Keeping Faith

by Beverley Oakley

  Crispin wasn’t sure what he wanted. He didn’t want to paint her dead, and he certainly didn’t want her standing in front of him now leaving so little to the imagination. Because the bath was elevated a foot or so off the ground, he found himself almost eye level with her breasts. And, of course, the effect of the cold was to highlight her nipples through the thin fabric.

  Crispin didn’t know where to look. Lady Vernon appeared to be occupied with arranging her bustle into the correct folds as she stood while Miss Montague was smiling happily at Crispin, taking the hand he offered her and leaning heavily on him to avoid slipping as she stepped over the side.

  “You were perfect, Miss Montague,” he managed, desperately conscious of the brief contact when one soft breast was slightly indented by his hand in the final movement.

  Still, she did not seem to notice, chattering happily, though with chattering teeth, as the maid draped her in a towel and began to squeeze out the water from her skirts over the bath.

  “The perfect drowned damsel, and now I no doubt resemble a water rat.” She took a hank of her glorious hair and twisted it over her shoulder.

  “You must sit in front of the fire and get yourself thoroughly dry.” Lady Vernon managed to make a no doubt well-intentioned suggestion sound like a threat.

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” said the young girl heading towards the door before she was halted by her chaperone’s voice, “You’ll dry your hair in your bedchamber and not disturb Mr Westaway with your foolish talk when now is the time for him to relax after his hard work.”

  Crispin hadn’t realised he’d even said the words that encouraged them to join him in his drawing room before Lady Vernon was accepting and Miss Montague was clapping her hands and saying, “I’ve been dying to ask Mr Westaway his thoughts on Alsace-Lorraine. You will indulge me, won’t you, Mr Westaway?”

  What could he do except nod, even though Crispin knew that it was dangerous to exchange political views with anyone, and especially not a wide-eyed ingénue whom he’d now seen, firsthand, combined the most desirable curves with a mind like a whip and a face like an angel.

  The crackling fire provided very welcome and much-needed warmth, for the cold had seeped through Faith’s bones. Lady Vernon’s command had come in the nick of time, and now, to Faith’s delight, Lady Vernon was rubbing her eyes and declaring she could not remain a moment longer in the heated drawing room without falling fast asleep.

  “I should stay, of course, Faith, but your hair is not yet dry. Promise me you’ll be up in the next five minutes.”

  Faith flashed a look at Mr Westaway and saw he looked uncertain in the wake of Lady Vernon’s departure. Quickly, she said as the door closed behind the old lady, “I wonder if you wouldn’t be so kind as to take over the brushing from Lady Vernon, otherwise my hair will be the most unmanageable tangle.” She handed him the brush to detain him when she was certain he was about to excuse himself. “I’m sure you must be used to such requests from female cousins.”

  Mr Westaway shook his head but had no choice but to take the brush she thrust into his hand. Obediently, he followed her to the chair vacated by Lady Vernon while Faith dropped down upon the footstool. “Lady Vernon doesn’t like me,” she confided on a sigh. “I fear that I am a sore trial to bear, and that she enjoyed wielding the brush like a prison warder. I trust you’ll be gentler with me, Mr Westaway.”

  Faith had to force herself not to smile when she felt, rather than saw, the effect her words had on him. So, she did wield some power, after all. She was just congratulating herself on making if only marginal success when, without pausing in his steady, thorough, yet decidedly gentle brushing, he said in a low, deliberate tone, “Lady Vernon should be more vigilant in keeping watch over you. It would not do for word to get out that she’d been lax.”

  And, of course, that could mean only one thing—that he was keeping his distance from Faith and any possibility of entanglement as much as possible.

  She twisted her head. “We’ve already discussed this, Mr Westaway. Of course you don’t want to find yourself compromised with someone like me; I completely understand. And even if, despite the greatest care taken, it was suggested I was compromised, and it won’t happen, I assure you, I would act with honour; you must know that.”

  “Those words sound so wrong coming from your pretty mouth.” His tone was downcast. “Indeed, you do speak plainly.” He spoke so softly she could barely hear.

  “It was the only way in my household,” Faith told him, trying to sound more cheerful. As if this wasn’t the weighty conversation it was. “With so many of us, it was difficult to get our way at the best of times. So, I’ve grown accustomed to being grateful for whatever I can have.”

  “And what is it you want, Faith?”

  She was surprised he asked the question but answered it with an admirable show of equanimity, adopting a more serious tone but, she hoped, with enough levity not to frighten him. “I want to be respectably married, have a husband who appreciates me and is kind to me, and I want children. I want what every woman wants. Surely you know it’s the desire of each and every debutante in London with whom I’m competing.”

  He’d taken on the role of hair brusher with care and gentleness but he laughed, tugging a hank of hair which made her wince. Immediately he was full of apology, but Faith waved her hand in the air before resting it seemingly arbitrarily on…his hand.

  She kept it there, saying, “I’ve borne a great deal worse pain than this. Please continue with the brushing, Mr Westaway. It’s not often I get to enjoy such a gentle touch. Perhaps that’s why I’m so competitive. Not very attractive in a woman which is why I try to keep quiet in company. Gentlemen much prefer a young woman to have no opinions.”

  She turned at the silence and the fact he’d stopped brushing and faced him. He looked nonplussed.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you with my revelations regarding my true character, Mr Westaway. I’m sure you’d have far preferred to uphold an image of me as mild-natured and demure. That’s how Lady Vernon told me to behave when I first came to London. But as I’ve got to know you more, I can’t hide my true nature. I’m so far from the perfect, demure debutante Lady Vernon thought she was going to be chaperoning about London.”

  “But your beauty makes up for that.” He shook his head as if he’d not believed he’d said it. “I’m very sorry I said that. The sentiment was unseemly on both counts.”

  Faith swallowed. She was feeling her way in the dark, so to speak. Yes, part of her tutoring was to exchange banter with a range of gentlemen, and she’d enjoyed it. But one false step and she could lose everything for which she’d worked so hard.

  She pushed to the back of her mind any thought that she might actually be wanting this for reasons to do with her own heart rather than as a means to an end. Faith had never had the luxury to think of anything other than survival. And her survival depended upon twisting this man around her little finger. Making him fall in love with her.

  The way he was looking at her bolstered her confidence that she could do this.

  “You think you shouldn’t say I’m beautiful because it’ll turn my head?” she asked softly. “Or you think that an independent mind should be irrelevant in the face of beauty.” Faith shifted a little on her footstool but held herself back from contact. His lithe, strong body was within easy touching. She could have put her hand on his knee or risen slowly and cupped his face. How would he have reacted? Would he have sunk into a kiss…only to berate himself afterwards? Yes, she sensed a steeliness in him that would enable him to put reason above his emotions.

  But what if she couched it as a business proposition? A ladylike proposition?

  She cleared her throat and lowered her eyes, keeping herself firmly glued to the footstool.

  “Mr Westaway…”

  She wasn’t sure if her approach was damning any chances she had, but she’d decided the logical path was best.

  “Yes, Miss Montague.
” It looked like he’d managed, with an effort, to regain his composure, and that he was grateful to her for reining him back in, for there was a warmth in his expression that was far more friendly than incendiary.

  “You know how I hope this painting is going to help win me suitors? I mean, I’ve made no secret of that, and it’s ridiculous for any other debutante to pretend otherwise.”

  “Yes, we both have high hopes for this painting. Though I don’t know what I shall say if I do win and it comes to my father’s ears.”

  “You’ll be in Germany doing just as he wishes. And you’ll have the accolades you desire. It’s the perfect outcome.” She sighed deeply. “As for me, I could be married in six weeks and, right at this very moment, not even know my husband—the man I’ll spend the rest of my life with. Isn’t that strange to think?”

  “Very strange.” He looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Mr Westaway, I want you to kiss me. You see, I’ve never been kissed before, and I’m very curious and would like to have just a little practise for when I meet the man I will marry.” She smiled at him. “A single kiss is all right, isn’t it? I mean, it doesn’t mean my reputation or yours is besmirched. I’ve read plenty of romances where it’s quite normal for a man and a woman to kiss and nothing terribly awful happens afterwards.”

  She sat with her hands clasped in her lap and looked at him enquiringly.

  He looked back at her and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Montague. That’s not how a kiss is conducted. And regardless of how it is or isn’t conducted, I couldn’t possibly kiss you.”

  She nodded, as if conceding a practical matter. “I understand. In the novels I’ve read there has to be a strong feeling happening here.” She touched her heart. “I just thought that it would be interesting to experiment so I could see how my heart felt when you kissed me, which of course you’re not going to do now. I thought it would be nice to have some level of comparison for when I’m kissed by a real suitor with whom I’d consider spending the rest of my life.” She rolled her shoulders and turned away, offering him the back of her head, and within a few seconds was relieved to feel the steady tug of the hairbrush over her hair. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you, Mr Westaway.”

  “Not at all. It’s good to be able to speak frankly to one another. I like a young woman who doesn’t resort to artifice and veiled lies to get what she wants.”

  A chill of foreboding rattled inside her and Mr Westaway asked with genuine concern, “Are you cold?”

  “No, but I should go to bed soon, I think.” She stretched her arms, yawning as she stood up. “Thank you for today.” She smiled at him as he rose. “I can’t tell you how much more enjoyable it is to be here and part of your artistic world; also talking to you about interesting topics than the usual deadly dull kind of day I generally endure.”

  “Miss Montague—”

  She looked over her shoulder as she made for the door.

  “Just one kiss. A quick one. So, you know what it feels like.” He spoke rapidly. “And nothing other than that.”

  “All right. Just tell me what to do.”

  “You just kiss me. That’s all.”

  “And then it’s done.” She sighed, satisfied. Or at least sounding satisfied with the way it was presented as she returned to stand in front of him, twining her arms about his neck.

  It was not the first time Faith had kissed a man. Her education had required this as a minimal point of contact and, thank God, she’d never found herself in the position of having to do more, as did all the other girls at Madame Chambon’s. In fact, it was only when she had kissed men for whom she felt absolutely nothing did she realise how impossible it would be to have to give them her body too.

  So, she twined her arms about his neck, tipped her head, and waited to feel nothing but the physical sensation of pressure applied upon her lips. A physical sensation with which she was reasonably familiar.

  Crispin stood and prepared himself. He was doing her a favour. Lord, he was doing them both a favour by getting it over and done with, clearing the air, so to speak. It was reasonable that a curious mind and plain speaking would deem this no more than it would be. And Crispin had only gone along with the idea because he was confident she knew their respective positions. He liked to think he’d forged a friendship with the young woman. Friendship between the sexes was entirely possible, he already knew that. He had women friends who enjoyed probing him on matters political, and he gained great pleasure from their company.

  Just as he did from Miss Montague’s. Certainly, she was younger and prettier than his other friends but, by presenting herself as just as intelligent, and acute with respect to his need for no form of entanglement, he felt safe.

  Yes, safe, was his last thought as he lowered his head and put his arms gently about her to seal the kiss. A chaste, brief kiss with a sweet but definite ending would be a fine way to show her his true feelings. He could imbue it with respect, the merest sensory illusion that there could be more, and as he withdrew with just the right expression, he’d leave her under no illusions that he was in any way affected by their connection.

  Yet, as she moved closer, standing on tiptoe to twine her arms about his neck, he was taken aback by the rush of sensation that speared his body. Her mouth was still several inches away; her eyes were closed, and there was a smile of innocent expectation that was heartbreakingly endearing.

  He felt trapped. It would be wrong to leave her with the sensation that a kiss couldn’t be more. She was embarking on a big journey for an innocent debutante. She had no idea what to expect. Surely, he owed it to her to show her just what a real kiss could be like?

  It was his last moment of rational thought before another rush of sensation speared his groin, pounded in his head, and turned his vision into a multifaceted plethora of pumping, pulsing need that sent him reeling as her mouth fused with his and her arms about him tightened.

  His world closed about him. He’d not expected to be so affected. He’d not expected to feel such connection. He’d not expected to feel anything beyond the casual enjoyment he’d experienced with so many past kisses.

  Yet he was conscious of every nuanced chance as this one progressed from what was supposed to be fleeting—the softness of her lips pressed against his, tentative, then growing bolder, sending tendrils of fire right through his body. Her breasts pushing against his chest as she leaned into him. Enjoying herself. Throwing herself into this as if it were the greatest enjoyment to be savoured, losing herself just as he was losing himself.

  He’d thought himself in love in the past. There had been moments of grand passion. Or so he’d thought. And yet…he couldn’t remember them. His mind was cast into the void, for only the present existed. Only the here and now as he was swept into a maelstrom of intense, physically satisfying, and yet totally unsatisfied, desire.

  And it was as this desire roared into the stratosphere, nearly out of control, that a single cognisant kernel of self-preservation brought him rapidly back to earth. His hand, unconsciously, had slid downward to cup her breast, and she seemed to be pressing against him, searching for satisfaction beyond what was being offered.

  He registered the need to extricate it, yet it was squeezed fast, against the thin fabric between his chest and her heaving bosom. But as he removed it and his hand touched her heated skin, it took every ounce of willpower not to insinuate it beneath her bodice. With her encouragement.

  Dear lord, she was losing control just as he was, and unless he brought this to an end, they’d both be engulfed by the fiery flames of hell.

  Unless he took charge, Miss Montague was going to keep kissing him, and he wanted her to want it. Wanted her to continue.

  And that could prove fatal.

  Panting, breathless, they broke apart.

  He tried to maintain his composure, tried to be the bigger man, bigger than he was, by pretending it hadn’t affected him as much as it had. Running one hand through his hair, he blinked and offe
red her what he hoped wasn’t a totally sappish smile as he murmured, “My apologies, Miss Montague, if that wasn’t what you were expecting.” What else could he have said? The kiss certainly hadn’t been what he’d been expecting. He could barely stand. His body was straining, still, to take this further, but she was as out of bounds as she’d ever be.

  Miss Montague, he noticed, looked a little dazed. She wandered to the fireplace and put a supporting hand upon the mantelpiece. He’d thought she might look at him, dewy-eyed with affection, but she looked troubled as she raked her fingers through her own damp hair and said, “Oh, please don’t apologise for you were very kind to indulge me. I’m sure it was…so much more than I was expecting, Mr Westaway.”

  Faith managed to make her way back to her bedchamber. As she lowered herself onto her bed, she wasn’t sure how she’d got there, her mind was in such disarray. That kiss. No, it wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting. The consequences were nothing like she’d intended. The kiss had been supposed to shore up her power, but with her knees still trembling, she felt entirely powerless.

  A knock on the door was followed by the beady-eyed scrutiny of Lady Vernon, who lowered herself into a chair by the window and said, “I hope you used the time I allowed you wisely, my girl. He likes you, admires you, but you’ll get nowhere with just that. Did you get him to kiss you?”

  Faith objected to the question with an inner ball of such impotent fury she thought she might explode under the need to keep her response muted.

  “That’s between Mr Westaway and myself.” She rose from the bed and went to sit at her dressing table where she began to plait her hair. “I am aware of what I must do. Please do me the courtesy of allowing me the freedom to do it at my own pace and using my own intuition.”

  Lady Vernon moved to stand behind her and began to undo the buttons on the back of her dress. “Please do me the courtesy of remembering your manners, and your gratitude. It was thanks to me you were given any opportunity to achieve anything at all, young lady.”