Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (43 page)

‘I don't think so.'

‘Then you're unusual. You haven't asked the question most models ask the minute they walk in the door.'

‘And what is that?'

‘Payment, Miss Ashe,' he drawled. ‘Most models are interested in how much they will be paid. Since you're experiencing such—how did you put it?—hard times, I expected payment to be of the utmost importance to you.'

Beneath her layers of petticoats she gave herself a kick. ‘Oh.'

‘Perhaps it is your preference for social niceties preventing you making mention of the sordid topic of coin? Will a shilling each session be satisfactory?'

‘Is that the customary rate?' she asked boldly.

His mouth curved. ‘I'm not trying to cheat you.'

‘Then that will be perfectly satisfactory.'

‘You're most trusting, Miss Ashe.'

She dragged her attention away from him and his sardonic expression. ‘I do have a question. The painting's subject—what is it?'

‘That's a question I can't fully answer now. I can only tell you it's based on a poem by Alfred Tennyson. You know the poet's work, perhaps.'

‘Mrs Cotton was fond of his work, as our dear Queen Victoria is,' she replied, as her mind went immediately to the fine leather-bound volume of the poet's work she kept on her bedside table. She had read the poems over and over again, revelling in the romance and passion, wishing she could make her paintings speak in such a way.

‘Many painters today are drawing on Tennyson's work for inspiration. I must warn you, the painting may not be what you expect.' He allowed a silence to fall between them for a moment. ‘How can I put this in a way to suit your delicate sensibilities...?'

Her skin rippled as his all-encompassing artist's stare lingered over her. ‘Let me just say the painting will be somewhat—revealing.'

‘I'm not sure what you mean, Mr Cole.'

‘The painting will not be like your cameo. That is a profile of a woman's face. But my painting will not merely be of your face. What I have in mind will require I make a study of...your form.' Once again his gaze wandered over her.

‘I see.' Her stomach gave another of those mysterious lurches. ‘To what extent will my...form...be displayed?'

‘You need have no fear.' A smile flickered at the corners of his strong mouth. ‘I will produce a work acceptable to common standards of decency and at this stage it's a private project. In the painting, you will appear in a simple white gown. But in order to paint you as I wish, you may need to show parts of yourself which ordinarily you do not. But even among artists, I can assure you, there are proprieties we observe.'

‘I'm no prude, Mr Cole.' She gulped. ‘I will model to your requirements, assuming all the necessary proprieties are observed.'

‘Of course. I wouldn't consider proceeding otherwise. Then we are agreed. Can you come tomorrow?'

‘Yes.' Somehow, she'd find a way.

‘Come in the morning at nine o'clock. The sun will be at the right angle.' He stood, ending the interview.

‘Thank you for calling,' he added, with a somewhat teasing politeness.

Cameo got to her feet and replied coldly, ‘Thank you very much, Mr Cole. I will see you tomorrow.'

‘Miss Ashe. I think you've forgotten something.' His voice halted her as she picked up her coat and bonnet. ‘Your hair.'

Why, she'd been sitting there the whole time in the company of a strange man with her hair down! Frantically she found the hairpins she'd dropped on to the chaise longue and began to pin up her heavy mass of hair. How could she restore it to her previous style, without the help of her mama's maid? After a few attempts, she gave up. With a few hairpins, she coiled it into a spiral at the back of her head and pinned it in place. He made no comment, but she knew Benedict Cole missed nothing of her clumsy work.

She seized her bonnet and coat. ‘Well, goodbye.'

He gave a mocking bow. ‘Until tomorrow, Miss Ashe.'

Chapter Three

‘The full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd
Her violet eyes.'

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener's Daughter'

T
he studio door slammed and a gust of wind blew through the window. Crossing the room, Benedict heaved down the sash. Miss Cameo Ashe had not yet appeared on the street. She'd still be going down the stairs with that quick light step he'd noticed, in her fine kid boots.

Her boots had exposed her. She'd been dressed in that alluringly simple grey dress, which had all the marks of simplicity that only came from quality, carved ivory buttons all the way down the front, a pristine lace collar and cuffs. Her figure was slender, willowy, her tiny waist emphasised by her corset, yet not in the over-exaggerated way he hated, for she was perfectly proportioned. Nestled at the tender point of her throat above her collar was her cameo necklace tied with a black-velvet ribbon, a large stone, black and white, the carving in relief exquisite. But her elegant, obviously expensive boots were the biggest clue. And her ankles, which he'd been unable to ignore as she sat on the armchair, were equally elegant, with the delicate lines of a purebred filly.

She was no orphan girl turned out on the street. Certainly there was a strength to her he'd noticed immediately, a determination that suggested an ability to survive, but there was also a vulnerability he found himself unable to define.

The story she had told him. His mouth lifted at the corners. It had so many holes, that story, yet she struggled on, trying to convince him she was a girl who had no choice but to be an artist's model. How did she expect him to believe her when her voice held no hint of the streets? True, she explained that by saying she'd been taken in by a genteel lady, but it hadn't added up.

At his easel he idly picked up a paintbrush, running it through his fingers. Explanations played in his mind. Nothing she told him made sense. Yet she intrigued him, captivated him. He hadn't been able to believe it when she had lifted off her bonnet and eased the pins from her long black hair. As each silken strand was liberated, his heart had drummed faster and faster.

He'd found her. He'd begun to think it wasn't possible, that he might never discover a model for the painting of his dreams. Yet there she was, standing in front of him, slender yet strong. And her eyes. Shaded beneath her bonnet, they had looked grey or blue outside the door when he had first met her. In the light of the studio he'd discerned they were the rare shade of purple he had searched for.

He'd already painted the background of the portrait in painstaking detail. It had been frustrating beyond belief to have an empty space at the centre of the canvas, waiting for the model to appear in order to complete the work.

His grasp tightened on the paintbrush as he visualised her. It would be all too easy to respond to her as a man rather than a painter. Not only did the quickening of his body tell him of his instant attraction to her physically, but also the curious vulnerability he saw in her eyes had touched him. She was no hardened model.

He laid down the brush and ran his fingers though his hair. ‘Trouble,' he said aloud. ‘That's what you are, Miss Ashe. Trouble.'

A knock came at the door. Was she back again to elaborate on her story? He hoped she wasn't planning to cancel the arrangement. With a frown, he realised just how much he didn't want that.

It wasn't his mysterious new model standing there.

A familiar husky female voice greeted him. ‘Hello.'

‘Maisie. You'd better come in.'

She entered the studio with the sensual walk that so enticed her many admirers. It was a shame such a movement evaded capture on canvas, he often thought, though its sensuality had long ceased to tempt him. The appeal of Cameo Ashe's awkward self-consciousness, on the other hand...

Loosening the thick cream-coloured shawl she wore, Maisie dropped it lazily on the chair by the fire to reveal her blue dress, cut low at her full breasts. Her thick, corn-coloured hair curled. He'd painted her as Demeter, the Greek goddess of the grain, with her arms full of wheat. The ripe epitome of plenty was young Maisie. But as an artist he knew hers were the type of looks that faded quickly.

Miss Ashe's face flashed into his mind. Hers was a beauty that would stay the years, for it was in her bones and in her bearing. Puzzlement hit him again. Just who was she? And what had led her to him?

‘I came as soon as I heard you'd been looking for someone for your new work,' Maisie said. ‘Why didn't you come straight to me? Didn't you want me to model for you?' Her arms looped around his neck, giving him a full view of her luscious flesh. ‘No one else is as good as me.'

He unlooped her clinging arms. ‘You're not right for this painting, Maisie.'

She pouted. ‘I want to come back.'

With a smile she traced a teasing line from his chest down towards his trousers.

‘You walked out on me, remember?' Benedict reminded her. More accurately, her affections had wandered, he recalled drily as he removed her hand, to another man who'd shown her more attention. Clearly that hadn't worked out.

Maisie moved her shoulders with a flounce. ‘Only because you're always painting, painting, painting. It drove me mad. I wanted you to take me out once in a while.'

‘Painting isn't just what I do.' He'd tried to explain it to her many times before. ‘It's who I am. I paint the way I breathe.'

‘But it's so boring sitting here all day!'

‘Well, you've been spared that. I've found the model for my next work.'

From the flare of jealousy in her eyes he judged she didn't like that news. ‘Who is she? Annie? Jenny?'

‘It isn't anyone you know. It's someone quite new.'

Maisie thrust out her chest like an indignant chicken. ‘Why's she muscling in on our patch?'

That was indeed the question, Benedict brooded. Just why did Miss Ashe want to be his model?

‘Never mind.' He picked up Maisie's shawl and gave it to her. ‘I have to work.'

‘What a surprise,' she snapped crossly.

At the door she turned and let the shawl fall away from the front of her dress. ‘You know where to find me, Benedict.'

The door closed behind her and Benedict let out a sigh of relief.

Models. He'd not let himself fall into a relationship with one again. When an artist painted a woman posed before him, he created an idealised version of her and, sometimes, that ideal enticed him into bed. But he wouldn't be tricked that way again. He needed to concentrate, stay focused. He smiled inwardly. It was easier to paint without live models, but he was no landscape artist. Views weren't enough for him.

Yet Miss Cameo Ashe, with her mysterious mix of spirit and beauty, stayed in his mind. He picked up his pencil and began to draw.

* * *

Cameo lit another candle. The flame flickered, sending shadows dancing on the walls of her blue-and-white bedroom, newly papered in a flowered print, for her mama liked to keep up with the times. Just recently she had installed a water closet down the hall, exactly the same as Queen Victoria's.

It was the window seat in her bedroom Cameo loved most. The blue chintz curtains were open tonight, letting in the cool air. Through the windowpane a full moon outshone the fog, silvering the dark grey trunk and slender boughs of the ash tree outside. Sometimes, she heard the call of a nightingale in the square as she sketched through the night. Trying again and again, always aiming to improve. Attempting to make her hand recreate what was in her mind, in her heart. It was so hard, working alone. There was no one to share it all with, the triumphs and the failures. No one who understood that hidden, passionate part of her. No one who sensed the heat of her flame. Now, at last, even though it was a secret, she had a chance. To watch and to learn from a real artist.

From Benedict Cole.

She clasped her pencil. As his model she would spend hours in his studio, watching him as he worked like the apprentices of old and yet he had no idea of her true identity. There was so much she'd be able to learn, incognito.

So you're at my mercy.

The sense of danger returned as his words reverberated in her brain. He suspected her, but she had to take the risk.

Taking up a fresh sheet of paper, she stretched. She'd sketched for hours perched on the gilt chair in front of her dressing table with her blue-and-white china jug and basin, silver hairbrushes and bottles of scent pushed impatiently aside.

A muffled voice came from outside the door. ‘Cameo? Are you still awake?'

‘Come in.'

‘What are you doing up?' George entered in his black-tailed dinner jacket, his bow tie loosened. ‘I saw your candle. You ought to have been asleep hours ago.'

‘So should you. Where have you been? At your club, I suppose?'

‘Got it in one.' With a yawn he stretched his legs out on the window seat and propped a chintz cushion behind his brown hair. ‘What a night. I've been playing cards. I say, I ran into Warley. He's coming to the ball. Frightfully keen on you, isn't he?'

Cameo grimaced. ‘Unfortunately.'

‘He lost a lot of money tonight, I believe.' George craned his neck to look at her. ‘And what have you been doing? Painting?'

With her pencil she pointed to the pile of discarded paper. ‘Just drawing, trying to improve.'

He shook his head. ‘You're a strange sister for a fellow to have, Cameo, with all this fuss about art. Why can't you just be interested in gloves and bonnets like a girl ought to be?'

‘Like someone we both know, is that it?'

To her astonishment George coloured bright red. ‘Actually, there's something I wanted to tell you.' He grabbed another cushion and tossed it in the air, catching it neatly. ‘The thing is, I've decided to ask Maud Cartwright to marry me.'

‘Finally!' Cameo wanted to leap up and hug her brother, but they never did such a thing in their family. ‘I thought you'd never ask her.'

‘Well, it takes me a while to come to a decision, but once I've made it I stick to it. That's my way.'

‘Have you decided when?'

‘I thought I'd pop the question quite soon if I can get my courage up. Maybe at the ball.' He tossed the cushion up again but she wasn't fooled by his nonchalance. ‘Not sure she'll have me.'

‘How could you possibly think Maud doesn't want to marry you?'

‘I haven't been entirely sure.' He flushed redder and added, ‘Whether it's more than friendship. We've all known each other so long.'

‘Since we were children and used to play in the square together.'

George grinned. ‘You were constantly in trouble for climbing trees.'

‘Nanny always shouted at me about the dirt and grass stains. You scaled trees as well, George, and you never got into trouble for it but Maud never wanted to climb. She always looked perfect in her pinafore and curls. Do you remember how she clapped when you got up on to the top branches?' Cameo laughed softly. ‘Maud always loved you, I think. Oh, I'll be so happy to have her as a sister.'

‘I expect it's mutual.'

‘Everyone will be delighted.' She mimicked their father's gruff tone: ‘“You've made an excellent choice for your future wife, George.”'

They both laughed.

‘I'm so pleased for you,' she said simply.

‘I'm rather pleased myself.' He stood and tousled her hair on his way out the door.

How lucky George and Maud were to have each other, Cameo thought, as she stared out the window.

Benedict Cole's mocking expression flashed into her mind.
Until tomorrow, Miss Ashe
.

There was no doubt he suspected her. Her temper red-hot, she'd grasped the opportunity to learn from him, but there was a deeper part of her that disliked being forced to deceive him, the same way she was deceiving her parents. It troubled her even though she didn't want to admit it.

With a sigh she blew out the candle. Somehow, she had to keep his suspicions and her own doubts at bay. She wanted—no, she needed—to learn to paint.

Yet as she lay in bed, the sudden recollection of the artist's sardonic gaze gave her stomach a sharp twist.

Cameo had to wonder if she would learn more than she'd bargained for from Benedict Cole.