Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (57 page)

Trembling, she touched her lips. Perhaps it was preferable not to have experienced the kind of passion he aroused, to have never known a kiss could inflame her, or a touch could bring her body to the point of ecstasy. Better, perhaps, if she had only known her world and not entered his, the world in which he belonged and for which she longed. To not know what she missed out on and what she would now miss for ever. If she hadn't been awakened by his hands, she would never have to spend the rest of her life in a kind of sleep, for life without Benedict Cole would be death.

She clutched at her hair, the awful moments at the studio replaying over and over in her brain. How maddened he'd been. The cruel words he said to her, the harsh way he looked at her, the ruthless way his lips bruised her own, his rough tearing at her clothes—she juddered with emotion, remembering. And she'd been angry, too, furious he wouldn't listen to her, all the while desiring him to go on making love to her, until together their fury was spent.

At the ewer and basin, she poured cold water and splashed it on to her tender skin, her sore eyes, her swollen lips. She caught sight of herself in the looking glass on her dressing table.

Something was missing from her neck. A kind of dread overcame her as she put a shaking hand to the hollow of her throat.

Her talisman, her lucky charm: her cameo necklace. Like Benedict Cole, like the days and nights with him at the studio, like the flash of his smile, like the touch of his paintbrush...it was gone.

Chapter Eighteen

‘In that still place she, hoarded in herself,
Grew, seldom seen.'

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

‘C
ameo? I've brought you these.'

George furtively closed her bedroom door. As if he were a conjurer he produced from his pockets some paintbrushes, watercolour paints and a small roll of sketch paper.

‘Thank you, George. That's sweet of you.'

He threw her an anxious glance as he sat beside her on the window seat. ‘Painting means so much to you. I'm sorry about last night. I didn't know you'd be locked in your room.'

‘Papa says I must stay here if I won't marry Lord Warley.' Her parents had discussed her case with their doctor who had advised a total ‘rest cure'. Her papa had calmed down, but he remained obstinate. There was no changing his mind. He was convinced he had to protect his daughter.

‘Warley's coming this afternoon. Mama told me,' George said. ‘Can it be so terrible? Warley, I mean? Can it be so bad to marry him?'

Cameo peeked sideways at her brother. She wished she could share everything with him, but she couldn't. George was the kindest brother in the world and he'd be the gentlest, most faithful husband to Maud. Even though he'd apologised to her for siding with her parents over her portrait, she still felt unsure what his reaction might be if she confided in him further. He was more set in his ways than she'd suspected, more shocked by her behaviour than she'd anticipated.

No, she couldn't tell George her plans, the ones she made as she lay awake all night in tearful despair. By dawn, as pink and gold streaked the sky, her usual optimism and resolve had returned. She refused to stay locked in her bedroom, trapped into marriage with Lord Warley. She'd find a way out, to go to Benedict and convince him to forgive her.

How to escape? She was being guarded as if she were a prisoner. All her painting tools, her oils, her easel, her sketchbook and pencils, even the half-finished copy of the portrait of her grandmama, had been removed by poor Briggs, who appeared to be a most reluctant gaoler.

No, her family wouldn't help. Not this time. She was on her own.

George pressed her hand. ‘I hate you being locked up, old girl. Will you at least try and paint while you're stuck up here?'

‘I will.'

After he'd gone she picked up the watercolour materials he'd smuggled in. Perhaps she would paint. She had to think, plan a way out. Painting might help to focus her mind.

The paints and paper ready, she poured some water from the bedside jug into a glass. Swirling the brush in the water, she scanned the room for a subject. The vase of jasmine in front of her on the dressing table, the blue-enamel clock by the bed—no. She'd paint the ash tree outside the window.

Crossing the room, Cameo drew aside the curtains and hauled up the sash, the air fresh and cool on her face. The ash boughs stood strong and open, as though reaching out to her. Stretching out, she stroked the bark.

The ash tree. Of course!

Jutting out her head, she made closer scrutiny. Yes, she could manage it. Hadn't she spent half her childhood climbing trees in the square? She would climb down the grey boughs of the ash tree and slip away into the night. She craned her neck towards the road below. There'd be quite a jump from the tree's lowest bough, but she could do it. She'd wrap something soft around her body to try to break her fall. Perhaps she might make a rope out of her bedclothes. She'd work it out, somehow.

At the dressing table, she picked up the paintbrush and outlined the ash tree's slender branches. She'd use her painting as a guide, a kind of map to get down the trunk of the tree. Once the evening fog rolled in it was difficult to see outside. Someone might hear her if she slipped and fell. She would wait until everyone was sound asleep, for the servants would have been instructed to keep an eye on her. They wouldn't disobey her father, not when he remained in such a towering rage. Nor would she ask anyone else, ever, to lie for her.

No more lies.

Cameo wrapped her shawl more closely around her. A strange coldness had chilled her skin ever since she'd left Benedict at the studio, as though her body had been reset to a lower, numbing temperature. Would he listen even if she did manage to escape? Would he forgive her for what she'd done?

She'd beg him to listen, she vowed, as her paintbrush sped across the page and the tree began to come to life on the paper in front of her. She painted faster and faster, trying to get the proportions right, her arm sweeping across the paper in a wing as Benedict had shown her.

She must do it. She must fly to Benedict. Somehow she would escape to his arms.

* * *

There she was.

Benedict groaned. In his studio. Wherever he turned to look.

At the studio door.
I'm so sorry I'm late, Mr Cole. You're quite right. I've come to be your model.

Reading by the fire. Her dark head bowed and intent on scanning the pages.
The Stones of Venice
. Ruskin's work. That's what she read, while he studied her.
You've been to Venice?
Her eager question, her violet eyes alight.
Tell me what you saw.

How can I describe it in words, instead of paint?
he'd replied.

Sketching. She'd been drawing him when he came across her unawares, as her hand tore faster and faster across the paper, using the strokes that told him instantly she was a true artist. It couldn't be disguised, that movement, that passion.

Lying on the chaise longue. Her head thrown back. In her white chemise.

His body hardened.

And in his sketchbook. So many drawings of her. In every aspect, in every mood. Whenever she'd gone home, pattering down the stairs, he had drawn her. Some in charcoal, some in colour.

He'd become a man possessed, he discerned that now. And the sketches were good, better than good. They'd come to his hand perfectly formed.

They were the best work he'd ever done.

Because of her.

Hidden behind the dresser were the other paintings he secretly worked on at night, including the small one he'd planned to give to Cameo before he'd discovered the truth about her. The speed and precision of his own hand amazed him. The work had been inspired by the cameo stone that nestled at the tender point of her throat. That namesake jewel.

The cameo stone now in his possession.

His hand fisted around it.

Seizing the drawings and paintings, he propped them against the wall, one by one. He stood back and looked at them.

Was it possible?

Could he do it?

Yes.

Yes.

* * *

‘You seem fatigued, Lady Catherine Mary.' Lord Warley settled himself in the blue velvet chair by the drawing-room fire. He propped his cane beside him. ‘Your pallor becomes you.'

Cameo stayed mute.

‘Our dear Cameo's not quite herself.' Lady Buxton fluttered as she poured tea from the silver pot. ‘Are you, Cameo?'

She remained silent. They might lock her in her bedroom and make her come downstairs for tea, but they could not make her speak and willingly accept Lord Warley's hand in marriage.

‘Perhaps you could leave us alone, Lady Buxton?' Lord Warley said after a moment, when it became clear Cameo deigned not to reply.

The countess paused in the act of pouring tea into her own cup. ‘Of course,' she agreed with an uncertain smile. ‘It's not quite done, of course, to leave you unchaperoned, but you are practically engaged.'

Lord Warley smiled, baring his teeth. ‘Your charming daughter is safe with me.

‘So.' He stood up as her mother shut the door. With a careless spill he set down his teacup and took a step closer. Instinctively Cameo shrank away from him, locking her eyes on the richly patterned carpet on the floor.

‘It's time we had a chat, don't you think?'

The colours on the carpet. Cameo focused on them. Blue, red, pink and gold.
How would you paint them? What would Benedict tell you to look for?

‘I said it's time we had a chat.'

Cameo gave a yelp of pain as Lord Warley seized her coiled hair and pulled it upwards in a brutal thrust.

‘That's better. I prefer you to attend to me when I'm speaking to you.'

She choked down her acrid fear. ‘You don't have to manhandle me.'

‘Manhandle you?' He twisted her hair tighter, bringing tears to her eyes, before releasing her. ‘I think you've had enough manhandling already, if that painting is anything to go by.'

Benedict's paintbrush on her naked body flashed into her mind and she flushed, feeling the telltale heat rise up her neck and along her cheekbones.

Lord Warley licked his lips. ‘Yes, you've been touched by that artist, it's clear.'

‘How dare you!' Cameo jumped to her feet and faced him. ‘How dare you speak to me in this way?'

‘Oh, I dare.'

Before Cameo could move, Lord Warley's cold lips were prising hers apart. She tightened them, trying to repel his advance. He only moved in closer, his fingers sliding up the bodice of her dress. With shock she felt his bare hands dive down into her décolletage and squeeze hard. His palms were moist, his fingers rough. As his thick tongue forced its way down her throat she gagged, struggling for air.

Lord Warley smirked as he fell back on his heels. ‘So that's what the artist's been having, is it?'

Cameo clutched the edge of a gilt side table. She wanted to be sick, to get the hideous taste from her mouth.

‘Sit down, my dear.

‘I said sit down,' he hissed when her shaking legs didn't move. Grabbing hold of her shoulders, he forced her into the velvet chair.

‘Now.' Returning to his seat, he picked up his teacup as though nothing had happened. ‘Let me tell you what's going to transpire, Lady Catherine Mary. I'm prepared to overlook what you have done. We'll forget about the scandal you've caused. Once you are married to me people won't remember this unfortunate incident as long as you behave yourself.'

‘But why do you need to marry me? Why are you doing this?'

He sneered over the edge of his teacup. ‘I've taking a liking to you.'

Cameo shook her head. ‘I don't believe you.'

‘Or perhaps I've taken a liking to your marriage settlement. You're quite the heiress. It's always attracted me to you. And your dowry price has gone up considerably since you became damaged goods.'

‘You can't need money!'

‘I have debts. I enjoy a gamble.' Putting down his cup, he licked his lips again. ‘I enjoy...games.'

She shuddered. ‘But I don't understand. You've inherited Warley Park. It's a huge estate. Surely enough income comes from that.'

‘Young ladies shouldn't discuss money,' he said with a reproving moue. ‘But since you ask, yes, I inherited it from my father and mortgaged it, too. That's why your dowry will come in useful. Most useful indeed.'

‘So it's all about money.'

‘It isn't just about money.' He leered. ‘Not at all.'

Nausea threatened to overwhelm her. ‘You're disgusting. I always thought you were.'

‘There is one condition to our nuptial bliss.' He hoisted one leg over the other. ‘I understand your father has forbidden you to paint while you come to your senses over this unfortunate indiscretion. I agree with his decision. It's most unseemly, especially in the circumstances. Indeed, I think it would be best if you do not pursue any interest in art.'

‘Do you mean I can't paint ever again, if I marry you?' Give up painting for the rest of her life? Who could ask such a thing? Her father would have come round, but Lord Warley... ‘You can't mean it.'

‘Painting, drawing. You should put away such things.' He reached over and lifted a small sandwich from the tea tray, popping it whole into his mouth. ‘When I'm your husband you'll be under my advice in all respects.'

‘You mean to treat me as a child,' she said, her voice low.

‘Women are little more than children, are they not?' He flicked an invisible crumb from his trouser leg. ‘As you have shown through your misjudgement.'

She hadn't misjudged Warley. Her instincts had always warned her against him.

‘You need firmer guidance, a much firmer hand.' His eyes flickered over her body. ‘A woman should look to her husband in all things. All your pastimes will be up to me. I think sewing is an appropriate leisure occupation for a lady. Yes, embroidery. Women always look so meek and pretty bent over their sewing hoops.'

Benedict's face came again into Cameo's mind. She could almost feel the weave of his linen shirt. ‘Can you mend this, Miss Ashe?' his teasing voice echoed.

‘I'm very bad at sewing.'

She'd spoken aloud. Lord Warley's voice dragged her mind back to the drawing room.

‘Are you?' Again his tongue darted out. ‘There are many things you'll have to learn, Catherine Mary, and I'll enjoy teaching you in a way you won't forget.'

He stretched towards her and painfully grasped her wrist. ‘Your father tells me you're still pure, that the artist with whom you spent so much time did not defile you. I'm not so sure of that. But let me assure you, when you are my wife you will be mine alone to do with as I please.'

Cameo drew away, her heart thudding with fear. ‘Let me go.'

He tightened his grip, hurting her, and then released her. ‘The law is on my side. The day we're married you'll belong to me and that will be the end of it. Every hour of your days and nights,' he added, with another slow look over her body that made her skin crawl, ‘you will spend as I wish you to spend them.'

‘And no painting.' The words came from her numb lips.

‘Nothing to remind you of the days you spent with Benedict Cole.'

Hearing his name brought tears to Cameo's eyes.
Oh, Benedict, Benedict.