar. He lifted her against his chest to carry her downstairs, taking her to his bedroom and kicking the door shut with a resounding bang.

  He wanted to give her whatever happiness he could, to love her completely without holding anything back and demonstrate a tenderness that had been lost in so many of their recent encounters. Josiah didn’t want to be rushed or frenzied in his quest to claim her.

  He celebrated that he was still whole in her eyes, and that Eleanor had come to him freely. Once she knew his secret, the path would never again be as clear. Pity and guilt would cloud reason, and he was sure that she would ultimately feel tricked and trapped by a man who had deceived her into loving him.

  It was an impossible situation fraught with heartache.

  As if she sensed his mood, Eleanor allowed the gentle lull of his slow, studied caresses and tender touches. She didn’t press him to hurry, but instead, stood blushing while he removed her hairpins and undid each braid.

  She reached up to nervously tuck a curl behind one ear. “It’s a tangle tonight. After … this morning, I didn’t bother with combing it out as I should.”

  “I’m glad.” He led her toward the bed, undressing her as carefully as a man unpacking a china doll, even as she helped him out of his things. Within moments, they stood together without a single barrier.

  “Glad?”

  “It’s a foolish thing, but all this time, I’ve wanted the privilege of brushing that hair, Miss Beckett. If you’d allow it.”

  She looked at him warily, but nodded. “Truly?”

  “After everything, I marvel that you’re still so modest about such things, and then”—he reached out to run the back of his fingers from her collarbone down to the rise of one breast to sweep across them both without touching her sensitive tips—“so naturally shameless and confident in so many other ways.”

  She blushed. “A woman’s right to be contrary, Josiah.”

  “Amen.”

  He stepped closer and pressed his lips to her forehead, just skimming the surface before trailing a string of kisses over her face, landing briefly on her cheeks, eyelids, brows, and even the tip of her nose. He followed every touch of his lips with the light brush of his fingertips, memorizing her features with his hands. Josiah finally kissed her mouth, reconnecting with her soul and reminding himself what it meant to be alive. He measured the column of her throat with the span of his fingers and dropped down to lift her breasts, cupping and holding them in his palms until they tightened and hardened in his gentle grip.

  He glanced down to note how her nipples had thickened and darkened in response, and he bent over to suckle each one
briefly, before gently pushing her down onto the mattress.

  Eleanor stretched out on the bedding, her gaze never lowering from his or shying away from his body as he took inventory of the bounty she willingly offered him.

  With an artist’s eyes and hands, he worshipped all of her. The small of her back, the dimples above her buttocks, the curve of her belly, the slope of her ribs, the shape and width of her hips were all given equal attention. There was nothing of his Eleanor that he wished to overlook. She writhed beneath him and he kissed the underside of her breasts, his tongue following the crease there, while his hands fanned out down her rib cage but didn’t yet move below her belly.

  Josiah knew if he touched the silky wet folds of her sex, he would forfeit his vow to move slowly and savor her return.

  Instead, he lifted her hand and kissed each fingertip and then the palm, her wrist, lingering to inhale the scent there and lick her pulse. Then playfully kissed the inside of her elbow and up to her shoulder, until she laughed at the indulgence of it.

  “It’s far too one-sided, Mr. Hastings. All this lovely attention,” she protested softly.

  He shook his head. “How is it that I always know I am in for trouble when you speak of fairness, Miss Beckett?”

  “Stop complaining and lie back,” she commanded him.

  Before he could stop her, she’d shifted away from him and was now the one to press him back onto the pillows. “Quid pro quo, sir.”

  She explored his body with the same tortuously dreamy pace that he’d applied to her, and Josiah had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from protesting. The minx began with his ears and then worked her way down, exploring his body and tasting the landscape of his flesh at her every whim and will.

  What began as playful revenge turned into something else as Eleanor forgot the game as she admired all the masculine contours of him. She teased his nipples and suckled him, thrilled to note that the effect was very similar, then shifted downward to use her teeth and her tongue on the hard, firm flesh of his stomach. She straddled one of his thighs as she happily labored, then sat up to admire the lean lines of his legs and the rough texture of the dusting of hair on them.