Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (47 page)

Damnation.
He tore off his shirt and thrust his hands into the basin of water, splashing it against his face. He would resist her. Foundling, seamstress or governess, he had to subdue his curiosity, his need to know more. When she came for the next session he'd continue to paint her, but that was all.

Time to get to work. It would be another long night.

Chapter Seven

‘Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete
Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew.'

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

C
ameo turned the corner. Above her head the sign for the Lamb public house creaked as it swung in the breeze. The street was becoming so familiar to her: the crowds of people buying and selling their wares, the carriages and carts, the busy butcher's shop, the bakery with the smell of warm fresh bread wafting from inside.

Becky, the match girl, sat on the cobbles with her wares laid out beside her.

‘Good morning.'

‘Morning, miss.'

‘Do you have any brothers and sisters, Becky?' Cameo asked as she passed her a pocketful of coins.

‘Five, miss. And one more on the way.'

‘Five! You can share these with them.' In a paper bag she handed over the buns she'd bought at the bakery. The girl looked thinner than ever. No wonder, with so many siblings.

‘Thank you, miss.'

‘See you tomorrow, Becky.'

Cameo sighed as she climbed the stairs with their shabby green runner up to the studio. How many more times would she come here to Soho and to Benedict Cole? She didn't dare ask him for how many more sessions she might be required, in case he told her he didn't need her. Her stomach sank at the thought. She would miss it more than she ever dreamed possible. It seemed as if she belonged here now, but that was fanciful.

For the past two weeks, every morning except Sunday, she had faithfully appeared in the studio. So far, no one at home had discovered her deception, but she couldn't keep it up for much longer. Her mama had begun asking why she needed riding lessons instead of receiving callers. All too often the caller was Lord Warley. Since Lady Russell's ball, he'd begun sending flowers and notes, too, that she dropped instantly in the wastepaper basket.

She forced her worries from her mind. To her surprise on the attic landing, at the top of the stairs, the door was ajar. She pushed it open.

‘Mr Cole?' Her voice echoed in the empty studio. Perplexed, she frowned. Where was he? She'd come at the usual time. Slipping off her bonnet and gloves, Cameo sat down next to the table by the fire. It was still smouldering in the grate. He hadn't been gone long.

The studio was as untidy as ever. Paints and papers were everywhere; on the easel the canvas was shrouded in a sheet. With ease she conjured an image of him standing in front of the easel, how he looked when he painted; his jaw like granite as he concentrated, his hair wild, his movements fierce. Her heart skipped a beat.

Unthinking, she reached for a sheet of paper lying on the table. A piece of charcoal—she took that, too, and began to sketch furiously, trying to capture the image of him in her mind, the way he looked when he worked. Soon there was only the sound of the clock ticking on the chimney piece as her hands tore across the paper, using the same strong strokes she watched him make when he sketched her.

How much she had learnt by observing him. She had never drawn in such a way before. At home in her bedroom, or in the drawing room in front of her easel, she'd been so tentative. Now it was as if all the emotion inside her had been released to live and breathe in her art.

‘Miss Ashe.'

The charcoal clattered on to the table.

Benedict stood beside her, unloosing a red scarf from his neck. It ruffled his hair. ‘I'm sorry I wasn't here. I worked all night. I had to get some supplies.'

He crouched to check the fire. As he straightened his glance fell to the sketch on the table. She tried to cover it, but he was too quick for her.

‘What's this?'

A trickle of perspiration formed at the base of her spine as he picked it up and studied it. She was merely an amateur. What would he, a professional artist, think of her work?

‘Who taught you? Who taught you to draw?'

‘You did.'

In amazement he threw back his head. ‘I did?'

‘Yes. I've done some sketching before, but I've learnt so much more from watching you.'

His brooding expression held hers for a long moment and then dropped down to the sketch in front of him.

‘But you're good. You're very, very good.'

He moved behind her, enclosing her body in his as he leant over her shoulder. He lay the paper down on the table and picked up the charcoal, replacing its length in her shaking fingers. ‘You're going wrong here. Let me show you.'

Cameo held her breath as he pressed closer, the charcoal in her fist within his strong grasp, drawing together as if they were one. His movements were gentler than she'd expected, slow and steady.

His closeness made her light-headed. She forced herself to concentrate on what he showed her, tuning into his smooth rhythm. Tense at first, she started to sense through his grip a powerful force, a certainty about where to place each line, each curve. She knew such sureness existed, she saw it in him, but she had never experienced it. Her fist easing in his, she curved back into his broad chest, into the security of his embrace, turning her liquid.

‘You need to be easier here.' His warm breath was on her neck. ‘You've got the perspective right, but your lines are too limited.'

In a broad sweep he lifted her arm as if it were a wing. ‘Can you feel that? Can you stretch the expanse of that?'

‘Yes.' Her breath came in choking gasps.

‘That's the sense you need to have even if the drawing is on a small scale. You need more movement, more passion.'

More passion! She dropped the charcoal as if it burnt her. If only she could tell him how the rest of her life faded to black and white, like a cameo stone, while the hours in the studio with him blazed with colour.

He came to the other side of the table, looming over her, his brow darkening. ‘Something's wrong.'

‘No! I think I've had enough of sketching, that's all.'

A fierce glance told her he wasn't fooled. He picked up the charcoal and passed it to her. ‘You must sign your sketch. It's good.'

She smiled, her mood lifting. He meant it. She hadn't been wasting her time, all the hours she'd spent trying to improve, all the times she'd argued with her parents that it was worth giving her a chance. She began to write her name. Lady Catherine Mary...

Petticoats twirling, she leapt up and seized the revealing paper. With wild fingers, she tore it across the bottom where she'd started to write her telltale signature.

‘What are you doing?'

Whirling around, she threw the paper into the blazing fire. ‘It isn't good enough!'

‘No! Don't destroy your work!' He grabbed at her, but it was too late. They watched as the paper curled and blackened, turning to ashes in front of them.

He seized her by the shoulders. ‘There was nothing wrong with that sketch. What's the matter with you?'

Her lips quivered. She couldn't explain.

His eyes went to her mouth and stayed there.

Her breathing quickened.

His head came closer.

‘Am I interrupting?'

‘Trelawney.'

Cameo spun around to see a short, round-bellied man enter the studio.

‘Indeed it is.' A pair of twinkling eyes alighted on her with interest. ‘And who is this vision of loveliness?'

‘My new model.' Benedict fell back, away from her, leaving her chest heaving. ‘This is Miss Cameo Ashe.'

Trelawney smiled and bowed. ‘How appropriate to such beauty. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Cameo.'

Cameo smiled, too. It seemed impossible not to instantly like the man, with his bald smooth head, pixie ears and pointed beard, a red-spotted cravat tied jauntily at his neck. He looked like a wicked faun.

‘I,' he said with a bow, ‘am Nicholas Trelawney, sculptor. You've heard of me, I presume?'

‘Well, no...'

‘Of course she hasn't heard of you, Trelawney. Why would she?'

The sculptor put his hand to his heart as though fending off a dagger. ‘Oh, wounded, wounded! You will hear of me one day, I am certain of it. My work will live and breathe for ever!'

‘It will live and breathe if you ever finish anything,' Benedict commented. ‘You've started and stopped more sculptures than I can count.'

Cameo supressed a smile. ‘I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Trelawney.'

‘And I you, my dear. Ignore this painter's disparagement of my work. His bark is much worse than his bite as no doubt you have discovered.' He turned to Benedict. ‘Now then, admit it. I don't imagine you've remembered. You get caught up in your painting. I've come to remind you of my soirée next Friday evening. You've forgotten, haven't you?'

Benedict spread his hands. ‘It's true.'

‘It's not healthy,' Trelawney protested. ‘Stimulating company is essential for the artist. That's why I hold my soirées. It's a service to you all.'

He turned to Cameo.

‘I hold the most marvellous soirées, you see. Everyone who's anyone in the art world attends. Help me to persuade him to come. In fact—' he glanced from one to the other ‘—why don't you come, too, Miss Cameo? I'm sure you'd enjoy it.'

Benedict broke in. ‘I'm sure it isn't Miss Ashe's kind of affair.'

‘How can it not be? Other artists' models will be there, too. She'll be among friends.'

Cameo lifted her chin. ‘Thank you. I'd love to come.'

‘Marvellous. Benedict will bring you or just come along as you like.' He gave his address.

‘Until the soirée, my dears!' With a wave of his hat, Trelawney disappeared down the stairs.

Glancing up, Cameo witnessed Benedict's scowl.

‘Is there any difficulty if I attend the soirée with you?' she asked. ‘Mr Trelawney has invited me, has he not?'

The expression in his eyes made her quake. ‘Yes. But I don't think you should come, Miss Ashe. I prefer our relationship to remain purely professional.'

‘This is professional, Mr Cole. Mr Trelawney said other artists' models will be there, along with other artists. Are you denying me the chance to meet painters who might also wish me to model for them?'

The corner of his mouth lifted. ‘You wish to ply your trade, is that it?'

‘If that's how you wish to put it.'

For a moment his challenging regard held hers. Then he shrugged, freeing her arm. ‘In that case I suppose I will have to take you,' he said, then added with a warmth in his voice she hadn't sensed since he'd kissed her. ‘There's not much I can do when you point that determined chin of yours at me. Would you like me to collect you?'

‘Oh, but I'll come in the carriage,' she replied without thinking.

A terrible silence fell. She refused to meet his eyes.

‘Your employers make the carriage available to you, do they? How unusual.' His voice remained flat.

‘Not all the time. I mean, only by day. I mean, by night. I mean, the driver is a good friend of mine. In the servants' hall,' she added wildly. ‘I can make my own travel arrangements, thank you.'

‘I see.' His expression told her he didn't see at all.

He knew she lied.

‘Shall we get back to work?' he said at last.

‘Yes, Mr Cole.' As she took up her pose, Cameo tried to ignore the way his eyes stared into her soul.

* * *

The earl clapped his son on the back. ‘You've made an excellent choice for your future wife. Well done!'

Cameo and George burst into stifled laughter.

‘Why are you and George so amused?' Maud asked them plaintively.

Cameo hugged her. ‘Don't mind us. We knew what Papa would say. Everyone is so pleased. Tell me, are you happy?'

Maud, in a rose-sprigged dress, gave a radiant smile. ‘How can you ask? I can't believe it. Of course I'm happy. I always dreamed I'd marry George one day.' She threw a proud glance in his direction, not dissimilar to the looks she used to bestow on him when he climbed to the top of trees, as George received congratulations from the earl and from Mr Cartwright, his future father-in-law. ‘And we're really to be sisters!'

‘I couldn't have hoped for a nicer one.'

‘You'll be my chief bridesmaid, won't you?'

‘Of course I will. I'll be delighted. When is the wedding to be?'

‘I'm not sure yet. That's for Mama to decide. I think perhaps next June. She's already fussing about arrangements.'

Maud's mother, Mrs Cartwright, sat beside Lady Buxton on the leather chesterfield sofa, their heads bent together. Both were clearly delighted by the match between their children.

Who would not be pleased for George and Maud? Cameo sighed. Their love for each other lit up their eyes and brought an even rosier pink than usual to Maud's cheeks.

Benedict Cole's image appeared in Cameo's head. Just for a moment she pictured him standing beside her in the drawing room among them. In spite of his bohemian lifestyle he wouldn't appear out of place with his height and broad shoulders, his dark good looks and an innate gentlemanliness.

How she wished there was no deception between them.

Briggs popped a cork on a champagne bottle and brought the silver platter around, offering them each a delicate, rounded glass.

‘May I offer my best wishes to you, Miss Cartwright,' he said with a bow. ‘We're all delighted below stairs.'

Once again Maud revealed her radiant smile. ‘Thank you, Briggs.'

Briggs gave Cameo the faintest flicker of a wink as he glided away.

‘Oh, Cameo.' Maud laid her hand on Cameo's sleeve, her huge new diamond betrothal-ring dwarfing its small size. ‘I hope you'll fall in love next. It's bliss!'

For a moment Cameo longed to confide in her about Benedict Cole. But she couldn't ask Maud to keep such information from George.

No. It must remain a secret, no matter how it tore at her.