Any body, probably. Had it not been her he had taken up as his mistress those four years ago, she was sure he would have found another woman that evening.
Josephine skimmed her hands down the silk and recalled the deep jewel tone she had worn that night at Lady Steele’s. It hadn’t been red. No, it had been a deep emerald and had certainly been far more modest, but the moment Dante had set eyes on her, she had felt it. It was the sort of moment of which a woman dreamed. Eyes connecting across the distance, drawn together by some invisible force.
That very night he had kissed her and begged to make love to her. He had seduced her easily with his charming ways and beautiful words. But Josephine didn’t believe herself easily seduced. There had been others who had tried to woo her into bed. She was poor, attractive, and widowed. A great catch for many. Someone they’d never have to wed but could be guaranteed of her loyalty by providing for her.
However, Dante had been different. He never failed to make her laugh or soothe away the occasional tear. She supposed she couldn’t regret these past years. In Dante’s arms, she had enjoyed some of the best nights of her life.
Pausing to view herself in the full length mirror, Josephine began to undo the flimsy gown, drawing it down to her waist and pushing it off her hips. She wore no undergarments save from stockings—an outfit designed for seduction. She really was foolish. What else could she expect from him when she dressed like this? He would never see her as anything more than mistress material.
She smoothed her hands over her curved hips and flat stomach. From now on, an attractive figure would count for nothing. She reached for the nightrail she had left draped over the modesty screen and tugged it on before slipping on a robe. From this day forward, she wanted to be known as something more. No longer would she be Josephine Beaumont, mistress to the notorious Lord Dante Cynfell. From now on she would be J. Beaumont, renowned artist. If Mr Allen’s words could be believed, that hope might not be so very false.
Heading over to the dressing table, she cleaned off the rouge and eyeliner she had applied in her excitement. She’d hoped to look her best while she shared her wonderful news with Dante. Now that rouge was smeared and the eyeliner had run onto her cheeks. She grimaced at her reflection in the freestanding mirror. How quickly her mood had changed when she realised Dante would not be visiting her at eight o’clock as promised. The hours ticked by, empty and lonely, until he had awoken her, expecting a tumble.
Well, no more. Having sold one painting, she would be able to rent a modest property in London. She had some money saved, and on top of her dowry, she would be fine. Hardy living at her current standards but better than nothing. Better than waiting for a man who could never give her everything she needed.
No matter how much she loved him.
Chapter Three
She had actually gone. Dante pinched the bridge of his nose. Josephine had left him. His Jo-Jo. Damn her. He glanced over her dressing table and eyed the empty spots where her cosmetics had been. The scent of her perfume still hung in the air but the housekeeper said she had been gone for three days now.
Three days. Where was she? She had nowhere to go. Her family were limited to a few cousins and an uncle, he believed. She didn’t even know them. Would she have really gone to them? He’d have to quiz Miss Smith and find out what she knew. When Josephine had agreed to be his mistress she’d been a poor widow. Her dowry had amounted to very little and her husband’s property had passed on to his son by his first wife. As far he knew, little had changed. Josephine still had nothing.
He rubbed his chest where an uncomfortable burning sensation was building. He’d so hoped to be greeted with her usual cheery smile. The other evening had been so out of character. Yes, he wasn’t great at being on time, and admittedly she had asked him several times to ensure he made a better attempt at time-keeping. But honestly, it was not as though her life depended upon him being early or late. What did it matter if he slipped into her bed a little late? He ensured she had every comfort a woman could possibly need. Really her life was quite blessed.
Dante uncurled a fist he hadn’t realised he’d clenched and scanned the room once more. The bedroom appeared lifeless without her various lotions and potions scattered around. Gone were the stockings and robes she tended to leave hanging about. The vase that had once held a generous bouquet of flowers sat empty, awaiting the very bunch he had abandoned in the hallway when the housekeeper had informed him the lady was no longer in residence. The glass vase gleamed in the sunlight filtering through the sash windows—mocking him.
“Bloody damn well damn her!”
He spun away, unable to bear looking at the empty bedroom where they had spent so many fantastic hours. Josephine had always been his match, in bed and out. Sweet, kind, funny but with a wicked side. He put it down to her artistic temperament. Once he got her between the sheets, a veritable temptress awoke.
Striding down the corridor, he paused outside what had become her art room. The light was the best apparently as it faced out over the garden and received the sun during the afternoon. The room was little more than an empty bedroom, and he had intended to use it as her dressing room but she’d asked—in her usual quiet way—to use it for painting. In the throes of lust, he’d been more than happy to oblige.
Gone were the easel and paint supplies, but one painting remained, propped against the wall. His stomach seemed to drop to his toes. Feeling as though he was treading on sacred land, he tiptoed into the room and knelt by the painting.
Half-fearing it might disappear, he touched the canvas. Though he’d known of her studying the arts as a young girl, he hadn’t realised Josephine possessed such talent until she’d made him sit for this. It beat any of the awful, stiff portraits their father had commissioned of him and his brothers when they resided at Lockwood Manor.
Dante glanced at the chaise on which she had made him sit for many an hour. Until, of course, he’d persuaded her their time might be spent in more enjoyable ways. He had to admit, however, watching her paint brought much joy. To see her expressions and how she stuck out her tongue as she concentrated...it was no wonder he had always been dying to tumble her after a short while.
No. He stood so quickly his head span a little. No, this would not do. She could not simply walk out on him like this. Not after four years together—four fantastic years. Why would she want to throw that all away?
Marriage. Damn that institution. That word put ideas of fairytales into women’s heads. Dante knew well enough the opposite sex spent years planning the most romantic event of their lives. He had been with enough women before Josephine to understand that.
He snorted. Romance? As far as he could tell, marriage removed any chance of romance. His brother had suffered two miserable marriages and even his one happy one had ended badly. Now he was married to an American woman, the fool. Julian wouldn’t be any happier with her. As nice as Viola was, that would change soon enough.
Marriage only made people unhappy as near as he could tell. Why would Josephine wish to put them through that?
Dante spun on his heel and strode downstairs to find Miss Smith standing in the drawing room, ringing her hands.
“What is it, Miss Smith?”
“Forgive me, my lord.” The young woman drew her lip under her teeth. The housekeeper had served Josephine since he had rented the house for her, and in spite of being only twenty when she took the post, Dante had recognised her intelligence and ambition.
“Well?”
“I suppose you will no longer be needing me.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to be selfish, but my siblings...”
He waved a hand. Miss Smith had several younger brothers and sisters—he couldn’t remember how many. But she was their sole provider and, as such, needed constant and well-paid employment. Dante paused to curl a hand around the door frame.
“You are to remain here, Miss Smith. Keep the house clean and in order. Ensure Potts and Mrs B continue
as usual.”
“My lord?” Miss Smith’s bold blue gaze flicked to his.
“Mrs Beaumont will be returning,” he assured her. “Just ensure everything is ready for her.”
Yes, this was good. She would return to him. She simply had to. Josephine loved him. Why would she deny the company of the man she loved? He would just have to be extremely persuasive.
“Do you know where she went?”
“No, my lord. She only said to send her apologies and to thank you for everything. But you will see her soon, will you not? London is not so very big.”
The housekeeper was right. They ran in the same social circles, which was how they had met. At some point, he would run into her. But some point wasn’t soon enough. He needed to see her now. Bloody hell, what if she was rotting in some boarding house somewhere? He had to save the damned woman from herself.
“She took a cab?”
“Yes, my lord.”
He hissed his discontent. He had no way of tracking her down. Unless... “Miss Smith, I shall bid you good day. I’ll be along again soon.”
This very day if he could help it.
After retrieving his hat, he shoved it on his head and made his way out into the street. He waved a hand to his driver to indicate that he remain. Barnaby’s wasn’t far away so he walked. Tourists, merchants, and locals crowded the streets, hindering his progress. He cursed when a woman wheeled over his foot with her heavy pram but managed to offer her a polite smile and a tip of his hat when she apologised.
The art shop sat down the narrow alleyway on Chapel Street. The green-painted wooden front and bevelled windows were grimy and chipped, covered in a faint sheen of coal dust. Dante smirked. For the prices Barnaby was charging, he ought to be able to get the place cleaned and painted.
When he entered the art shop, dust tickled his nose and the acrid scent of paint made him wince. The bell on the door tinkled and the old man behind the counter perked. He came around the counter and pressed his glasses up his nose to peer at him. He dropped into an obscenely low bow.
Dante took a moment to glance around. The place was deserted. Perhaps he did understand why Barnaby had to charge so much money for his supplies. Apparently the shop wasn’t frequented by patrons often.
“My lord, it is an honour.”
Dante waited for the white-haired man to straighten. Straightening looked to be an impossibility. From the paint smudges on his hand, it appeared as though the shopkeeper had spent too many days bent over a canvas and his posture would remain deformed. The man stood at an odd sort of angle and had to peer up at him from under bushy white eyebrows that matched his hair.
“Has Mrs Beaumont been in recently?”
“Why, yes, only two days ago. She came to settle some accounts.”
He let his eyebrows dart up. “All her accounts are paid up?”
“Yes, my lord. In full. She asked that we do not send the invoices to your address anymore. Is that why you are here? Were you expecting them to come to you?”
Dante rubbed his temples. Josephine’s art supplies cost him more money than most of her jewels and dresses over the years. How had she been able to settle the account?
“Tell me, does she still have an account with you?”
“Yes, she ordered some new brushes and paints the very same day.” The old man gave a wistful smile. “She was quite excited to try the new Lefranc and Bourgeois colours. Perhaps you would like to see?”
Dante shook his head. He had no interest in Lefranc and...whatever it was. “Where were these new paints to be sent?” he demanded.
Barnaby drew down his glasses and eyed him over the wire frames. “If there is a reason you don’t know where she is, my lord, I would think that is probably how Mrs Beaumont wants it to stay.”
Stiffening, Dante tried to put on his most impervious air. “I have some of her belongings still,” he lied. “Some things that are very dear to her. I have no ill intentions. You know Mrs Beaumont well enough to know that she would not have tolerated any ill behaviour from me and that I wish only the best for her.”
“She certainly was fond of you, my lord.” He sighed and huddled behind his desk to leaf through a blue leather-bound ledger. He glanced up at Dante once more before skimming the worn pages and settling upon an almost illegible scribble. “Berwick Road. Number Twelve.”
He nodded. So she was not living in a boarding house. That was a relief. It wasn’t the finest part of London but nor was it the slums. He wouldn’t have to worry about her safety there.
But how in the devil could she afford the rent, unless...
No, she couldn’t have.
Could she?
Had she run into the arms of another man? Had she been unfaithful? He shook his head. No, Josephine couldn’t lie to him. It simply wasn’t in her nature. But he supposed she could have received another offer or was shopping for a new lover.
He muttered a vague thank you to the shopkeeper and hastened out of the shop. Jealousy, as sharp and as ragged as broken glass sliced his insides. Perhaps she would find another man who would want to spend every evening sitting around in his slippers and drinking port while she painted. The image made him sick to his stomach. Fine, she might be able to find some boring codger of a man but she’d never find someone who could fulfil her needs as he had.
By the time he had returned to his driver, ordered him to make for her address, and settled in the cabriolet, the jealousy had turned hot and searing. It ate into him, making his jaw tight. He rarely lost his temper but if he wasn’t careful, he’d lose it now. The mere idea of her being with another man put him so on edge that he felt as though each breath was coming as hot and heavy as a bull’s just before he charged.
The time it took to reach her new lodgings aggravated him and made it worse. He forced himself to take several breaths before leaping down from the vehicle. He glanced up at the three storey white building and looked around the neighbourhood. Really, it was quite pleasant. If she was indeed mistress for someone else, however, he had to be a fairly poor man not to put her up in better accommodation. Josephine deserved more.
Him, for example. He straightened his waistcoat, ran a hand through his hair, and practiced his most charming smile. As long as no one else was in the picture, he’d win her back easily enough. She never had been able to resist him. And if there was someone else, he still liked his chances. Women had always come easily to him.
Dante pulled the door bell and waited. He had to clamp his hands behind him so he didn’t tap his fingers against his legs. The door swung open and his heart threatened to leap out of his throat.
“Jo-Jo.”
Christ, he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed her until now. He’d stayed away a week, as planned, and it had been the longest week of his life. He needed her already. She wore a prim shirt, buttoned up to the collar and embellished with an amber broach. Her dark blue skirt enhanced the curve of her hips. That golden hair that he longed to see over her shoulders was coiled up high. He couldn’t help running his gaze up and down her.
“Dante, whatever are you doing here?”
He offered her a lopsided smile, one that usually made her melt into him. Instead her posture remained rigid and she folded her arms across her chest.
“Do I not get a welcome kiss?”
She rolled her eyes. “You do not. How did you find me?”
“Barnaby’s.”
“Barna—” She huffed a sigh. “I should have told him to keep my new address quiet.”
“Why, Josephine? Why do you need to hide from me?”
“Because I knew full well you would turn up on my doorstep before long.”
“Damn, I hate to be predictable.” He edged forward until he nearly stood on her toes. She stepped back. “Will you not invite me in?”
She closed her eyes briefly and opened them before giving him a stiff nod. She stepped back, and he slipped in and removed his hat. He placed it on the hat stand and glanced around the small h
allway. Well-decorated, simple, nice enough.
Josephine led the way into what his mother would call a quaint drawing room. Heavy blue drapes framed the window that looked out over the street and several clusters of fresh flowers sat on all the various wooden surfaces. Had they been bought for her by a lover?
He forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand—coaxing her back.
She clasped her hands in front of her and faced him. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No.” He stepped forwards and tried to take her into his arms, but she shied away. His Jo-Jo shied away. What in the hell was going on? She always melted as soon as he touched her.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
“Don’t be like that, Jo-Jo...”
“Dante, you cannot just touch me however you please.” She bit her lip. “Not anymore.”
He slashed a hand through his hair. “Look, I cannot claim to understand what’s going on here, but if this is you trying to teach me a lesson—” he released a laugh “—consider it learned. I miss you. I need you back, sweeting. Come back to the house, and I will make more of an effort to be home on time. I’ll change, I swear it.”
Josephine eyed him and shook her head slowly. “You’ve not learned a thing. Forgive me, but I cannot return. I am content here.”
“Content? How can you be content in this small house? Even the furnishings are basic. Return to the house, and we can talk about this properly.”
Chin lifted, she shook her head again. “There is nothing to talk about. I’m staying here. I do not wish to be your mistress anymore.”
Those words...Lord, how they struck him in the chest. He’d hoped this was all some big mistake. She was simply trying to make him want her more or something. But no. He knew from her expression and strong stance that Josephine truly meant what she said. She wished to end their relationship.
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