Once inside the large bathroom, Lady Vernon closed the door and pointed to the clothing she’d laid out on the chair by the window. “Dress yourself in that while Kitty fetches the bathwater,” she said, directing the young undermaid who had followed them in.
In the city, the modern plumbing that Lady Vernon decried was a luxury unknown in this part of the world so, a dozen pails later, Faith lay submerged in a warm bath, her white gown floating about her, a simple posy of white flowers in her hands.
“Close your eyes, Faith, while I call Mr Westaway. But first…we’ll add the finishing touch.”
Chapter 15
Crispin trod the steps with mixed feelings, though he had to admit he was more than intrigued by Miss Westaway’s impish parting. She was not so pliable as she seemed. Previously, she’d been not as vacuous as she’d seemed. What would the next surprise be? The truth was, he knew he was going to enjoy the next few days more than he ought.
The next surprise, when he opened the bathroom door at Lady Vernon’s command, was not something for which he was prepared.
With the pleasure and anticipation of his parting from Miss Montague still fresh in his mind, the last thing he expected to find was the manner in which she’d been…prepared.
Good God, but the grey drizzle outside the small bathroom window was a good deal more comforting and easy on the eye than the horror that met him in the bath.
A girl dressed in white; her reddish-gold hair spread about her, holding a posy of flowers. And the bathwater. Red. Only, of course, these were red rose petals. He had to remember that.
He had to remember that he must never revisit this part of his past if he were to stay sane. Turning away to look through the window, he tried to regain control of his emotions.
“Striking, don’t you think, Mr Westaway?” Lady Vernon was smiling at him. “You can paint in the reeds and the river afterwards. Or had you thought to create an entirely different effect?”
He took a seat, pretending consideration while he attempted to push away the nightmare.
But would it be catharsis to face his memories head on and, in painting them, exorcise them from his mind?
Then again, was there something deeper at play? Why red rose petals? Why a girl in a white dress floating in water?
He had to rid his mind of what could only be ridiculous, unfounded conspiracies. Each of the other two painters would be doing the same painting, and they’d not be reacting as he was. Only if he could ground himself in common sense and allow his professionalism to dominate would he turn something good out of something bad.
“You’ve done well, Lady Vernon,” he said. “And since Miss Westaway is already in position, I shall have my paints brought in and begin while there is still light.”
A great weariness had cast its pall over the horror and fear. He was a survivor. At least, his reputation had survived, if not his soul.
“It’s a strange question, I know, Miss Montague, but are you comfortable?”
She opened her eyes. “Unconventional, to say the least, but this seems innocuous compared to the stories I’ve heard from other artist’s models.”
“Who?”
“I spoke to several at the unveiling.”
Of course, she would have. She was a young lady who didn’t make up things. She liked to have her facts straight. Well, if he were going to be closeted with her in close confines for the next seven days, it would help to have some diverting conversation. Lady Vernon promised little enough of that.
He set up his easel and mixed his paints in the poor light, augmented by a sconce of candles and a lamp. For now, he was glad Lady Vernon stood stiffly by, or rather, had seated herself on a wooden chair at right angles to him. She’d better stay the entire time too, he thought, if he were not to be distracted.
Distracted? He had his work to keep him focused.
Time passed in a blur but he was jolted into the present by the sound of a loud clapping, and looked up to see Lady Vernon in the act of rising, her command accompanied by, “Mr Westaway, my charge might be in no danger of drowning in a bath, but she certainly is in danger of getting pneumonia.”
“My apologies! Please, you must get dry.” Without thinking, he put out his hand to help Miss Montague to rise, and she stood up, dripping before him, her gown clinging to her curves, entirely transparent though she appeared not to realise this as she asked with just a trace of coyness, “Wasn’t I as still as the dead, Mr Westaway? That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
Crispin wasn’t sure what he wanted. He didn’t want to paint her dead, and he certainly didn’t want her standing in front of him now leaving so little to the imagination. Because the bath was elevated a foot or so off the ground, he found himself almost eye level with her breasts. And, of course, the effect of the cold was to highlight her nipples through the thin fabric.
Crispin didn’t know where to look. Lady Vernon appeared to be occupied with arranging her bustle into the correct folds as she stood while Miss Montague was smiling happily at Crispin, taking the hand he offered her and leaning heavily on him to avoid slipping as she stepped over the side.
“You were perfect, Miss Montague,” he managed, desperately conscious of the brief contact when one soft breast was slightly indented by his hand in the final movement.
Still, she did not seem to notice, chattering happily, though with chattering teeth, as the maid draped her in a towel and began to squeeze out the water from her skirts over the bath.
“The perfect drowned damsel, and now I no doubt resemble a water rat.” She took a hank of her glorious hair and twisted it over her shoulder.
“You must sit in front of the fire and get yourself thoroughly dry.” Lady Vernon managed to make a no doubt well-intentioned suggestion sound like a threat.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” said the young girl heading towards the door before she was halted by her chaperone’s voice, “You’ll dry your hair in your bedchamber and not disturb Mr Westaway with your foolish talk when now is the time for him to relax after his hard work.”
Crispin hadn’t realised he’d even said the words that encouraged them to join him in his drawing room before Lady Vernon was accepting and Miss Montague was clapping her hands and saying, “I’ve been dying to ask Mr Westaway his thoughts on Alsace-Lorraine. You will indulge me, won’t you, Mr Westaway?”
What could he do except nod, even though Crispin knew that it was dangerous to exchange political views with anyone, and especially not a wide-eyed ingénue whom he’d now seen, firsthand, combined the most desirable curves with a mind like a whip and a face like an angel.
The crackling fire provided very welcome and much-needed warmth, for the cold had seeped through Faith’s bones. Lady Vernon’s command had come in the nick of time, and now, to Faith’s delight, Lady Vernon was rubbing her eyes and declaring she could not remain a moment longer in the heated drawing room without falling fast asleep.
“I should stay, of course, Faith, but your hair is not yet dry. Promise me you’ll be up in the next five minutes.”
Faith flashed a look at Mr Westaway and saw he looked uncertain in the wake of Lady Vernon’s departure. Quickly, she said as the door closed behind the old lady, “I wonder if you wouldn’t be so kind as to take over the brushing from Lady Vernon, otherwise my hair will be the most unmanageable tangle.” She handed him the brush to detain him when she was certain he was about to excuse himself. “I’m sure you must be used to such requests from female cousins.”
Mr Westaway shook his head but had no choice but to take the brush thrust into his hand. Obediently, he followed her to the chair vacated by Lady Vernon while Faith dropped down upon the footstool. “Lady Vernon doesn’t like me,” she confided on a sigh. “I fear that I am a sore trial to bear, and that she enjoyed wielding the brush like a prison warder. I trust you’ll be gentler with me, Mr Westaway.”
Faith had to force herself not to smile when she felt, rather than saw, the effect her words had on him
. So, she did wield some power, after all. She was just congratulating herself on making if only marginal success when, without pausing in his steady, thorough, yet decidedly gentle brushing, he said in a low, deliberate tone, “Lady Vernon should be more vigilant in keeping watch over you. It would not do for word to get out that she’d been lax.”
And, of course, that could mean only one thing—that he was keeping his distance from Faith and any possibility of entanglement as much as possible.
She twisted her head. “We’ve already discussed this, Mr Westaway. Of course you don’t want to find yourself compromised with someone like me; I completely understand. And even if, despite the greatest care taken, it was suggested I was compromised, and it won’t happen, I assure you, I would act with honour; you must know that.”
“Those words sound so wrong coming from your pretty mouth.” His tone was downcast. “Indeed, you do speak plainly.” He spoke so softly she could barely hear.
“It was the only way in my household,” Faith told him, trying to sound more cheerful. As if this wasn’t the weighty conversation it was. “With so many of us, it was difficult to get our way at the best of times. So, I’ve grown accustomed to being grateful for whatever I can have.”
“And what is it you want, Faith?”
She was surprised he asked the question but answered it with an admirable show of equanimity, adopting a more serious tone but, she hoped, with enough levity not to frighten him. “I want to be respectably married, have a husband who appreciates me and is kind to me, and I want children. I want what every woman wants. Surely you know it’s the desire of each and every debutante in London with whom I’m competing.”
He’d taken on the role of hair brusher with care and gentleness but he laughed, tugging a hank of hair which made her wince. Immediately he was full of apology, but Faith waved her hand in the air before resting it seemingly arbitrarily on…his hand.
She kept it there, saying, “I’ve borne a great deal worse pain than this. Please continue with the brushing, Mr Westaway. It’s not often I get to enjoy such a gentle touch. Perhaps that’s why I’m so competitive. Not very attractive in a woman which is why I try to keep quiet in company. Gentlemen much prefer a young woman to have no opinions.”
She turned at the silence and the fact he’d stopped brushing and faced him. He looked nonplussed.
“I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you with my revelations regarding my true character, Mr Westaway. I’m sure you’d have far preferred to uphold an image of me as mild-natured and demure. That’s how Lady Vernon told me to behave when I first came to London. But as I’ve got to know you more, I can’t hide my true nature. I’m so far from the perfect, demure debutante Lady Vernon thought she was going to be chaperoning about London.”
“But your beauty makes up for that.” He shook his head as if he’d not believed he’d said it. “I’m very sorry I said that. The sentiment was unseemly on both counts.”
Faith swallowed. She was feeling her way in the dark, so to speak. Yes, part of her tutoring was to exchange banter with a range of gentlemen, and she’d enjoyed it. But one false step and she could lose everything for which she’d worked so hard.
She pushed to the back of her mind any thought that she might actually be wanting this for reasons to do with her own heart rather than as a means to an end. Faith had never had the luxury to think of anything other than survival. And her survival depended upon twisting this man around her little finger. Making him fall in love with her.
The way he was looking at her bolstered her confidence that she could do this.
“You think you shouldn’t say I’m beautiful because it’ll turn my head?” she asked softly. “Or you think that an independent mind should be irrelevant in the face of beauty.” Faith shifted a little on her footstool but held herself back from contact. His lithe, strong body was within easy touching. She could have put her hand on his knee or risen slowly and cupped his face. How would he have reacted? Would he have sunk into a kiss…only to berate himself afterwards? Yes, she sensed a steeliness in him that would enable him to put reason above his emotions.
But what if she couched it as a business proposition? A ladylike proposition?
She cleared her throat and lowered her eyes, keeping herself firmly glued to the footstool.
“Mr Westaway…”
She wasn’t sure if her approach was damning any chances she had, but she’d decided the logical path was best.
“Yes, Miss Montague.” It looked like he’d managed, with an effort, to regain his composure, and that he was grateful to her for reining him back in, for there was a warmth in his expression that was far more friendly than incendiary.
“You know how I hope this painting is going to help win me suitors? I mean, I’ve made no secret of that, and it’s ridiculous for any debutante to pretend otherwise.”
“Yes, we both have high hopes for this painting. Though I don’t know what I shall say if I do win and it comes to my father’s ears.”
“You’ll be in Germany doing just as he wishes. And you’ll have the accolades you desire. It’s the perfect outcome.” She sighed deeply. “As for me, I could be married in six weeks and, right at this very moment, not even know my husband—the man I’ll spend the rest of my life with. Isn’t that strange to think?”
“Very strange.” He looked decidedly uncomfortable.
“Mr Westaway, I want you to kiss me. You see, I’ve never been kissed before, and I’m very curious and would like to have just a little practise for when I meet the man I will marry.” She smiled at him. “A single kiss is all right, isn’t it? I mean, it doesn’t mean my reputation or yours is besmirched. I’ve read plenty of romances where it’s quite normal for a man and a woman to kiss and nothing terribly awful happens afterwards.”
She sat with her hands clasped in her lap and looked at him enquiringly.
He looked back at her and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Montague. That’s not how a kiss is conducted. And regardless of how it is or isn’t conducted, I couldn’t possibly kiss you.”
She nodded, as if conceding a practical matter. “I understand. In the novels I’ve read there has to be a strong feeling happening here.” She touched her heart. “I just thought that it would be interesting to experiment so I could see how my heart felt when you kissed me, which of course you’re not going to do now. I thought it would be nice to have some level of comparison for when I’m kissed by a real suitor with whom I’d consider spending the rest of my life.” She rolled her shoulders and turned away, offering him the back of her head, and within a few seconds was relieved to feel the steady tug of the hairbrush over her hair. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you, Mr Westaway.”
“Not at all. It’s good to be able to speak frankly to one another. I like a young woman who doesn’t resort to artifice and veiled lies to get what she wants.”
A chill of foreboding rattled inside her and Mr Westaway asked with genuine concern, “Are you cold?”
“No, but I should go to bed soon, I think.” She stretched her arms, yawning as she stood up. “Thank you for today.” She smiled at him as he rose. “I can’t tell you how much more enjoyable it is to be here and part of your artistic world; also talking to you about interesting topics than the usual deadly dull kind of day I generally endure.”
“Miss Montague—”
She looked over her shoulder as she made for the door.
His expression was conflicted, his body tense as he rose and took a half step towards her. “Just one kiss. A quick one. So, you know what it feels like.” He spoke rapidly. “And nothing other than that.”
“All right,” she said slowly. “Just tell me what to do.”
He cleared his throat. “You just kiss me. That’s all.”
“And then it’s done.” She sighed, satisfied. Or at least sounding satisfied with the way it was presented as she returned to stand in front of him, twining her arms about his neck.
It was not the firs
t time Faith had kissed a man. Her education had required this as a minimal point of contact and, thank God, she’d never found herself in the position of having to do more, as did all the other girls at Madame Chambon’s. In fact, it was only when she had kissed men for whom she felt absolutely nothing did she realise how impossible it would be to have to give them her body too.
So, she twined her arms about his neck, tipped her head, and waited to feel nothing but the physical sensation of pressure applied upon her lips. A physical sensation with which she was reasonably familiar.
Crispin stood and prepared himself. He was doing her a favour. Lord, he was doing them both a favour by getting it over and done with, clearing the air, so to speak. It was reasonable that a curious mind and plain speaking would deem this no more than it would be. And Crispin had only gone along with the idea because he was confident she knew their respective positions. He liked to think he’d forged a friendship with the young woman. Friendship between the sexes was entirely possible, he already knew that. He had women friends who enjoyed probing him on matters political, and he gained great pleasure from their company.
Just as he did from Miss Montague’s. Certainly, she was younger and prettier than his other friends but, by presenting herself as just as intelligent, and acute with respect to his need for no form of entanglement, he felt safe.
Yes, safe, was his last thought as he lowered his head and put his arms gently about her to seal the kiss. A chaste, brief kiss with a sweet but definite ending would be a fine way to show her his true feelings. He could imbue it with respect, the merest sensory illusion that there could be more, and as he withdrew with just the right expression, he’d leave her under no illusions that he was in any way affected by their connection.
Yet, as she moved closer, standing on tiptoe to twine her arms about his neck, he was taken aback by the rush of sensation that speared his body. Her mouth was still several inches away; her eyes were closed, and there was a smile of innocent expectation that was heartbreakingly endearing.
Fair Cyprians of London Boxset: Books 1-5: Five passionate Victorian Romances Page 29