by Megan Chance
“Yes,” he said.
“It makes me feel better to know it. I’d thought perhaps you found me . . . lacking.”
He looked bewildered. “Lacking?”
“What else was I to think? I kiss you and then you disappear without a word. I thought I’d displeased you. I understand, of course, if—” I lowered my eyes, raising them again, putting all the wiles I knew to work—“well, perhaps I’m not very good at kissing.”
We were already sitting very close. Now, he moved closer, almost sitting on my skirts. It seemed to take him some effort to say, “Not at all. No, you’re . . . you’re very good at it, in fact.”
“And of course, I’ve been quite distracted lately, so perhaps it wasn’t my best effort—”
“Distracted?”
“I think I could do it much better if I had another opportunity, you see, if there weren’t other things on my mind. And I do like you so much, you know. Well enough to try again, once I have things right—”
“What things?” he asked—so quick, so very eager. The way he looked at me . . . how heady it was. His gaze rested again and again on my lips as if it were all he could do to resist them. My own mouth went dry. “What isn’t right?”
“Well, truthfully, I’m worried. We came to Venice so Joseph could study, but it’s been more expensive than I’d planned. All that time in the Danieli when I could find no place to lease, and now . . . I’m afraid we may have to return to New York unless . . .”
“Unless?”
“I’m sorry. I should not burden you with this.”
“No, no, it’s quite all right.” His hand came to my arm, his fingers pressing against the silk of my sleeve, a touch I found myself liking a bit too much.
“I’m afraid there’s no help for it. I will miss you, Mr. Dane, but the truth is that Joseph and I haven’t enough money to stay.”
“I see. What if . . . what if there was a way, if I could . . . I know your brother is here to study, but would he be averse to taking a commission, do you think?”
My heart jumped. “A commission?”
“I could introduce him to Henry Loneghan. He’s always looking for new artists. I could recommend your brother to him.”
“You would do that for us?”
“Of course. Your brother’s the most talented artist I’ve seen in years. Henry will love him. I’ll do it tomorrow. Will it help, do you think?”
“Oh! Oh, yes, it will help. It will help tremendously!” How easy it had been after all.
“I can’t promise anything, of course, but Henry respects my opinion. I can’t remember the last time he refused me. In fact, I don’t believe he ever has.”
I did not try to restrain my smile. “You are the best of friends, Mr. Dane. Truly. Joseph will be so grateful.”
“I’m glad for that, but it’s your gratitude I’m most interested in.” His hand moved to mine. He eased his thumb beneath my fingers, against my palm. Even with my glove between us, it felt intimate.
The desire I’d been fighting rushed through me. “I see. And do you have some idea of how I might thank you?”
He leaned forward. “Perhaps that kiss—”
He said the last of it, the hiss of the s, against my lips. I felt the warmth of his breath in the moment before his lips touched mine, before they were pressing, opening, and I sighed against him, letting him in, putting my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him back. For a moment, I forgot everything I was supposed to be doing, every plan. His hand came to my breast; I felt the heat of it even through the layers of silk and corset and chemise; I felt something in me dissolve, a growing swell of longing. I arched against him, hearing a whispered sound, a moan, and suddenly Joseph’s words were in my head. Don’t say yes, but don’t say no either, and I knew I was in danger of doing everything he’d warned me not to do.
The past rose up before me. Everything I’d ruined because I’d so wanted to be special on my own that I’d been blind. I was supposed to fascinate Nicholas Dane and nothing more. I was only to use him to get to Loneghan. Not to like him. Not to want him. I could not do this. I could not risk it.
I harnessed my yearnings; I locked desire away, and in that moment I felt Nicholas Dane’s kiss change, as if he felt my withdrawal and meant to fight it. But I pulled back. I was breathing hard, and so was he. “Not here,” I managed, forcing a smile, trying to make him think that what he’d felt was only my fear of being discovered.
He looked as if he were stumbling from sleep. He murmured something beneath his breath, words I could not hear.
I rose, and he let me go. I smoothed my skirt, tucking a loosened hair back into my chignon. My fingers were trembling. “We should go back to the sala.”
“Yes, we should,” he said, rising as well, and I saw him struggle for composure. As if he could not help himself, he leaned close, brushing his lips over my skin, just below my ear, raising a little shiver. He whispered, half to himself, “No, it’s not what I thought, after all, is it? It’s violets. That perfume you wear?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
He drew away, smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was angry, I realized suddenly, and with dismay. Apparently Nicholas Dane did not take no well. Oh, I had already ruined everything.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I had not meant to—”
“Arouse me beyond reason?” he asked lightly. “Torment me like some wicked sorceress?”
“No.” My heart was pounding. “None of those things.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.” His eyes clouded; I saw his effort to clear them. He smiled once more, but again, it seemed distracted. “Come, let’s return to the hordes.”
“Yes,” I agreed, feeling a nervous relief. I was glad when we went back into the crowd, and there was Joseph, looking at me with a question in his eyes. I pulled Nicholas Dane over to him, and said, as a kind of guarantee—if Joseph knew it too, Nicholas could not take it back, no matter how angry he might be—“Joseph, Mr. Dane has promised the most wonderful thing!”
“Has he? What wonderful thing is that?”
“I mean to recommend you to Henry Loneghan,” Nicholas said. “I believe he should see your work. I’m hoping to convince him to commission you.”
Joseph did his best to look surprised. I think no one but me would have seen the pretense. “Why, I’m . . . well, I don’t know what to say.”
“Your sister seemed to think you wouldn’t be averse to such a thing.”
“Not at all.” My brother smiled, his dimples breaking. “Thank you, Dane. It is . . . more than I should ask.”
“You didn’t ask it. I offered. I should have thought of it days ago, in fact, but I didn’t realize your . . . situation. I’ll speak to Henry as soon as I can. He’ll want to meet you.”
“I’ll make myself available any day,” Joseph said.
“Good.” Nicholas smiled. “Now I’m afraid I must be off.” He shook my brother’s hand, and bent to me, a light kiss on my cheek, very friendly, nothing untoward in it. “I’ll see you both soon.”
He started off. My brother frowned and mouthed, What happened? and I hurried after Nicholas Dane, catching up with him halfway down the hall. I called softly, “Nicholas.”
He stopped and turned.
“I . . . if I’ve made you angry I do apologize. Perhaps I was too forward . . . that is . . .” I let the words fall, not knowing what else to say.
His gaze softened. He glanced about, and then he took the two steps to close the distance between us. “What did you call me?”
I frowned—I had called him by his Christian name. “Oh, I—”
“Say it again,” he demanded.
“Nicholas,” I said.
“I like the way it sounds from your pretty mouth. In fact, I like everything about your mouth. Have I told you that?”
There were people all around. He spoke quietly enough that I thought they couldn’t hear, but it lent enough of an impropriety to his wor
ds that I felt a little trill of arousal.
“No.” I could barely force my voice. “I don’t think you have.”
“Well I do,” he said. “Good night, Sophie.” And then he turned on his heel and strode away.
NICHOLAS
The Citta di Firenze had good wine, and Henry Loneghan liked it. We’d spent many an evening relaxing at its tables, and he’d been the first to suggest we meet there when I told him of Joseph Hannigan.
“He’s brilliant,” I’d said. “He does people beautifully. Surely you need a new portrait done?”
Henry shook his head. “Of me? Good God, no. We’ve already an absurd number of them.”
“Then Edith. Isn’t it about time for another of her?”
He hesitated. “She hates to sit for them.”
“Ah, but he’s a handsome fellow. She’ll like looking at him. And he has a charming sister who I’m certain would come along to entertain.”
Henry stroked his voluminous white beard—he had more hair than any one man had a right to own, along with a high forehead that gave him a noble and well-bred air—of which he was both. He’d been a friend of my father’s when they’d both been in the House of Commons, and he’d taken an interest in me over my brother Jonathan, which was one of the reasons I liked him. But Henry’s passion was for art, and his disdain for politics had only grown as he’d aged, and so perhaps that explained why he’d chosen a ne’er-do-well poet over a barrister. He was also one of the only people I knew who’d actually bought my poetry.
“At least talk to him,” I urged Henry now. “I thought of you immediately when I saw his work. You’ll like him. I do.”
“Well, thus far you’ve proved to have an unparalleled eye for such things,” he said. “And perhaps . . . we were looking for a piece for the second salon.”
So now here we were—Joseph Hannigan, Henry Loneghan and I—lingering over a third bottle of wine. Henry had been impressed with Hannigan the moment he’d walked into the restaurant—and I was glad to see Hannigan had taken the meeting seriously; though he still wore no hat, he had dressed well. He had an ease and charm that put Henry immediately at his, and they were laughing together before dinner had been cleared.
It was a good thing, as I had little to contribute to the conversation. I was tired; I’d had a few long and exhausting nights with almost no sleep, not all of which was due to my self-imposed sentry at Odilé’s. At least some was the fault of Sophie Hannigan and her kisses—dear God, that kiss at the salon. . . . I didn’t want to think of it just now, or the strangeness of what had happened, the strength of my arousal and then the smell of almonds that had paralyzed me, a perfume that had not been hers, but Odilé’s. It had made me jerk away from Sophie precipitously—and I hoped she hadn’t noticed. But the uneasiness that had come over me then hadn’t gone away.
It was all I could do to devote myself to urging and directing Henry Loneghan tonight. When Henry finally gestured to Hannigan, saying, “Now then, let’s see your work, young man,” I knew I had succeeded. Henry liked Hannigan—there was virtually no chance he wouldn’t like the work. My job was done. I poured another glass of wine and sat back in my chair, watching as Hannigan handed over his sketchbook and Henry began to leaf through it.
Henry paused at the first page. His eyes, still sharp for his age, narrowed; he perused every detail before he said, “Very good,” and went on to the next. I could not help but notice it was a sketch of Mestre, but not Mestre as it was—Mestre as Sophie had described it in her story, shimmering and beautiful and not quite real. What a gift it was, to see the world that way.
Henry glanced up at Hannigan with an admiring expression. “Where did you get your training?”
“I haven’t any,” Hannigan confessed, sitting forward, eagerness in his bearing. In the dim gaslight of the restaurant, he was more striking than ever. “Not formally, anyway. I began copying when I was very young. My aunt wasn’t interested in paying for lessons, so I did what I could.”
“Extraordinary,” Henry said. “I must admit I’ve rarely seen such raw talent. And what you’ve done with it—” He fell silent when he turned the page, freezing. I had some idea what he must be looking at, and I knew it for certain when he said, “Who is this?”
Hannigan leaned in to see. “My twin sister. Sophie.”
It was not the sketch that had first captured me, nor the one at the Lido. This was one I hadn’t seen, the fish market at the Rialto with the Grand Canal and the edge of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi in the background. She was staring into the distance, her chin lifted, her eyes closed, with yearning so starkly and seductively written on her features that I could not help but stare. Again I felt consternation that her brother should see such things in her, again the question of what it might mean.
I felt Hannigan’s glance, and I looked over to see a thoughtfulness in his gaze that confused me before he looked away again. Henry closed the sketchbook with a definitive slap. “Well, there’s no need to see more. You’re hired, Mr. Hannigan. This spring, I would very much like a portrait of my wife done with your talented brush. And I think perhaps I shall want something else too, but we can talk about that then. If you’re willing, of course.”
This spring. I saw Hannigan’s disappointment, which he hid the next moment.
“The spring?” I asked.
“Unfortunately I’ve been called to Rome,” Henry said. “A pity, as we’ve just got here, but I trust I can reserve your services in advance, Mr. Hannigan?”
Hannigan smiled charmingly. “Yes, of course. I’d be honored. I am very grateful, sir.”
“As am I, to Nicky, for bringing you to me. Your eye for talent has only grown more discerning, my boy. I expect Mr. Hannigan here will set Venice afire.”
I felt justified and proud, half in love with Hannigan myself for how well he’d impressed Henry and how well it reflected on me. As Henry wrote a small cheque to Hannigan, I wondered if it was enough to keep him and his sister in the city—and what I could do if it were not.
After Henry took his leave, I said, “I had no idea Henry was leaving again so soon. I do hope his promise is enough to keep you here.”
Hannigan took a sip of wine. He was nearly vibrating with excitement. “I would stay a year living on the streets for Henry Loneghan,” he said, and I found myself liking him even more, glad that I’d brought him, glad to help him—eager to do so.
“And to think I nearly didn’t go to the campo with Giles that day we met,” I told him.
He smiled, clasping my arm. “I’m very grateful you did.”
The words were simple and heartfelt, and I was startled at how strongly I responded to them. It was that magic in him again—I felt it intensely in that moment, along with the desire to be his friend, to stay his friend. I’d somehow spent my life waiting to sit in this cafe with him, sharing a bottle of wine.
I was tired, and the wine had made me sentimental and maudlin, erasing my usual cynicism—I have no other way to explain why I felt so caught in his spell. I found myself saying, “You and your sister may be the best thing that has ever happened to me,” and meaning it in a way I rarely meant anything.
“Sophie has that effect on people.”
I felt a surge of jealousy at the thought that there might be others like me. “Does she? I suppose the two of you have left more than a few broken hearts in your wake.”
Hannigan laughed humorlessly. “I don’t know about that. But Sophie’s very special.”
“Yes, she is. And so are you. The two of you . . . well, I have to say that no one knows what to make of you. There’s something . . . I think you confuse people.” I wondered if he heard the accusation I was not quite making.
“Because we’re twins, no doubt.” It had the sound of having been said a hundred times before.
“I think it might be more than that.”
His expression went carefully blank. “What do you mean?”
“Well, she’s your muse, isn’t she?” I said.
“What you do with the stories she tells . . . it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Your sketch of Mestre—and the Lido too—you drew the world she gave us. The two of you made something so beautiful it changed the way I saw it. I’ll never think of those places the same way again.”
He looked surprised, and then thoughtful, as if there was something in me he hadn’t expected and now needed to reassess. “No one else has ever seen that,” he said softly. “Or if they have, they’ve never said it. It’s Sophie’s talent, though she thinks she has none. She doesn’t know how important she is. But without her . . .”
“Without her, what?”
His gaze locked to mine. “I’m nothing.”
I felt a needling discomfort, the sense that he was challenging me, that he wanted me to ask the question of what they truly were to each other. But I suddenly couldn’t ask. As disturbing as my suspicions had been, I now wasn’t certain I wanted to know whatever dark thing was between them—and it was dark. I saw it in his eyes.
Instead I was struck by the urge to show him I was different than everyone else, that I saw the sublimity in them that made the rest of it somehow not matter. I wanted him to think me more perceptive, worth keeping. “I think many men would give a great deal for such a muse. I would have given my soul for it.” I almost had. “I understand why you keep her so close. Had I something like that, I would never let it go. You’re destined to make a mark. I confess I’m envious.”
“Are you?”
“It’s only because I’ve had too much wine that I’m admitting it, you know. I’d prefer you keep my ambitions a secret, if you don’t mind. It’s less humiliating when everyone doesn’t witness your failures.”
“How have you failed?” he asked. “Was it fame you wanted?”
“Fame? Perhaps. But I think it’s more that I want to believe that my time here on earth has some meaning, that I’ve made some difference.”
He smiled. I saw in his dark blue eyes empathy and affection, and I felt appreciated and valued.
“You understand,” I said.
“Perhaps more than you know,” he answered. He picked up his glass, draining it. Then he said with sudden energy, “Let’s go back to the Moretta and tell Sophie about Loneghan.”