by Jo Goodman
She raised her hand to use the brass knocker, but the doors swung open before she made a sound.
"I was looking for you," Jenny said, ushering Katy inside with a pleasant, welcoming smile. A young boy was clutching her skirts. "This is my son Holland. He is a bit shy with strangers, but it doesn't last long. You will wish it did."
"I doubt that." Katy looked down at the boy. His eyes were light, aquamarine, and the expression in them was one of curiosity and wariness. Katy held out her hand. "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Holland."
Holland drew part of his mother's skirt across his face and hid behind it as he slowly extended one chubby hand. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and Katy had the urge to brush it back. It was not the sort of gesture he would thank her for, she realized, so she did nothing.
"This is Miss Ackerman," Jenny said to Holland. She shot Katy a brief look of apology for the subterfuge. "Nothing is secret with a three-year-old."
Katy understood. Holland did not. "Four," he said, focusing on the only part of the conversation that was important to him. "I am four."
"Almost," his mother corrected. "You will be four when we're on the ship."
"Ship! Ship!" He lost interest in both women and went running down the hallway. He disappeared into a room at the end.
Jenny laughed. "He is so excited about our trip. Of course the only thing he really understands is that we are going to be on the water. He's been playing with his boats in the kitchen sink most of the morning. Here, let me take this gown. It's from the play, isn't it? You wore it at the end of the first act to seduce your sister's fiancé."
"Yes, I did not know if I should bring it." She hesitated at the base of the wide staircase as Jenny began to lead the way. "What about Holland?"
"He's with our housekeeper. Mrs. Brandywine will send him to the studio when he wears her down."
Jenny continued up the stairs, chattering gaily about the gown, the play, and making every effort to put her guest at ease. From the moment Jenny had seen Katy alight from the carriage, she had been aware of the actress's hesitation and uncertainty. Katy's guardedness confounded Jenny. She could not help but wonder what Logan's relationship to Katy Dakota could be.
The inside of Marshall House was no less impressive than the outside. Katy's footsteps were almost soundless on the carpet, and her hand slid easily along the polished banister. She tried not to stare at her surroundings, hoping to give the impression that she was, if not used to such luxury, then certainly not intimidated by it. There was no denying that her suite at the Chesterfield was elegantly appointed. Still, peeking unobtrusively when an open door presented itself, Katy began to understand why Logan likened her rooms to a brothel parlor. At the first landing on the stairs, Jenny had paused long enough to point to the left and mention carelessly that Logan occupied the south wing of the house. The south wing! He had his choice of half a dozen beds to sleep in, she thought, yet he was spending his nights in hers. Logan Marshall was mad. Absolutely mad!
The only artist's studio Katy had even been to was Victor's, and by his own admission, he was a mere dabbler. The truth of that was brought home to her when she saw Christian Marshall's workplace.
Jenny, seeing how the room must look through Katy's eyes, was immediately apologetic. "It's awful, isn't it? When Christian works he is rather like a man possessed. Order is not in his vocabulary." Canvases filled every conceivable space. A scarred table was littered with brushes and paints and pallets. Several easels were stacked against one wall and another, this one covered by a sheet to protect a work in progress, stood in the middle of the room. There was a sitting area and two roomy alcoves with windows large enough to catch the morning or evening light.
"Over here," said Jenny, pointing to the alcove with the eastern exposure. "I have arranged this area to be similar to your dressing room at the theatre. Pretend that old brass bed is not there. It won't show up in the photographs."
Katy felt immediately at home in the place Jenny had made for her. The mirrored vanity was very much like the one at Wallack's. The padding on the stool was even a similar shade of green. There was a dressing screen and a chaise, and Jenny had gone to the trouble of adding a few baskets of flowers. None of them were daisies.
Katy put her case on the vanity and began setting out her jars and vials and powders. "If Mr. Marshall sees this room he will know that I've been here," she said. Her voice betrayed little of the anxiousness she felt.
"Logan won't know," Jenny said. "I only put this area together this morning, and I will take it apart as soon as I am done developing the pictures. He will never see it."
Jenny laid Katy's gown across the bed and began to work with her photographic equipment. She adjusted the height of the tripod, checked her lighting, added several gas lamps, and prepared her collodion glass plates.
"What do you want me to do?" asked Katy. It was readily apparent to her that Jenny Marshall was skilled with the unwieldy and complicated equipment. She handled everything with an economy of motion that spoke to her experience and confidence.
"I'd like to do the face studies first. I want you to sit at the vanity and do everything you normally would in preparing yourself to go on stage. I will give you direction as needed; otherwise, you can simply ignore me. You have had your photograph taken before, haven't you?"
Katy's hands stilled, betraying in the space of a moment her discomfort and something of her fear. "Yes," she said, steadying herself.
"Good." Jenny pretended not to notice that she had seen her guest's start. "Then you know that I will need you to hold a pose for a few seconds, just long enough for the image to imprint itself on the collodion film. I will tell you when you can move."
Placing a linen bib over her chest and shoulders to protect her clothing, Katy watched Jenny in the mirror. She was careful when she spoke to keep her voice casual, yet the nature of her question showed her concern. "You and your husband will be the only ones to see these photographs, won't you?"
"Yes. I've already promised you that Logan won't know."
"Nor anyone else?"
"No one will see the photographs, Miss Dakota, but you realize that by posing now you are agreeing to allow Christian to paint you. That will be seen, I can assure you."
"I realize that." Her fingers toyed with a tin of face powder, turning it round and round. "When we spoke of the photographs, you mentioned a study of my face. Is that all you want to photograph?"
"That was my first inclination," Jenny said honestly, wondering where the conversation was going, "but you brought the dress and I think a few full photographs would be a good idea."
"But with the dress on," Katy said quickly.
Jenny stopped fiddling with the lens of her brass bound camera and gave Katy her full attention. "Of course with the dress on," she said slowly. "Oh, I see... you have had other photographs taken and..."
"There is no delicate way to talk about it, is there?" Katy's eyes dropped away, and she stopped playing with the face powder tin. "I posed for someone I trusted wearing a sleepy-eyed smile and little else. I vowed that I would never do it again. I thought for a while that being the subject of a Christian Marshall painting might be reason enough to break my promise. I find that it is not. If that's what you want, then I should leave now. I'm sorry. I know I should have told you earlier."
"You did not have to tell me at all," Jenny said gently, determined to put her guest at ease again. "But I appreciate your candor, and I hope you will set your mind at rest. I truly am interested in a photographic study of your face. I'm sure you realize you have strong, striking features. I would like some full-length photographs as well, but that is mainly to capture the expressiveness of your hands. There will be no pictures of you wearing only a smile."
Relieved, Katy closed her eyes and sighed. A wave of embarrassment came and went. Her shoulders straightened. She raised her head, exposing the long, lovely line of her neck, and looked at Jenny with a direct, open ga
ze. "Then I am ready."
Much later, hours after Katy had departed, Jenny Marshall examined the photographs she had finished developing in her darkroom. They were a remarkable piece of work and Jenny knew it. She had captured Katy's metamorphosis into her character. Using multiple exposures on the same piece of film, Jenny had found a way to show the transition in a single photograph. Katy's transformation had a ghost-like, haunting quality because of the transparency of the images.
Laying out the photographs on her workbench, Jenny studied each in turn. Light caressed the planes and angles of Katy's face and yet it was Katy that appeared to be the source of the light. She was radiant. Her expressions ran the gamut from serene to sly, innocent to vixen. She did it with the slant of her brows, a sidelong glance, a bewitching, sultry smile.
There was one photograph that did not belong with the others, compliments of Jenny's young son. Holland had disturbed their work only once, but his presence gave havoc a free reign. He rushed at the dressing screen while Katy was changing her gown and knocked it over. Jenny was so startled that she dropped the lens cap and inadvertently exposed Katy to the film. Until now she had not thought about what the camera had seen.
It was obvious that Holland's disturbance had startled Katy into stillness. If she had moved, the photograph would have been blurred and its subject probably unrecognizable. But Katy had not moved. She stood holding her gown clutched in front of her, her knuckles white against the dark material. One strap of her chemise had fallen over her shoulder and light shimmered across her white skin. Her eyes, as wide and wary as a cornered fawn's, held all her vulnerability. Yet there was no mistaking that the photograph held a certain eroticism. Katy was more exposed by this picture than if she had been wearing nothing at all.
Jenny studied the picture for a long time. She considered destroying it and found she couldn't. For all that it was an accident, it was still one of the finest photographs she had taken. Gathering them all together, Jenny put the most disturbing one on the bottom and carried them out of the studio under her arm. When they were halfway to Europe was soon enough to show them to her husband, she decided, particularly the one on the bottom.
* * *
The Friday night performance of Manners had a few unexpected hitches. The main curtain stuck at the end of act one, leaving the actors frozen on stage while stagehands scrambled to fix it. Katy was the first to respond with improvisation, and eventually they got through the difficult moment. In the second act Anthony Easton forgot his blocking and bumped painfully hard into Katy as she set off in the same direction. When he reached out to steady her, he grabbed so tightly that she could practically feel the bruises forming. In the third act, the actress who was playing the role of Katy's sister tripped over her partner's feet at the beginning of the ballroom scene and twisted her ankle. She hobbled through the remainder of her performance and collapsed in the wings.
By the time Katy reached the Chesterfield she was physically and mentally exhausted. The realization that she had four more performances before she could rest on Monday was not encouraging.
"That was quite some performance this evening," Logan said, looking over the top of his paper as Katy walked into her suite. "I thought you handled that business at the end of the first act admirably. I doubt anyone who had not seen the play before understood that something had gone wrong."
Katy did not respond although she felt the blood drain from her face. Logan's presence in her suite was more than she could bear. She took off her cape, tossed it carelessly over the back of the rocker, and opened her beaded bag. "I have your money," she said tonelessly. "It's every bit of what you paid for the suite. Please take it and leave." She held it out to him. When he made no move to leave the sofa, Katy approached him and dropped the bills onto his lap. "It's all there."
"I have no doubt." His mouth tightened a little as he stared up at her. "But money won't get me out of your life."
Tears burned in the back of Katy's throat. "If I find another place to live, will you leave me alone?"
"I think you know the answer to that."
"You are not giving me any choice," she said, her voice just a shade above a whisper. "I detest you."
"I have no particular fondness for you either," he said evenly. "That's what makes this arrangement so interesting, don't you think?"
"I want to go to bed."
"Certainly."
"Alone."
His smile was pleasant. "I don't think so."
At her sides, Katy's hands trembled. She sucked in her lower lip to steady it. Composing herself, she walked into the bedroom, her back stiff, her head erect on its slender stem. She disappeared into the bathing room.
He did not disturb her while she bathed. Katy wondered if she was supposed to feel grateful.
Logan was standing at the bedroom window when she returned. There was enough light outside to give his hard profile substance. He was barefoot and shirtless, wearing only a pair of trousers. The suspenders were hanging below his waist and his hands were thrust in his pockets. He rocked once on the balls of his feet, and then he was still, deep in thought. He did not give any indication that he knew Katy had slipped out of her robe and into the bed. Yet, when he turned, his eyes found hers immediately.
"I do not like you," he said flatly. "You can't really expect that I should."
He held up his hand, cutting her off. "But something keeps happening to me when I'm with you. My body responds as if I want you. It does not seem to help that I tell myself you are little different from any whore I could have at Maggie Bryant's house. You are not even as pretty as some of Maggie's girls, and I doubt that being Victor Donovan's mistress has made you particularly skilled in bed."
"Oh, but I have had a legion of lovers before Victor."
Her sarcasm made no impact on him. "It really doesn't matter to me. I only want you long enough to get rid of this ache. Right now my body wouldn't know if I was your fifth lover or your twentieth. I only want to be inside you."
"Go to hell."
"I believe I've said it before. I've already been there."
Katy found herself paralyzed with fear as Logan sat on the edge of the bed and placed one hand on the other side of her thighs, trapping her with his body. Her mouth was very dry and there was a roar in her ears.
"I suppose I could rape you," he said quietly, "but that would bring little in the way of satisfaction to either of us."
"You have lost your mind."
He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "Actually, I have no desire to rape you. But to make you want me? Now, there's a challenge. If I could make you want me in spite of the fact that you don't want me, that would be something. You could despise yourself as much as I despise the same desires in me. There would be a certain comfort in knowing that I made you feel that way."
"I think I should have let my friends kill you," she said quietly.
Logan smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "You only think it?" Raising one hand, Logan cupped Katy's chin, lifting it just enough so that her mouth was level with his. When she tried to move away, his fingers tightened marginally. "What I have in mind will make you sure."
Logan bent his head. His mouth hovered near Katy's so that she could feel the warmth of his breath. There was the faint but unmistakable scent of brandy. A moment later she tasted it on his lips.
"I taught you how to kiss," he murmured against her mouth. "You were so very sweet." His lips touched the corner of her mouth. He was gentle, going slowly, sipping at the sensitive line of her mouth with the delicate precision of a hummingbird. His thumb slid under her chin and began stroking the soft, vulnerable skin of her throat. He could feel the thrumming of her pulse, and his laughter was low and wicked. He knew what she was feeling because he was feeling it, too.
Logan was careful to go slowly. His attention was relentless, but he made only small moves that were calculated not to force her to reject him. She was frightened now. So was he. It was part of the desire building between them
.
Katy swallowed and her mouth parted. She thought that Logan would pounce. He did not. His lips grazed her jawline instead. He followed it to her earlobe and paused, making her anticipate the moment, then his tongue flicked her ear and he heard her soft gasp. "You like that?" he asked, his mouth next to her ear.
"Go away," she whispered, drawing an unsteady breath.
He did not go away. He pressed on, nuzzling the side of her neck, burying his face in the softness of her hair. Catching the woman fragrance of her, Logan's nostrils flared, and he felt a tide of heat rise just under his skin.
"I can't fight you," she said. Logan's lips were trailing across her shoulder. His teeth had caught her nightgown strap and he moved it to the curve of her arm. He placed a light kiss there.
"I know," he said against her skin.
Katy closed her eyes. She felt him straighten and knew that he was watching her. Tears pressed at her eyelids. If she opened her eyes now the dark fan of her thick lashes would become spiked with tears.
Logan kissed each eyelid and tasted the salty wetness. His voice was kind. "Go ahead. Fight me."
"It won't do any good."
"That's true. I am stronger than you are." His mouth touched her forehead, rested briefly on her temple, and then slid along the downy softness of her cheek. "Little lioness," he said. "Even so, I am stronger than you."
"If I had a weapon..." She sucked in her breath as Logan's tongue speared the hollow of her throat. "...I'd make you..."
"I know." His hands cradled the back of her head and his fingers threaded in her thick honey hair. "I know," he said again. His smile was outlined against her skin. He began sipping her flesh.
The love bite drew a response from deep within Katy. She bit her lip to keep him from hearing the urgent little sound that rose almost instantly in her throat. Her fingers curled into the sheets. "You do not want me," she said. "Not really."