by Liz Tyner
Her head darted around again. ‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘Fortunate guess.’
Her eyes tensed, her mouth firmed and even the paintbrush in her hand tensed. ‘We will get nothing done today if you don’t co-operate.’
Then next time she stuck her head around, he crossed his eyes. She didn’t notice. Still working on the nose.
She moved back into her thoughts, and his thoughts moved the length of her body and he felt himself smile. He kept his nose perfectly still.
He shut his eyes, very carefully moved his fist under his chin to prop himself up and relaxed, listening to the occasional sound of her wordless commentaries. The act of posing for her captured him in a way he’d never expected. To be the centre of her concentration for hours on end brought to life a connection that flowed into him.
Without the scar on his chest, he would have been tempted to remove his clothing and see the outcome of her brush. He could simply have made certain she changed his features and waited some time before she displayed the piece.
No, he thought, inwardly shaking his head. He might be comfortable with her capturing him bare, but he could not ever be comfortable with anyone else but his or Beatrice’s eyes on the artwork. Not even if the face were someone else’s completely. He would know, and when the eyes gazed at the flesh it would be his image they saw. He could not live with such a thing.
‘We’re done for today.’ Her words shocked his eyes open and he raised his head from his fist, flexing his fingers. He felt he’d been compressed. Perhaps he’d dozed off. He wasn’t sure.
He stood, loosening his muscles, and looked across to see her stretching. He wrinkled his face, letting his nose know it could now relax.
Walking to the painting, he saw the sketched outline of his face and now he had a nose—although he wouldn’t have been able to tell if it was anyone else’s nose.
She looked at him, eyes waiting.
He gave a nod. ‘Very good.’
Then she reached up, put her brush back in her teeth and grasped his chin, turning his head first one way and then the other. ‘Uh-huh,’ she mumbled around the brush. She removed the obstacle to her words and spoke softly. ‘You do have a remarkable nose,’ she told him, imparting some artistic knowledge.
He looked again at the painting. Nothing. A nose. Simple. Two nostrils. No bulb at the end. No bump at the ridge. No twist at the side. But perhaps that was what one wanted in a nose.
He took her chin, lifted it and she stilled. He examined her nose. ‘Then you have a remarkable nose as well.’
She blushed and he would have supposed she blushed to her toes, but his thoughts were sidetracked by the tops of her breasts.
And then the memory of how they’d looked when she’d lowered her gown popped into his mind and he didn’t need her to sit hours for him to be able to recall them.
Posing wasn’t the chore he expected. For hours as he posed, he watched her. Every instant that she was lost in concentration, her face was unguarded. Without words or touch, he could feel himself being pulled deeper and deeper into a connection to her.
He should not have agreed to it. Watching her paint was drawing him to her in a way he could not have expected. Gone was the little bird who’d fallen from the nest and the Beast. She watched her canvas in the same way a mother would look at a babe. He could not take his eyes from that sight.
* * *
‘You’ve paint on your cheek,’ he said.
‘It would be odd if I did not.’ Her words were hardly loud enough to hear and her concentration never left her task.
He stood, took a step to her, then used his thumb to brush away a colour which really hadn’t been but just a speck in the first place, and watched a hint of red grow, blending well with the almost invisible dusting of freckles at her nose.
‘Oh, Andrew...’ She gazed at him and almost gasped out the words when she turned her head back to the portrait. ‘You’re looking luscious.’
He didn’t think the words were truly directed at him, but at the painting. He stood in front of it and examined the work.
She had done a good job, he had to admit. All the parts were there and looked amazingly like him. Nothing particularly fascinating. He’d seen the same face in the mirror countless times.
‘Let’s go a little longer. Please.’ Eyes the shade of azure pleaded and no one could think her anything but demure if they’d gazed at her now.
He gave a quick nod and an inspection of her dress. The one with the mark at the breast. All the paint on Beatrice’s clothing drew his eyes.
‘There is just one problem,’ she said. Her voice faded, much like an absentminded tutor’s might. ‘I must now see your chest in good light—without your clothing.’
‘Beatrice.’ He examined the canvas. She’d already outlined his neckcloth in pencil and filled in some of the darker strokes of his coat.
She pointed a brush to the cow skull. ‘An artist needs to understand more than the outside.’
‘If that were the case, then you could not paint me fully well until the skin was taken from my bones. I wouldn’t agree to that, either.’
She smiled, perfect lips, perfect teeth and an imperfect grin, then turned her paintbrush towards the man, not the canvas. She trailed the rounded end of her paintbrush against him, starting at his ear and tracing his jawline, sending pulses into his body. ‘So, if I said I’d just like to see you without your shirt?’
She wove the brush around him like a sorceress’s wand.
‘I had a long night, Beatrice.’ Because he could not sleep for thoughts of her.
‘I lit the lamps and painted. I risked ruining my eyes but I could not stop. I’ve been awake since one.’ She indicated the inner doorway with a quick nod of her head. ‘Soft bed. We could both rest.’
He shook his head, but the image of her clothes sliding from her body flashed in his mind. Her skin would be silken under his touch and he could bury his face in the tendrils of her hair.
He looked into her face, examining her with the same intensity she used on him. Comparing her to the Boadicea, aware that she had chosen the perfect theme for a reproduction of her likeness.
She was the vermilion of an explosion and he was the tones of the forest at sunset. He might watch an eruption, be fascinated by it and drawn to it, but he could not live inside it. He pushed away the regrets of life. He had only to think of the day his world had changed for ever with the daubs of a few bits of ink on paper. The words had the strength of being etched in steel.
Instead of pulling from his gaze, or showing discomfort at his scrutiny, she paused, looking as if she absorbed his view in the same way one might feel sunlight.
He could not help himself. He bent down, not kissing her cheek, but letting his cheek brush against it, feeling the roughening on his cheek against the smoothness of hers.
Andrew pressed his lips together. His control could not desert him, but he was not fond of it any more. It seemed to be getting in the way of so much.
Slipping the brush from her fingertips, he opened her palm. With the rounded end, he traced the ridges of her palm, then flipped the brush around to put it back in her grasp.
His eyes told her what he didn’t put into words and he saw the flush creep into her cheeks, and the flash of agreement and anticipation.
She stared at the form taking shape. ‘But I am close to finishing.’ She frowned. ‘I’m torn. I want to linger over this and yet...’
‘Just finish as you normally would.’
His defences had dashed away, but not completely and he would not let them. While being close to holding her unrestrained in his arms, at the same time he mentally prepared to leave so he did not become entangled.
She stared at the work.
‘It’s just a painting,’ he said.
‘No. It’s not. Not to me. It’s so much more.’ Pulling her hand away at half the pace of her normal movement, she looked to the portrait. ‘You do like it?’
&n
bsp; ‘Yes. You’re an accomplished artist.’
‘I so wish to finish this so I can continue—another.’
The thought of Beatrice looking forward to painting something else didn’t relieve him as it should have.
‘You must take care with your next portrait. It must be something to enhance your image. Something you can show the world.’
She lowered her eyes and, in that moment, he saw a different person. The other Beatrice, and he could not guess her thoughts in any way. He moved to see her face better and her expression changed. Her smile fluttered in place—a guise to distract from her true thoughts. She had ceased to think of anything but charming him.
She touched his cheek and then her forefinger traced the seam of his lips. ‘In truth, I only think of painting you.’
‘Beatrice—can you live a sedate life?’
The words stopped her hands in mid-air. He saw nothing in her which could be satisfied with serene. Behind her eyes glistened so many different bursts of energy. She couldn’t even keep silent or still when she painted and her curls kept rearranging themselves when she moved just the slightest. Beatrice had been created for life, liveliness and adventure. She was a spirit of her own. Something designed to bring the world around her alive.
Her paintbrush returned to the portrait, dusting at the paint, blending. ‘Perhaps I was put on earth to create vicarious adventures for others.’ Her laugh sounded fluid, touching him in a palpable sense.
But her words echoed the truth throughout his body. Beatrice flourished with adventure.
‘One way to change perception is to use your art to paint some pictures of children, or baby chicks or lambs. Gentle subjects,’ he said.
‘Who will care about boring subjects?’
‘You are painting a very boring subject now.’
She lowered her chin and raised a brow, but then her face relaxed. ‘I’ll make you interesting.’
‘Now I’m concerned.’
‘Perhaps you should be. Perhaps I should be. Artists let bits of their own feelings towards a subject show in the work. It cannot be prevented. Colours are mixed a bit darker before you realise it. A placid face becomes a scowl.’
‘Then I will look forward to seeing if I have a halo or horns when you finish.’
She looked at him, thinking of his words. ‘I think you have a bit of both in your eyes.’ She moved to let her fingers trail down his face, starting just below his eyes and ending at his chin. ‘You are rare to me. The men in a few sculptures I have seen almost have no expression and that is a beauty in its own way. To make the model into a form that is encompassing art and not an individual. But I want you to look like the person I see. I want a picture that one hundred years from now someone can look at and recognise you as if they know you.’
‘You are expecting a lot of canvas and paints.’
‘I am challenged by your form to do my best. I have practised all my life so I might paint you. You are my muse.’
Chapter Fourteen
Beatrice continued painting in the hours after Andrew left, letting the vision surface and watching his face before her. Pleased with what she saw, but unable to stop, even for water. Wanting to see him closer, to have him before her in the exact way she saw him.
When she heard the maid knock and enter, she smelled meat pies. She looked up long enough to acknowledge the woman holding the tray. ‘I’ll eat when the light fades. Let Mother know I’ll be painting longer.’
The maid nodded, completely unsurprised with the statement, and placed the tray on the table by the door.
Beatrice frowned, irritated. The light would not last long enough for her to continue as she wished. She needed to lock the door and switch to the other canvas soon.
Andrew was the muse for the rest of her life. In wanting to change her into a better version of herself, he had shown her that she was the person she wanted to be.
She bit her lip. But she would miss looking at him. She had to have the painting, the large one, to keep for ever.
She must make it so real she could look at the likeness and the luscious eyes, and smell the woodsy smell. Standing inches from it, she wanted to be able to know the touch of his skin again. His eyes needed to be so real she could feel the gaze.
Brown could be so many shades and picking the right ones for his eyes had been difficult. It seemed they changed with his expression. Vibrated intensity. Her brush fought with her, but she would not give in.
Then she stood and reached for a lamp, stumbling over the slippers she’d left in the pathway, and righting herself to stand in front of the art.
Only the canvas likeness could accept her as she was. Andrew could not. He desired a princess sort who could curtsy well and glide on her golden slippers.
She would always have the painting, and when she felt alone the eyes looking back understood her completely.
* * *
She had put the large portrait away and worked on the smaller one when Andrew walked into the room for their next session. After her mother had met him that one time, Beatrice had asked him to find his way to the studio for the future sessions and let himself in.
She could feel him studying the work. She was so close to being finished.
‘Can you make me look a pirate?’ he asked.
‘I could,’ she muttered. ‘But you are not a pirate. You are the knight. The strong knight.’
She picked up a dry paintbrush and stopped in front of him. She ran the brush along the bristles of his chin. ‘You did not shave this morning.’
‘I did not have time. I could not wait to see you. Lady Riverton, you are capturing more of me than just my image.’
As her brush left his face, she turned the rounded top to let it flicker along the folds of his cravat, click down one side of the buttons of his waistcoat and then move back to the centre of his chest.
Her brush stilled. ‘You must know something I have decided as I painted. I have thought about it well into the night. My art will be viewed more as the Beast’s. Perhaps that is truly who I must be. I don’t want to change it. I think, if I let the notoriety continue, my art will be noticed more. I will not have to hide behind a signature that is nothing more than a straight line.’
‘Are you certain?’
Sadness caused her stomach to churn. She could not destroy the spirit inside herself that made her see life differently from others. The spirit that drew eyes, but yet, was what made her like her life.
Riverton had tried to quash her, but Andrew could actually do it. He was her knight and he wore the armour. She could almost hear the metal ring when he walked. She could not get past the breastplate over his chest. With one swipe of his eyes as he cringed because of her actions, her blood would slowly seep from her body. He abhorred the experiences that nourished her spirit.
She could bear the condemnation of strangers. But she could not pretend to be someone else. Little fissures that seemed insignificant before marriage grew each day after the vows were said. The years of censure by Riverton and his family, whom she did not care one sniffle for, had taught her that she could not bear to live in a home where disapproval followed her.
Well, except her mother’s. That she was used to.
She would stay Beatrice the Beast, as much as she hated it—the person the scandal sheets had created. She wanted the applause, the notoriety. She might sometimes regret her actions because of her impulsiveness, but she loved her art. She loved the freedom to create as she wished, what she wished, and to stand up with arms outstretched to the heavens uncaring who saw. She wanted the storm and the splatters of rain to coat her face, the lightning to scare her and the thunder to vibrate her senses.
She twirled the brush, watching the rotation. ‘Yes, I will remain the Beast. I know it is not the answer you wish for. Not the path you think I should travel. But it is my road.’
* * *
Andrew knew Beatrice was finished with the portrait, or close enough that he need not pose any more. She h
ad asked him to arrive for one last sitting.
His mind was taken by brunette curls, a rosebud mouth and a voice which would mellow into a most arousing murmur as she stared at the canvas.
He could think of nothing else but seeing her again. Surely, once they parted, he would be able to put her out of his mind. He now had every copy of every scandal sheet that had mentioned her. He had read them all over and over. Each story, reminders—and an affirmation that she was not right for him. The words he had memorised could be reviewed in his mind at any time. Perhaps now he would not hate the print so much. They reminded him of the truth of the world.
His white cravat was tied perfectly and his black coat pristine when his carriage arrived at the front of his home for the trip to take him to Beatrice’s estate.
* * *
When he arrived at the grounds, he bypassed the estate to walk directly to the cottage. Beatrice reached for him, grasping his fingers, and sending warm jolts through his body.
The knowledge that the newsprint was directing his life flared within him again, but suddenly he did not know if it was for good or ill.
‘I do want you to see what I’ve completed on the portrait, Andrew. I’m very proud. I think it’s the second-best painting I’ve ever done.’
He examined her, hoping he never forgot the sight of her excitement and freedom. ‘I suppose I should be offended not to be the very best painting you’ve ever done.’
Her eyes darted away. ‘I would not complain too much.’ She glittered up at him. ‘I misspoke. A jest to see your reaction.’
She looked at him with the same intensity as she’d gazed at her canvas—aware, by the flush to her face and the way her breathing increased, she didn’t mind.
She stepped closer and touched his cheek, letting her hand fall flat against his skin.
He took both her hands and she moved forward. He bent down, his lips grazing hers for a taste, and savoured the luscious warmth of her mouth, tasting the sweetness of a confection and having a feeling of moving into a realm of femininity which sated him completely—if he moved forward.
He pulled back, surprised. She’d not moved, except for kissing him in return. He’d somehow expected hands tugging him closer, or feeling her press her body against him. Instead, she stood, looking at him, with her lips parted and her eyes—slightly lost.