Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (63 page)

‘Oh, Maud!' Cameo exclaimed. ‘I'm sorry I gave you such a fright. I wouldn't have upset you for the entire world. And, George—' she turned to her brother ‘—I'm so sorry.'

He gave her arm a reassuring pat. ‘I've always said you were a strange sister. Now I know for sure. You gave us all an awful shock, not turning up at St Mary's like that. But it seems it has all turned out for the best.'

‘It's so romantic.' Maud sighed.

‘Romantic, eh?' The earl cleared his throat. ‘I've had enough of all this nonsense for one day. It's time to go home.'

‘Yes, Papa,' George said and sent Cameo a wink.

‘Goodbye, Maud,' Cameo said, hugging her friend. ‘Goodbye, George. Goodbye, Papa.'

At the doorway her father turned back.

‘We'll expect you in Mayfair, Cameo.' He nodded to Benedict. ‘Both of you.'

Chapter Twenty-Four

‘Such a Lord is love.'

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

‘G
oodness, it's like Piccadilly Circus here this morning.'

Just as Benedict went to pull Cameo into his arms, Nicholas Trelawney breezed into the studio, brandishing a newspaper in his hand. ‘Sorry to arrive unannounced, but I thought you'd want to see this—why, Lady Cameo!'

‘Hello,' Cameo said shyly.

‘What on earth is happening here this morning? Were those friends of yours I passed on the stairs?'

‘That was my father, my brother George and my friend Maud,' Cameo explained.

‘Is that so?' Trelawney beamed. ‘How charming they all looked. I'll have to invite them to one of my soirées. And how delightful to see you here again in the studio, my dear. So you're together at last!'

‘Thank you for your help in it, Mr Trelawney.'

‘My pleasure, my dear, my pleasure. Who can resist playing Cupid?' Trelawney stared at Benedict. ‘Why is our artist looking so stunned? What have I missed?'

‘Benedict has just found out he inherited Warley Park. It's where he grew up,' she explained rapidly.

Trelawney whistled. ‘So that's the estate which belonged to his father? My, my. How strange. You don't need to tell me more, my dear. I know all about it. I just didn't know the names.'

He rustled the newspaper he held in his hand. ‘Well, I bring more good tidings. It seems both fortune and fame are tapping on the door!'

‘What on earth do you mean, Trelawney?' Benedict asked with a dry smile.

‘Page ten.' Trelawney passed Cameo the newspaper.

Hastily she leafed through the pages. ‘Why, Benedict. It's a review of your work!'

Trelawney fanned himself with his hand. ‘Read it aloud for us, my dear. I'm not sure I can take the strain.'

With mounting excitement, Cameo read.

‘A new exhibition by Benedict Cole at the Belleview Gallery, Soho, is certain to be the talk of the artistic season.

Mr Cole's first painting of Lady Catherine Mary St Clair appeared, albeit briefly, in the selection at the Royal Academy of Art before it was unfortunately withdrawn. That this was in error is made clear by this new exhibition, made up entirely of portraits of his muse, Lady Catherine Mary.

By painting one woman in different guises and occupations, Mr Cole has shown that he is an artist of the first order and a premier painter at this time. Not every painter can capture, as he has, the diverse and ever-changing moods of a single woman, making each more enchanting than the last.

He is to be celebrated in this achievement and long may his muse inspire him. Mr Cole fully comprehends the artist's greatest calling: in the words of the great poet Tennyson,
“'Tis not your work, but Love's.”
'

Cameo dropped the paper on to the table and clapped her hands together.

Trelawney piped up. ‘Every artist in London would give their teeth for such a review,' he added, a trifle wistfully. He clapped Benedict on the back. ‘Congratulations, my dear boy.'

Benedict sounded gruff. ‘A good response, I suppose.'

‘Good? It's wonderful!' Cameo exclaimed.

‘It's only the start,' Trelawney crowed. With a flourish he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folded piece of paper, passing it to Benedict. ‘I took the liberty of popping into the Belleview this morning on your behalf. They've sold three works already and the others are sure to be snapped up. And then there's the commissions, my dear boy, the commissions.' He rubbed his palms together. ‘London's finest folk are all going to want a painting by Benedict Cole on their wall.'

Benedict stared at the cheque. ‘It's unbelievable.'

‘Believe it,' Trelawney told him, clearly delighted. ‘I asked the Belleview Gallery to raise your prices, too, as soon as I realised people would be starting to flock in.'

Benedict's mouth tightened. ‘Hmmm.'

Cameo experienced a sudden chill. ‘What's wrong, Benedict?'

He moved away from her, stretched his hands across the wood of the chimney piece. His broad back expanded as he took a deep breath. ‘There's nothing's wrong.'

He pivoted on his heel, dropped the newspaper on to the table and faced her. ‘I don't consider canvas and paint more valuable than flesh and blood, that's all. My paintings doing well, my inheritance, I'd even let Robert keep Warley Park if that was the price I had to pay.' He burned her with a look. ‘He doesn't have what I have. I have you.'

Cameo's heart pounded as in a smooth movement Benedict knelt down on one knee in front of her and lifted her shaking hand to his warm lips.

‘Marry me, Cameo.'

She couldn't speak, not a single word. Not with his eyes holding hers, the love in his them deep and infinite.

‘Ahem.' Trelawney coughed. ‘My dears, I think it's time for me to slip away. I do feel
de trop
.' He pulled his spotted handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his cheeks. ‘But how affecting.'

Benedict ignored the sculptor's pantomime beside him.

‘Well?' he asked her, his eyes coal black, still locked to hers. ‘Will you marry me, Lady Catherine Mary St Clair?'

‘Yes,' she replied. Joy bubbled up inside her like champagne. ‘Yes. I will marry you, Benedict Cole.'

He stood and pulled her into his fierce embrace. The feel of him, the strength of his powerful arms, would be home to her now. Deep within her, she knew he would hold her like this for the rest of her life; his kiss, sure and loving, was a portrait of passion, never to fade.

The studio door slammed.

‘Trelawney's gone,' she said, startled.

‘He'll be back, you don't need to worry about that,' Benedict assured her with a grin. He ran his finger around her mouth and down to rest on her neck. He frowned. ‘I'd forgotten.'

He reached into his pocket. ‘I found this on the floor by the fire the night I found out who you were.'

‘My grandmama's cameo!' she exclaimed with relief. It meant even more to her now that she knew her grandmother's story. ‘You've had it, all this time?'

‘I kept it with me. It's haunted my days and nights, as you have. I got a new ribbon for it, in the hope I might one day do this.' His hands caressed her neck as he tied it and dropped a kiss in the hollow below. ‘I want you to wear it always.'

‘I always will.' It was definitely a talisman, now.

‘Along with the ring I don't have for you yet,' he added, with a regretful grin. ‘Alas. I may now own Warley Park, but I don't have a diamond ring for you.'

‘Not diamonds.' She shuddered, remembering the ring Robert had given her that chilled her finger. At least Becky would benefit from it.

She barely breathed by the time Benedict finished tying the necklace around her neck, where it belonged. He tucked her smaller hands inside his large, warm clasp, as though making a pact. ‘I shall give you an amethyst, to match your eyes like deepest pansies.'

She smiled at the words he used from Tennyson's poem, the subject of the painting which had brought them together.

‘I don't need a ring. I just need you,' she whispered.

His voice caressed her. ‘I hope we'll always need each other, and more.'

‘More?'

‘I've always wanted children.' He smiled. ‘I believe I'd like a daughter.'

‘I'd like a son, with dark hair. He shall be called Henry, after his grandfather.'

A shaft of pain flashed across Benedict's face, followed by joy.

‘We have so much still to discover about each other, so much to learn. I'm going to take you to Venice for a honeymoon. You're going to have a Grand Tour, as every aspiring artist should, to study the great Renaissance masters—Titian, Bellini, Giorgione. And I shall be your guide.' His voice deepened. ‘It's the most romantic city in the world. There's a hotel I'll take you to, not far from St Mark's Square. The days we shall spend studying art and the nights we shall spend studying each other.'

Her stomach somersaulted as he lifted her clasped hands to his lips. He groaned, catching her fingertip between his teeth and nipping it gently. Slowly, finger by finger, his gaze never leaving hers, he removed her satin glove and threw it on the table, before reaching for the other. Again, ever so slowly, he slid it from her hand.

‘I never wanted to see these hands become calloused, and careworn. Now I can keep you in the manner to which you were born.' He frowned as he stared at her fingers. ‘You haven't been painting.'

She pulled her hands away. ‘I don't think I'll need any more painting lessons.'

His brow creased. ‘Why not?'

‘I'm not painting any more.' She shivered, remembering the awful moment when the paintbrush had snapped in her hand. ‘When I was locked in my bedroom, my brother, George, smuggled me in some watercolours and I tried to paint the ash tree outside my window. I planned to climb down it and escape here, to you. But when I knew I had to give you up, I vowed to give up art, too. I haven't tried since.'

His lips tightened. ‘You should never have been imprisoned like that.'

‘My father was just trying to protect me. Even if it was misguided.'

‘That's true,' Benedict agreed.

She laid her palm against his chest. ‘It's all right now. I'm free.'

‘You're free to paint,' he corrected her as he held out his hand. ‘Come and see. I've got a surprise for you.'

‘What is it?' Cameo followed him across the studio and stared at the shape beneath the sheet Benedict dragged out. He placed it next to his easel. ‘Is it a frame?'

‘Not a frame. It's something I made for you.' He smiled tenderly. ‘To summon you back to me.'

Her heart thudded. He'd never forgotten her, even when she had despaired.

Tearing the sheet away, he ran his long fingers over the wood. ‘This is ash, like the frame of the first portrait I did of you. I used it to make this.'

It was an easel, smaller proportioned than his rough-hewn one, more elegant, but with the same sturdiness. At the top of it he'd sketched a cameo profile of a woman to be carved into the wood.

Benedict pointed to it. ‘Your symbol.'

‘It's beautiful!' she said in wonder.

‘I want you to paint,' he said seriously. ‘I want you to become the painter you're meant to be.'

‘I'm afraid to try again.' Tears prickled her eyelids. ‘I'm scared it's gone.'

‘Such a gift is never gone. You just need to let the passion rise in you again.'

Benedict dragged out the wooden chair. Holding her by the waist, he sat her down in front of the easel and she tucked her legs underneath it. ‘I'll help you. I'll teach you.'

His arms enclosed her from behind as they had the day he'd caught her sketching, his breath tickling the hair on her neck as he chuckled. ‘After all, that's why you came to me, isn't it?'

He picked up the charcoal, closed her fist around the stick. ‘No.' He removed it. ‘Let's try oils.'

In quick strides he crossed to his easel. He seized a couple of pots of paint, a bottle of brushes and a palette and was back beside her.

‘Here.'

‘I'm not very good with oils,' she protested.

‘Then its time you learnt to be.' Behind her again, Benedict squeezed cobalt-blue oil paint on to the palette, dipped the tip of a paintbrush into it and slipped it into her hand. It was a larger brush than she'd ever used before, strange to her fingers; fingers that didn't seem to want to move, clumsy and stiff.

‘You can do this, Cameo,' he urged her, the warmth on her neck making her tingle all over.

She moved the brush. Nothing came. All the happiness she'd known before whenever she painted or sketched had vanished. The marks she daubed on the paper seemed meaningless, a mess of oils, no better than that of a small child. It was over. Her spark, her passion for art, had gone.

He sensed her despair. ‘It doesn't matter what you paint, my darling. Don't try to paint anything in particular. Just feel it.'

She closed her eyes, melting into him. She'd try for him, but she knew it was no good. His fingers tightened around hers as he guided her, the brush swishing thickly across the paper. Unexpectedly, something released, soaring within her as if she were flying, gliding through the air like a bird on a wing.

‘That's it,' he whispered.

A joyous laugh rose within her as her hand glided, faster and faster, surer and surer. Still encircling her within the safety of his arms, his hand dropped away and suddenly she painted alone, the way she always dreamed she might, the way Benedict painted, liberated, free at last.

She opened her eyes. ‘I can do it!'

Behind her, she heard him laugh as he released her from his embrace. He came around and lifted her chin. ‘And I've got other things to teach you.'

Benedict seized a paintbrush. ‘It's time for your lesson, Miss Ashe.'