Inamorata (26 page)

O
DILÉ

I
sent an invitation for him to come to tea at six to discuss my commission, and when he accepted, I was more than relieved. I waited for him impatiently. When the sun began to set, I lit the lamps, covering them with rose-colored shades to make the light lovely and romantic. It was a struggle to be charming now, when I most needed to be. That morning, as I’d passed through a shaft of sunlight against the wall, I’d caught sight of my shadow and was horrified at the way it pulsed, the demon inside me impatient, clawing at the confines of my skin. With every passing moment, the monster grew stronger, and soon I would not be able to hold her back.

Desperation was not an emotion I liked, fear even less so, and yet I felt both. I could no longer afford for anything to get in the way. I went to the balcony, searching for any sign of Nicholas. I’d seen him often of late, lingering on the
fondamenta
of the abandoned, ruined palace next door. His distinctive blond hair always glinted, whether in sunlight, moonlight or gaslight. But he was not there now, thankfully. This was my last chance. Less than a week and a half left.

I turned back inside to wait for Joseph Hannigan, and I did not have to wait long. When the two of them—two, not one—came into the room, my disappointment was so sharp that for a moment I could not rise to greet them. He’d brought her—again. I was surprised and angry. I’d meant to have him in bed before the hour was out, and now I would have to find a way to get rid of her. It was all I could do to smile.

“Welcome. I’m so glad you could accept my invitation.”

“How happy we are to see you again.” Joseph Hannigan made no apology or excuse for bringing her. He set aside the sketchbook he carried and bowed low over my hand. When he raised his eyes, he captured mine, quite deliberately, and his smile was seductive and slow. I had seen such things a hundred times, a thousand, and still I lost my breath. He knew how to do this, as young as he was. It was not really surprising, not for one so attractive. I pressed my appetite into submission as best I could.

“Madame León,” Sophie Hannigan greeted me in a low voice.

I felt a rush of resentment and barely managed to say, “Hello again, Miss Hannigan.”

As they sat down—she on the settee beside me, and he on the chair opposite—I rang for tea. It was brought almost immediately. I had not planned for tea and conversation—rather, for wine and seduction—but I tempered my impatience as I poured them each a cup. To be done with her was all I could think . . . how to see her out the door and keep him behind? I took a deep breath. “Has my commission inspired you,
monsieur?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Joseph Hannigan admitted.

“Have you any ideas?”

He smiled. “A few.”

“Such as?”

“I’d be better at showing you.” He set aside his tea, and reached for his sketchbook, leafing to a blank page. “You said you wanted something about desire. I’d thought . . .” He reached into his pocket for a stick of charcoal.

And then, most surprisingly, his gaze went to his sister. He had been mine since he’d arrived, but once the charcoal was in his hand, it was as if he were transformed. He no longer saw me, no longer saw anything but the vision in his mind’s eye. I saw hunger leap into his eyes. But his hunger wasn’t for me.

Another surprise.

I glanced at Miss Hannigan, who sipped her tea. She looked like nothing so much as a well-brought-up woman, properly demure, hair swept up, the little straw hat with its bunch of wilting silk flowers that had once been jaunty, the high collar of her striped bodice, the smooth sweep of a corsetted bosom. She did not see it at all, not his hunger nor his need for her.

It disconcerted me. I had never seen attention turn from me if I was in the room. He said, “Put the tea down, Soph,” in a soft, soft voice.

She did as he asked without question. He made a gesture, and she arranged herself on the settee as if she’d done so a hundred times, as if she knew just exactly what pose would please him. There was no hesitation, no rearranging of limbs, just a graceful acceptance that for the moment, her every movement belonged to him. She seemed, in fact, quite incapable of making one of her own. It was an abdication of her will that was startling in its conclusiveness.

I saw the itch in him when he began to draw, as if he couldn’t help himself, as if the simple fact of her presence fed him. The air felt charged with pleasure and surrender, arousal and denial. I knew, of course, how much seduction there was in the creation of art—it was a sexual act. But the intensity of this . . . I had never seen anything like it. I could only watch and wait as he drew.

After a time, he looked up, and I saw his interest come to me again, a dimpled smile that blinded as he showed me what he’d done.

It was his sister as she’d leaned against the settee, but not as I’d witnessed her. Her shoulders were round and naked. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly parted, her hair falling. She looked sensuous, tempting. In full command of her power. It was unsettlingly lovely and disturbingly intimate.

The demon in me whipped and bit. “That’s beautiful,” I said, though it was much more than that. But now I needed his full attention. “Yet . . . I would like to see more.”

He frowned as if such a request was unfamiliar. I was certain it was. I was certain that no one had ever seen his work without breathless admiration. But I . . . I had seen immortal talents. I had watched them bloom before my eyes.

He asked, “More?”

Sophie Hannigan sat up, frowning—a matched set of frowns. “Didn’t you like it?”

“Oh, but of course I did.” I smiled. “It’s only that I should like to see more than a face. A body, perhaps. And hands. Hands are so difficult, are they not?”

Joseph Hannigan pulled the book back. “Yes, all right,” he said easily. “As you wish.”

“And perhaps . . . something not so familiar,” I said. “You will sketch me, I think.”

He glanced at his sister. I caught the sudden wariness between them, the fleeting touch of longing, and of something else, something darker. I could not take my eyes away, and they seemed oblivious to my scrutiny. I tried to grab him back to me.

“Perhaps I should let my hair down. Would you like that, monsieur?”

He looked at me. I could not read his expression. I felt her watching, her tension.

“How will you have me?” I went on. “Perhaps on the chaise over there? I could be reclining like some Arabian houri.”

He glanced at the chaise, hesitating, then said, “Yes, that.”

I took down my hair, slowly, seducing him, ignoring her. I heard her sharp breath as I let the tresses fall, as I lay upon the chaise, stretching like an odalisque. I saw the flare of her nostrils, the hard rise and fall of her breath. Her gaze slid away and I saw her frown in confusion and apprehension. I followed her glance to where my shadow reclined against the wall, pulsing, the heartbeat of the monster—though of course she could not know that.

“How much finer this would be in the sun,” I murmured, looking to Joseph Hannigan. “Do you not think so,
cheri
? You must be here in the morning, when the reflections off the Canal are so lovely. I could pose as a mermaid. Like that mural in the Moretta. Neptune among his subjects. Is it still there? It was such a pretty thing.”

“It’s there.” Sophie Hannigan’s voice was brutally intrusive as it cut through the ambient sounds from the city beyond the window. “Though faded a great deal. It is not so beautiful as it first seems. If you touch it the gilding comes off on your finger.”

Her brother glanced at her, but I twisted my arm sensuously, calling him back. “I fear I love the sun too well. I’m afraid I have freckles now. All over, more’s the pity—or, perhaps not, I suppose. A man I knew once told me that freckles were a map for kissing. A path to pleasure.”

Joseph Hannigan’s gaze jerked back. He drew convulsively, reflexively, but inwardly he went still, coiling deep. I gained strength by the moment, every time he looked at me.

I said, “Do you not think so, monsieur? I think most men cannot help but imagine kissing the freckles on a woman.”

He said hoarsely, “I don’t know what most men think.”

“No, of course you do not. You’re quite singular, aren’t you, Joseph Hannigan?” I purred his name. I saw his quick swallow, and I could not help my smile. “Is he not so, mademoiselle?”

“Oh yes. There’s no one like Joseph.” Miss Hannigan’s answer was sharp edged. She met my gaze with a challenging one of her own. I was surprised again. My hunger clenched as if she’d somehow denied it. Everything took on hard lines. I was suddenly too aware that the evening had faded to twilight.

“It’s done,” Joseph Hannigan said.

I went to look over his shoulder, pressing to his back. “Oh, how wonderful! Why, what a mind reader you are,
cheri
, to see my yearning so well.”

I touched his hair, winding a bit of it about my finger. I felt him tense; I heard his breathing quicken, a thudding echo in my own chest, his talent searching for the void in me. I let my finger fall from his hair to the edge of his collar, the warm skin at the nape of his neck. I expected to see him shudder. But although I knew he felt my touch, I had the strange impression that he didn’t feel my hunger at all, and I was seized with an excitement of a kind I’d rarely known. So
much
talent. Oh, I could not wait—

Sophie Hannigan said, “Joseph always makes everyone look so much more lovely than they are.”

I wanted to laugh at the ineffectiveness of the jab. Instead, I ignored her, leaning close to Joseph Hannigan to whisper, “You have drawn the secrets in my eyes. Don’t you wish to discover what they are?” I saw the rapid beat of his pulse in his throat, and I wanted to put my mouth to it, to draw it in, to stop it. “I will show them to you, and then you must show me yours.”

He licked his lips. “My secrets might frighten you.”

“Frighten me? Ah, but how intriguing. Now you only make me want to know more.”

“You say that now.”

“You can’t frighten me, monsieur, except by refusing what I have to offer you.”

I heard Sophie Hannigan’s sharp intake of breath, her whispered, “
Joseph
,” but he did not look at her, and neither did I.

“And what is that?” he asked me.

“Everything you want. Everything.”

His eyes darkened even more, and it wasn’t just desire I saw now, but something else that burned, and I recognized that too. Ambition.

But at that moment she made a little sound of dismay, and his gaze slid to her. I felt a surge of anger, my hunger snapping, snarling. I put the command in my eyes that had bid a thousand men to do as I asked.

“Your brother is staying with me tonight,” I said quietly. “And you must go to your lover.”

She stilled. “My lover?”

“This friend you told me of. He has become more than that, has he not?”

“No.”

Not quite true, I thought. “Or perhaps you are too afraid. Do you not know what to do? Would you like me to tell you how to win him?”

A flush moved over her pale skin; I saw her confusion. “Joseph?”

He said, “I’ll stay. You’d best go home.”

I was more relieved than I’d expected at his words, and that was new too. It had been a very long time since I’d had to worry about a man accepting my bed.

Sophie Hannigan looked startled. I saw the sudden shine of tears in her eyes. But she blinked them away and took a deep breath. “Very well then. Good evening, madame
.
Thank you for the tea.”

“It was my pleasure,” I said. She looked angry as she turned to go. But what did I care for her anger? I had him now, and I meant to keep him.

S
OPHIE

I
turned away, feeling off balance, both angry and near tears. I did not want to go, and yet I wanted more than anything to put these rooms behind me, to forget the look I’d seen in my brother’s eyes when he’d told me to go without apology or pause. I was afraid of Odilé. She reminded me so much of Miss Coring in that moment that I could not think how I would open the door and leave Joseph behind.

And yet there I was, out of the
sala
and into the
portego
, to the door. My hand was on the lever when I heard the rapid footsteps behind me, my brother’s voice calling urgently, “Soph. Sophie, wait.”

I turned to see him hurrying toward me. In relief, I said, “You’ve changed your mind?”

He shook his head. “No. But it’s all right.”

My relief turned to a dull and aching dismay. “You said you were only going to paint her.”

He let out his breath, raking his hand through his hair. “Look, you know how it is.”

“This feels different,” I whispered.

His hand dropped to his side. “You don’t need to worry. It is
nothing
. Just pleasure. Nothing more. You understand.”

I turned again to the door. “Well then, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I’ll be there before you wake,” he assured me.

As I opened the door, his hand came to mine, closing over my fingers, stopping me. “I want you to go home, Soph. Home. Not to the salon. Not to him. Promise me you won’t.”

His eyes were burning, fervent; I felt his fear for me. But I was angry. “I promise,” I said, but even then I don’t think I meant it. I felt miserable and alone and stupid, a mix of emotions I hardly understood. I felt secondary again, and while all the world might see me that way, my brother had never before been the one to make me feel it. I was suddenly possessed by the need to be something different, something separate. Myself, alone, though how to do that, how to
be
that when I was so afraid . . . when I could not bear to let Joseph step away. . . .

Joseph broke into a relieved smile that brought out his dimples. He leaned down, kissing me gently. “Good. I’ll be back before dawn.”

He drew away, and let me go, and when the door shut behind me I heard the thud of it like an echo in my heart. I felt myself again in a muted world, colorless and bleak.

Marco had waited, and he didn’t even raise a brow when he saw I was alone, or when I told him to take me home. The journey seemed long and cold; we passed the Alvisi on the way, and I saw the gondolas moored out front.

I wondered if Nicholas was there, if he was waiting for me. I thought of last night, and the way he’d pressed himself to me, the way he’d said
I’m undone by you, Sophie,
in that wonderful voice. I thought of how much I liked him, how that voice had made me think, once again, of possibility. And then I thought of another voice, equally hoarse with desire, spoken in a New York City bedroom while I stood helplessly watching.
Please God . . . join us.
That too made me think of Odilé, as if everyone who had ever hurt Joseph and me, or might, had coalesced in her.

I was glad to be home when we arrived at the Moretta. How nice it would be to be alone for a change. A bath, and some wine, and perhaps I would go back to
Don Juan
. Byron’s romantic cynicism seemed perfect for tonight.

I went up the stairs and inside, telling myself everything was all right, just as Joseph had said it was. He would return with the dawn, crawling into bed as he always did after nights away, pulling me against him and whispering groggily in my ear, “I’m so tired, Soph,”
in the moments before he fell deeply asleep. Everything would be the same.

But as I stepped into the
sala
, the emptiness of the palazzo seemed to mock me. I glanced up at the ceiling, the gilded painted sunset, and I remembered the way Joseph had brought me down beside him to watch it come alive with morning, how he’d known that would happen. I felt the loss of him like a disease; suddenly I was so alone and lonely I could not bear it, and I called Marco to take me to Nicholas Dane’s.