by Liz Tyner
‘I do not think it matters so much now. The damage is done.’ Andrew held the glass and looked at Beatrice. ‘But I want that painting.’
The painting was not all he wanted. He wanted the comfort of Beatrice’s arms, but he could not allow himself to touch her.
‘Say, Beatrice...’ Andrew’s eyes turned mild. ‘Is there foliage in the original?’
‘Foliage?’ Her brows creased. ‘It is not of a tree.’
His head tilted and he smiled. ‘No flower.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘I thought not.’ He tapped a finger to his lips. He shrugged. ‘Vauxhall Gardens. Could your mother have displayed it there?’
Beatrice ignored the sarcasm. ‘She would not let it away.’
Andrew swallowed his drink and smiled at Beatrice. ‘I’m afraid the painting must be destroyed.’ Andrew’s voice turned musing. ‘Before the prints start selling in the shop windows.’ He paused. ‘How many copies would you like? Even if I buy the whole print run, they’ll just make more.’
Andrew stood, staring at the tumbler. His lips turned up, but it wasn’t even meant to be a smile. He looked at his empty glass and spoke towards it. ‘I will not rest until I find that painting and see for myself how accurate it is. I believe... I should see it for myself.’
She shut her eyes when she answered. ‘I don’t have any idea where it is.’
‘Where would she put it? Or if you were truly going to hide it—where?’
She shrugged. ‘If I knew...’
‘Fine. Think hard. Imagine you have your mother’s resources and servants. How would you conceal something? The print claimed it was rather large.’ He paused. ‘How large is it?’
‘Slightly bigger than the other one.’
He put the glass to his temple. ‘The size of Boadicea. It must be.’ He shut his eyes and then slammed the glass on to the table.
He leaned closer to her and, even in his anger, the sight of her worried eyes brought out something inside himself he didn’t want to feel. And her touch on his arm reminded him of something else he didn’t dare explore.
His wish to have the painting in his possession was only matched by his need to embrace Beatrice again and to hold her would be putting him—them—on a path for more devastation in the future. Once children stepped into the muddle, the conflagration of emotions only grew.
‘And how well do you think I will sleep? Knowing—that—is out there.’ He put a palm to his forehead and let his fingers rake back through his hair. ‘No flowers in the original?’ He looked at her. ‘Right?’
‘Of course not.’ She shook her head. ‘That would be ridiculous.’
‘Oh, my.’ His hands fell to his sides and he forced the quiet words from his lips. ‘One must not make a naked man look ridiculous.’
He thumped a fingertip to the white knot at his neck. ‘My cravats. I would never appear in public without one properly tied. I do not take it off in front of others—unless it is in darkness.’
‘Andrew. Everyone has a body. But not as fine as yours. You should embrace your perfection.’
He thought of the mark on his chest and shook his head. ‘You painted your imagination. Not the truth.’
And then he had another thought. He would be thankful for ever that she’d not known of that mark. For if the scar had appeared in print he would have had no choice but to leave the country. Particularly when Sophia’s book was printed. To have the painting on display and then mention in Sophia Swift’s book of the odd encounter would bring shame on him from which he could never recover. He could never marry, never have children who would have to deal with the scandal.
‘Your mother will have to tell me where the painting is.’
She shook her head. ‘Mother has disappeared and not from foul means except her own machinations. The painting is in her possession and no one knows where she is.’
‘No.’ He felt himself deflate. ‘I must clear my head.’
He strode from the room, wanting to shake the knowledge away, but he knew he couldn’t. He didn’t stop until he’d left the house.
Beatrice rushed behind him.
Outside, he stopped. The cattle stood grazing. They did not seem properly dismayed, except one did raise her head. He hoped she hadn’t seen the painting.
‘I wish to see your studio,’ he said. ‘I want to look at your paintings again. All of them.’ He moved down the path and into the cottage.
Inside, she saw him sniff and his brows furrowed.
‘You may look if you like. But this room always—always—smells of pigment and cleaner.’
He nodded and his eyes travelled the room.
Seeming satisfied, he turned to go to the two bedchambers. She heard the door open.
‘...lot of paintings...’ She heard through the walls.
She stood and walked to the doorway of the former bedchamber which now was a storeroom of sorts. Excess dining-room chairs sat inside with empty framing boards stacked on them. An ancient desk housed painting supplies. A broken easel. But the main occupants of the room were canvases she’d given up on, or completed and didn’t like. And maybe a few pieces she liked, but didn’t wish to display. Some framed ones she’d once taken from the house so it would be unlikely Riverton would destroy them when he was in a temper.
Andrew took two steps into the room and, when she walked behind him, he moved to a group of five paintings of various sizes leaning against the wall.
‘Can you forgive me?’ she asked.
He turned to another painting, studying. ‘Ask me in ten years. I will be closer to knowing then. Perhaps fifteen would be better. Best not to rush it.’ He put the painting back in place. ‘I can’t help thinking how much you love attention, Beatrice. And I can’t help thinking you might have wanted this to happen. Would Michelangelo create a statue and hide it away? Artists don’t hide their creations.’
‘I would have hidden this one for ever. It was locked in this room.’
He turned to her. His chin lowered a bit and then another bit. ‘For private perusal, Beatrice?’
‘Of course.’
Eyes narrowing, he said, ‘I’m not even comfortable with that.’
She believed what she said, but he knew the truth of her better than she herself knew. She could not have kept that canvas secret for any length of time even if her mother had not taken it. Beatrice would have thought to display it in France, assuming the betrayal would not get back to him, or done something else on a whim that caused notice of it to flourish.
That was Beatrice. The little bird with wings, who could only feel the air at her face and might never see the ravening cats who hid among the perches.
He shook, as if shaking raindrops away. ‘If you would have just put someone else’s face. Instead, my head and an imagined body.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘I have a new rule. Never trust a woman in mob cap and spectacles who smells like baked goods.’
‘Your body wasn’t totally imagined, Andrew.’
He didn’t speak, but walked around the room. He looked at two of the smaller paintings and commented on them. ‘You painted the same thing twice.’
She stood at his side. ‘Three times, actually.’
He turned to face her. ‘You had better not even consider another one of me, Beatrice.’ He saw the speculation in her eyes. ‘Never.’
She raised both hands. ‘I promise.’
‘I cannot quite understand it. The world is full of men other than me.’
‘It had to be you. Don’t you see? I had to capture you on the canvas. I was pulled by the muse.’
‘I see none of it. None,’ he said. ‘I agree you captured me and then you gutted me.’
She moved forward, putting a hand on his sleeve. ‘Your body was made for canvas. You must understand.’
‘No. I don’t. I saw the engraving and, frankly, I was not impressed.’
‘But when you see the real—’
‘I will destroy it.’
* * *
She would not let hi
m spoil her work. She’d not meant to harm him and she had no intention of compounding the problem by ruining the work itself. Riverton had destroyed her efforts before. She would not let it happen again. Andrew understood art no better than Riverton, which meant he understood her no better.
‘I was married and yet not truly,’ she said. ‘I had a lot of time on my hands. Best to lose myself in my art than to be thinking of what Riverton might be doing.’ She bent down, and picked up one of the smaller paintings, a rose, looking at it.
But then she glanced back to the two paintings she’d done of the same thing. ‘A footman posed for the highwayman and the victim. But I never really managed the look I wanted—even in the final rendition. I even had the carriage pulled out for a few days and the footman stood by it with an old duelling pistol.’ She shook her head and put the art back. ‘But I was not trying a fourth one. I was sick of it before I finished the last brush strokes on the third.’
She moved behind him and pushed aside another painting, locating one, and pulling it free with a clatter. ‘Agatha Crump refused this one and I could not blame her. It is one of my earlier works and I don’t like it. I keep it to remind me never to paint someone if I am not sure I like them. It’s so unkind, but I did not mean it to be.’
Holding it where he could see, she frowned. ‘Even the flowers in the vase beside her I could not get right. They have a withered look. But if you step back and look at her, you see so much I did not want to know. This is when I discovered the truth of my brush.’
‘Not bad, though.’ He examined the work. ‘I can almost see her breathing.’
‘Sometimes I think I truly do not see things until I put them on canvas.’ She pointed to the picture of a rose. ‘And it’s not the examining of my model—then I am looking at bits of pieces, of lines and curves. But the finished art, that I study for a while. Because it tells me what I am truly seeing. Seeing in a way my mind doesn’t tell me until later.’
Andrew didn’t move, except for turning his head. Brown eyes. Very intense, darkened pools stared at her.
He let out a deep breath and didn’t take his gaze from her. ‘Nude, Beatrice?’
She shrugged and her smile appeared tinged with guilt.
He pressed his lips together and turned back to the art. He took his time, starting at the paintings directly in front of him on the floor, then moving up, looking at the ones hung haphazardly on the wall, and then going to the right, starting again at the lower works and examining each one. He didn’t give any a cursory glance, but studied each one.
At one, he gave a snort. ‘This must be Riverton. And his clothing may be rumpled, but he is definitely clothed. The shadows you’ve painted...’
‘It was done after we were married for a year. I needed to do it so I could get him from my thoughts.’
He stared at the painting. ‘Was he that vacant?’
‘To me—at the end, yes. His father died and the man had had some control over him. Perhaps I had had some control as well. I suspect Riverton tried to kill himself once not long after his father died. He went out on a cold, cold night, with no coat. We found him before dawn. He had two empty bottles with him and was no worse for wear once we brought him home and warmed him.’
She took the painting from Andrew’s hands and put it as it was before he found it, its back towards the room. ‘When Riverton thawed out and woke up, I told him he was in charge of his destiny from that moment on. He cursed me and I didn’t care. It was pleasant not to care.’
He turned back to the art. ‘How many people have seen this room?’
She thought for a moment. ‘I only locked it when I put your painting in it. I suppose the maids. If I have a painting I wish to show someone, I take it to them.’
He picked up another painting. A man from the back on a cold winter’s day, withdrawn from the cold and wearing a ragged coat. ‘This?’ he asked.
‘That is my brother Benjamin. He is...gone from us now. He was older. The star I looked up to in the sky and then he plummeted to earth and lost himself. I am not certain he will ever be in our path again. He closed his world to us when his wife died.’ She gave a rueful laugh. ‘Can you imagine? Benjamin wished to follow his wife into the grave. That is when I realised how much I did not love Riverton. I could have given him a gentle push. Almost did with the scissors.’
He pointed to a stack. ‘You’ve a nearly finished painting of Wilson—and he looks rather a tyrant—majestic, but still human. A miniature of your mother is in the crate with your supplies. It’s well done. But hard to decipher.’
‘That does not surprise me at all.’
Turning, he stepped to her and grasped her hands. He might as well have grasped her heart. She could not move. She wanted to hold him close and let him take her into a world where nothing existed but the two of them. That world she could live in for ever, but it was no more real than the dreams she’d had before her first marriage.
‘Beatrice, to look at these paintings, a person can see more of you than you probably know of yourself.’ He released her touch, but he still held her with his eyes.
She shook her head. ‘They are not my best works. My finished pieces, the ones I have taken the time on and done well, are on a wall somewhere, except for three that did not survive life. An artist often gives her best children away.’
His shoulder gave a twitch and she didn’t know if it was disagreement, but she knew he hadn’t changed his mind about what he’d said.
‘Andrew, these are little more than scribblings to pass the time between the paintings I am truly working on...’ She put her hand on his coat sleeve.
He stilled, his eyes fixed on her hand. He took her fingers and she thought him moving them away. Instead, he clasped the tips and moved her knuckles to brush his cheeks.
She moved closer, longing for him.
She couldn’t stop herself and she heard the quiver in her voice. ‘Andrew. Your reluctance for lovemaking... I’m sure, if you concentrated and worked on it, you could find true enjoyment.’
He ran the back of her knuckles again over his cheek, the feel of stubble captivating. ‘Beatrice, you are lovely. Your body inflames me. I desire you so much...’ His palm flattened, taking her chin. ‘But your teeth...’
She shook her head. Puzzled.
‘You bit me,’ he explained.
Bit him? What was he talking about? She frowned. ‘What?’
He nodded. ‘I was aware when you felt the scar on my chest that you knew I had been marked, but I did not believe you would think it so—inviting that you might wish to add another one.’ He angled his head sideways. ‘Do you realise that if I acted on my impulse, and you bit me every time, I would— My body would be covered in scars.’
‘I did not bite you.’
‘Teeth. Yes. You used them.’
‘Perhaps your body...’ she squinted and frowned and moved her head in puzzlement ‘...got in the way of a gasp and I may have kissed too strongly.’
He dropped her knuckles. ‘I realise this is an extremely personal question and I would not normally ask it, but did you ever bite your husband?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I did stab him with scissors and knock him to the bed.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I may have hit his head against the bedstead, but he was not himself and needed a nudge. The sewing needle I pressed into his hand later was only to see if he was still alive.’
Breath whooshed from his lips. ‘But, did you ever bite him?’
‘Just gentle love nips. He liked them.’
‘And if I were to say that I did not like such a thing?’
‘Then I would certainly never, ever do so.’
He took her chin in his hand, pressed his lips to hers, the kiss slowly deepening into an exploration of her mouth. He moved enough so that he could speak, breaths aligned with hers.
His voice rumbled softly. ‘I would like to test that.’ Just this one last time. He wanted to hold her again before they parted.
* * *
His eyes and the soft inhalation of his breath silenced her.
She looked at her painting come to life before her. She didn’t need the oils to decipher what her eyes saw. Her mind floated. If she touched his skin now, might she feel the coldness of oils, or would her hand find air?
Unable to stop herself, she moved her hand slightly out and found the bottom of his coat sleeve. Wool. She ran her hand up, receiving sensations of him. Suddenly, she could smell the wool, feel the fibres and the heat from his body underneath.
She moved to his shoulder, across to the cravat, white, always just so, and then she stopped, afraid to touch skin without anything between to dilute the strength of sensation.
‘Go ahead, Beatrice.’ His voice, strong, baritone and rich, flowing more lushly than perfectly blended pigment on to smooth canvas, took control of her.
She touched his jaw and felt bristled skin, a perfection of natural beauty, and she heard the intake of breath again. His. Not hers. She wasn’t sure if she breathed at all.
She touched her painting. The artwork was living in front of her.
And her body responded. Each contact of her hand against his skin seared itself into her, running wild and strong. Everything else fell away but the presence of him before her and the reactions of her body.
Her hand fell to his cravat and slipped among the folds. She half-expected him to tense, to step back, or to push her hands away.
He didn’t move.
Her finger slipped into the knot and her other hand moved up, and the cravat fell open into her hands. She slid the fabric down and tossed it on to the empty frames propped against a crate.
His shirt, warmed by the skin beneath it, still felt crisp to her hands. She reached up, braced her feet and carefully slid the coat over his shoulders. And she was lost.
Her mouth was dry and her fingertips unsteady.
Before she could throw his coat to the side, he took it and tossed it over the back of a chair.
The waistcoat followed. Her heart pounded all the way into her stomach.
And she stood perfectly still, mesmerised by the form in front of her. The perfection and the way—with nothing more than his presence—he could make her a captive of his smallest movement. How could she take her eyes away? This sight, Andrew, erupted her insides into the intensity of flames. She couldn’t feel past the burn inside of herself and the longing of her hands to explore more of him.