by Liz Tyner
The emotions took her over and made her dream and eat and think differently. The world turned fuzzy everywhere but in her affection’s embrace. It consumed her. She hardly slept. She floated. She hardly ate. She stumbled right into a quagmire of despair.
When Riverton had courted her, her curves had fallen away. And her brain had dropped to the size of a pea.
She should have seen Riverton for what he was. Should have been able to grasp that the rosewater he used was to cover up the scent of more unpleasant activities. He’d even had a small pink feather sticking to his waistcoat when he proposed. How likely was that to happen during the normal course of events?
And when she finally couldn’t believe anything but her eyes, and had to accept him for what he was, the marriage ate her away from the inside out. She’d not been able to sleep. She’d feared for her own sanity.
Months had passed. She thought she’d be stuck in Riverton’s mire for ever. And when she finally could sleep again and her mind worked properly, she’d sworn never, ever again. No more love. No more being dragged to the pits. No more suffering for someone else’s sins. No more living with daggers in the heart.
After Andrew left, she’d painted again as quickly as she could. She couldn’t let the thoughts lock into her brain and destroy it along with her heart. But she couldn’t rinse Andrew out of her thoughts in the same way she could dip her brush in linseed oil and leave the pigments behind. Instead, she’d immerse herself in a new project and pour her emotions on to the canvas.
She shut her eyes and touched the stiff canvas, running a finger along the dried paint creating Andrew’s lean jaw. Andrew truly was the most glorious man she’d ever seen and she had captured him on canvas. Twice.
But she didn’t know for sure if her eyes saw reality. She couldn’t trust herself. Maybe his hair was normal and maybe he—no, she shook her head. He was a treat for a woman’s senses. She’d watched the heads turn and the eyes devour him. Bosoms bobbed higher when Andrew walked by.
A tiny shiver of pleasure went through her when she thought of the other portrait. It wasn’t exact, she supposed. Not entirely, but a woman’s imagination could be impressive. And she knew she’d reached close enough.
She went to the door opposite her bedchamber. The door stood open. Chills covered her, even in the heat of the day. She gripped the door handle, shock plummeting her breath away. She walked inside and stopped, feeling the air in the empty room. Gone. It could not walk away on its own. The painting was gone.
She stepped back until the wall crashed into her back. This couldn’t be. The painting was life-sized.
She could barely lift the canvas and it was gone.
She clasped her throat and then, knowing it made no sense, she pulled the other paintings aside, hoping that by some unknown act of nature the painting had fallen to the floor and her eyes were deceiving her.
Then she ran back to the main room of the studio and her eyes traced every outline in the room. Paintings just did not walk away.
Nothing else had been disturbed.
Her heart thumped in her ears.
The room had been locked. The servants had no fascination with the place.
She clutched her stomach when she rushed into Astlin Manor.
The housekeeper started, jaw slack, as Beatrice ran towards her, almost careening into the woman.
‘Lord Andrew?’ The words felt the size of a boot and couldn’t be pushed from her lips fast enough. ‘Has he been here while I’ve been away?’
‘I can’t think so, but a man arrived for the painting. The big one.’
‘But...’ Beatrice stopped, controlling herself so she wouldn’t grab the woman by the shoulders. ‘Who has been in my studio?’
The woman took a step back, realisation causing her eyes to widen. ‘Just the man.’
‘Man?’ Beatrice gasped. ‘Man?’
‘The one for Lord Andrew’s painting.’
‘I did not...’
‘Oh, yes.’ The housekeeper’s cheeks reddened. ‘I made sure. I asked him to describe it before I dared let him into your studio.’ The housekeeper could not meet Beatrice’s eyes. ‘I had not thought that man you painted so bold, but I knew he had posed and his manservant arrived and told me the painting was to be taken...’ She squeezed a glance at Beatrice. ‘And I suppose a man knows what his own...’ she extended her arm away from her body, but waved a hand in the general direction of her torso ‘...area looks like so for him to have a painting of the area...’ Her chin raised. ‘I do not pass judgement on art, Lady Riverton. And I do not understand what kind of a man would wish for such a painting, but I suppose he might want to remember when he is older...’
‘The smaller one? The smaller one? You did not give him the smaller one?’ She put her fisted hands to her own cheeks.
The housekeeper shook her head. She widened her arms, stretching her hand over her head to indicate size. ‘I went in the room where you store the paintings. I could not miss it.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘Sir.’ The butler stood at Andrew’s door. Obviously something had stirred him from his bedchamber.
Andrew raised his head from the paperwork at his desk, blinking away the fatigue of the day. The servant had forgotten his cravat and his face was puffed from sleepiness.
Andrew stared. His household never disturbed him after the hour was late.
‘Lady Riverton to see you.’
Andrew raised his brows.
‘I will inform her,’ the man said, ‘that you are not receiving callers if you wish.’ He paused, thinking. ‘She has a portrait with her, and she appears...distraught.’
Andrew brushed a hand across the day’s stubble. His own cravat was draped across the back of a chair, under his waistcoat. He stood. ‘Show her to the sitting room.’
He’d not expected this. He’d thought of her so many times and he could not force her from his mind.
He’d had Fawsett bring every copy of the scandal sheets printed since he’d left Beatrice’s studio and not one new mention of her. Well, there had been the one, but he’d had Fawsett check on it and the story was entirely made up. Beatrice had not been in the Thames.
Andrew found his neckcloth, put his waistcoat on, but did not bother with a coat. Propriety had well escaped between them and now Beatrice was arriving at his house alone at this hour. He sighed. She would never be demure. It would take a better man than he knew to make her so.
He walked into the sitting room, lights already relit by the butler. She sat, perched on the sofa. Beside her, his portrait was propped, facing him.
Inwardly he smiled. That was a damn good painting.
His world brightened to have Beatrice in his house. ‘You did not have to bring it at this hour,’ he said, after greeting her.
‘Well?’ she asked. She blinked three times and stood, leaning a bit forward as if she needed spectacles to view him.
‘I do like it, Beatrice.’
Her smile burst on to her whole body. Her mouth moved, forming words, but she didn’t speak at first.
‘Oh, Andrew.’ She lunged forward, grabbing him around the waist in the tightest hug he’d ever had. The gust of woman moving forward caused a quick intake of his breath.
‘You do, truly?’
‘Of course.’
‘Andrew.’ The word had thousands of others behind it, but she collapsed into his chest and he had no choice but to catch her.
Warmth changed into the power of the sun. His body changed faster than hers had. The waistcoat had been a bad idea.
His fingers traced up the hooks of her gown.
Perhaps being bitten wasn’t so bad, he decided, slowly moving his hand down the clasps. One fell undone under his fingertips.
He found the top clasp and held her against his body, but he didn’t have to. If he’d taken his hands away, she would have remained, hugging and squeezing.
He held her, shutting his eyes, letting the wisps of her hair tickle his cheeks. Scent
s of lavender and pigment brushed against his nose and he wondered if he could ever again smell linseed without becoming aroused.
His hands trailed up the back of her gown, past all the closures that had opened, and tangled in the ties of her corset.
‘Andrew. I am so relieved.’ She sniffled. ‘I did not...’
Tears.
Tears?
He moved to find his coat pocket and pull free a handkerchief, handing it to her. She brushed it across her eyes.
His eyes moved over the picture again. ‘I told you that I liked it before.’
She stilled.
‘Before?’ she asked, her voice the merest whisper.
He didn’t answer, gathering her back into his arms, kissing in the salty taste of her lips, looping one of the tie strings tighter and tighter around his finger while he nipped down,.
Moving back, fingers still twined in her ties, he moved enough to speak. ‘I plan to put it above the mantel.’
She jerked back so quickly, she took his hand with her. The momentum, with the tie still in his hand, caused the unknotting, and the dress sagged at her shoulder. He couldn’t take his eyes from the creamy skin.
‘Tell me exactly what you think of it,’ she said. ‘Exactly.’
He looked over her shoulder, enfolding her into his arms and holding her tight. His eyes examined the painting and his hands slowly worked the corset loose. ‘Very kind to me.’ He shut his eyes, moving to bare her shoulders so he could savour them with his own skin. ‘Not as lovely as Boadicea. But they could hardly compare.’
‘Tell me...’
‘I don’t wish to talk now, Beatrice, except to tell you how to feel, taste—the scent of your hair—’
She pushed back, creating a cool chasm between them, but he didn’t care. So much of her warmth remained against him.
‘What did you think of the—chest?’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose the folds of the coat are just as they should be.’
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ she said, her hands against his torso, pushing herself from him. ‘No!’ she screeched.
He’d never heard quite that sound from a human.
She raised her hand, using her fingertip to point over her shoulder and behind her. ‘You do not have another portrait I have painted?’
He smiled at her. ‘I did not know you realised I have it.’
‘Oh, you do? Truly?’ The light returned to her face.
‘Yes.’ He pulled her back against him. ‘Boadicea.’
‘Dash it.’ She hurled herself from his reach.
* * *
She stood back, sorting, holding her dress against her chest. ‘You did not send someone for the painting?’
The shudder of a head shake. The question in his eyes as he looked over her shoulder at the artwork behind him. ‘No. I knew it needed to dry and you sent the note saying you would bring it to me.’
‘Oh.’
He took a step towards her and she moved back.
‘There is something, perhaps, you need to know.’ Beatrice looked at Andrew. This was the moment of confession. The moment of truth.
She blurted out, ‘Mother is afraid I am with child.’
She saw the look on his face—not really an expression, more of an absorbing stare. The masked, unmoving look.
‘But it’s not true.’ She rushed to grab his hand. Then she reached to his shoulders, grasping both. ‘Breathe, Andrew.’
‘Beatrice.’ He pried her fingers from his shoulders. ‘I would do what is necessary should you be—in that state. You should never doubt that. Your words surprised me and, of course, I should have thought of the possibility of a child.’
‘It’s not true—just a concern of Mother’s, you understand.’
‘Time will calm your mother’s worries.’ His hands slipped to hold hers.
The touch soothed her. But how could she let her actions harm someone like Andrew?
Beatrice double-blinked.
His hands tightened at her back, rotating circles which sparked like embers with hot breaths blown over them.
‘Beatrice.’
She looked into his face—eyes with lashes long enough to keep a woman warm on any cool evening—and he mesmerised the truth from her. Not from her lips, but from her head.
She could not bear to see his face look at her with the anger he might feel simply because her muse had taken control of her paintbrush.
‘Andrew. I have been trying to keep quiet and garner no attention. I truly have. I thought...’ she paused, stumbling over her words ‘...painting keeps me busy and away from scandal.’ Her head tilted. ‘This all began when we met and somehow I can’t stop it from getting worse. I wouldn’t say it’s your fault, but it is not completely mine, you understand.’
His fingertips clasped her shoulders and she could feel his touch through her light sleeves, and the warmth tingled down, hitting all the important places in her body.
‘Oh, Andrew.’ She looked at him. ‘This is not something I can speak of.’
‘You can tell me anything.’ He studied her face. ‘You can. We’ve shared... We’ve shared so much.’
‘Of course I can tell you anything.’ But if he didn’t react well to a little love nip, he might not react well to a detailed study of the human form, surprisingly like his own.
She spoke before he could ask questions. ‘Andrew, I committed an indiscretion. There is evidence of it.’
Something behind his eyes changed. Flickered with thoughts. The stare again. He put a hand to her chin. ‘Whom did you attack?’
Her brows knit. ‘No one. It is nothing like that. But these things just happen to me.’
‘Yes. They do.’
‘Do not worry. I will figure it out. I will fix it.’
‘Tell me what has happened.’ Andrew’s face had no more emotion than a wall. ‘I will take care of everything for you, Beatrice. Tell me about it.’
She shut her eyes briefly and waved a hand. ‘I am overwrought. The travelling. You understand. The concern about...whether you’d changed your mind.’
‘Beatrice. I can help.’
She would tell him. ‘Something I have...um, painted, has potential for embarrassment, and I would truly not like it to become public knowledge. Such as another Boadicea, but perhaps more...beautiful.’
‘Another Boadicea?’
She clamped her teeth together. ‘Yes.’
‘With less clothing, I would wager.’ His shoulders seemed to become broader, his head taller and his eyes darker.
‘Yes.’
His voice softened, but still had censure. ‘Clothes are not a bad thing in art. They show the style of the age. Show more of the person. They are an ornament and give the viewer more knowledge. I do not understand why artists decide something private must now be shared with the world just because they can do so.’
She took a breath. ‘You must know. This one was not to be displayed. No one was to see it but me. For now. Maybe in a hundred years... It was my private painting. My masterpiece.’
‘Where do you think it is?’
‘I do not know.’
‘And this will embarrass you?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she grumbled.
He gave her a direct appraisal. ‘Whatever has happened, no one will believe you above suspicion.’
‘I would say not since I signed my real name to it.’
* * *
Andrew kept his voice gentle as he pulled at the corset ties, correcting them. ‘At any moment did you take seriously my intentions to improve the reputation you’d gathered?’ Every day of his years plunged into his body and the long nights spent working, and the moments of pleasure he had not chased because he planned for his future.
Beatrice turned and spoke to the head-and-shoulders portrait. ‘Yes. I thought it a grand plan. I did not quite see how it could be accomplished, but I was willing to try.’
He finished the hooks.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘You were not. You w
ere willing to let me try. To get myself embroiled in your activities, but not to alter one moment of your plans.’
He strode beside her, gently taking her shoulders and turning her in his direction. ‘Did you hope that I would garner you more attention and not care at all about what kind it would be? Did you think a romance between us would simply add more notoriety to you and ignore how it would impact on me? I did not mind a few blemishes against me if it helped you, Bea, but you did nothing—not one thing to soften the words against you. You did not pull yourself up, Beatrice, you merely wished to drag me into scandal with you.’
‘I was trying.’
‘Trying. I have heard that word from many people. I am trying to learn a new language. I am trying to drink less. I am trying to make peace with my family. It is an admission of failure. A person intent on success will tell themselves I am drinking less and hopefully they will not even need to speak the words to others because it will be so obvious. Those silent words are the most meaningful, Beatrice. Did you speak them to yourself?’
After a moment of silence, she said, ‘I am trying to like you, Andrew.’
Chapter Seventeen
Beatrice rushed into her brother’s house, glancing about. The butler appeared before her, not looking a day older than a century.
‘Everything in order, madam?’ Arthur studied her face. ‘It’s half past bedtime.’
She brushed a hand through her curls, knowing she could not make herself look composed. ‘Tell me quick,’ she whispered, eyes on the stairs. ‘Is everything the same as before?’
Lips tight, he nodded. ‘My back hurts. My elbow hurts. Your brother does not pay me enough. I am the most handsome man in all England.’
‘Anything—out of the ordinary? Among the ton. Any talk of me?’
Arthur shook his head and, even though his lids more than half-drooped over his eyes at the edge, she saw interest spark. ‘Should there be?’
‘Where’s my brother?’ she asked.
‘Safely asleep.’ He gave a slight shrug. ‘Everything’s the same—up to this moment.’ His chin went up and his lids lowered so much she could hardly see his eyes at all. ‘But I see you are about to change that.’