Averill: Historical Romance (The Brocade Collection, Book 3)

by Jackie Ivie

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  They made a small procession to the waterway: Dona Francesca, her attendants, Lady Brighten clutching a purse that probably contained the payment, and Antonio. Averill trembled slightly as he assisted her to her seat. He averted his eyes when she tried to thank him. He also had a reddish triangle of flush on each lower cheek. She felt Dona Francesca’s eyes on them the entire time and had to look away.

  It was her first ride in one of the long, slender boats called gondolas. She looked around curiously. Great houses rose from the water, much larger than Lady Brighten’s. Greenish water lapped at their foundations. It was strange to see how these people built right into the waterways.

  At least Averill would have the ride to remember, even if the story about her father turned out to be a fairy tale.

  Her father, a Ben-Masiz?

  It was absurd.

  But when she stood before the portrait of Sebastian, Averill’s certainty wavered. The youth was so skillfully painted, it took her breath away. Then Antonio’s portrait was fetched and set beside it, and Averill wasn’t the only one gaping. The similarity was there, and it was stunning.

  Averill had captured the quizzical expression in Antonio’s eyes and the sensual promise of his lips, almost as if he dared fate to disappoint him. The image of Sebastian, in a like suit, was almost identical. The resemblance in technique was overwhelming, as was the instinctive use of color. Only the structure Sebastian was posed against was different. Averill bent to read the artist’s signature — Avery Ben-Masiz.

  It couldn’t be, but she had to believe the proof before her eyes. She was a Ben-Masiz. She had to be. She tempered the emotion before it showed, although nothing really had changed. This solidified her credentials as a painter, but she was still as socially unacceptable as ever.

  “Well? Are you convinced, child?” Dona Francesca whispered.

  “Of course, she is. Why, it’s as clear as if he left a document lying about some place. They might as well have been painted by the same hand.”

  “I was speaking to Averill,” Dona Francesca said in rebuke, and Averill had to hide the smile.

  “I’m without an argument,” she said finally.

  “Skeptical to the end? Exactly what I would have expected from Avery’s daughter. Come. Let me show you the other rendition I spoke to you of. That should sweep away any lingering doubts.”

  “There’s another painting? Isn’t this exciting, Averill? Just think, if you hadn’t come with me to Venice, we never would’ve found out.”

  Dona Francesca looked at Lady Brighten for several long moments before turning back to Averill. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Lady Brighten’s color rose and she dropped her eyes.

  “I will extend my invitation to your patron, too, of course. But, as I am unable to take the stairs, anymore, I must enjoin my grandson in the tour. Antonio? Please escort the ladies.”

  “Your servant.”

  His reply was in the dead-sounding voice, and Averill caught Dona Francesca’s frown at it. Then, Averill’s eyes widened as he bowed and proffered his arm to her. She glanced up at him and saw that his features were as tight as her own must be. She didn’t dare touch him!

  “Thank you, Don Antonio. Such a gentleman you are. Come along, Averill.”

  Lady Brighten took Averill’s place and brightly continued her chattering, unconsciously saving her.

  “I believe we can charge even more for a sitting once it’s known that this Avery was related. Even if he’s not your sire, the similarities are too strong to overlook. Why, your names even sound alike!” She let go of Antonio’s arm to clap her hands.

  Averill walked a correct three steps behind them with her eyes on their backs. She supposed she should thank Lady Brighten for reminding her of her position so readily. She blinked away the sheen of moisture.

  “There’s more to this mystery, Averill.” Lady Brighten turned her head slightly as she spoke. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Averill answered.

  If I really am Avery Ben-Masiz’s daughter, there’s much more to the mystery, but it doesn’t really matter. Averill looked down at their heels. Tenny was still as unreachable for her as before.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Averill! Have you heard? There’s been a dreadful accident at the Dona Francesca’s mansion! Terrible. Horrible.”

  Antonio!

  Averill’s heart fell, and she stepped back from the rendition of Comte Dachon’s wife before any reaction transferred to her brush. Everything about her went dark. Frightened. If anything had happened to Antonio, she’d be forever locked into the black canvas. She hadn’t known how much power it had.

  Or how empty her days would seem without seeing him.

  Any emotion was insane, but that didn’t stop it. It wasn’t love. She loved Tenny. It was their child growing within her. She had the memory of his kisses to torment her almost every time she shut her eyes. She mustn’t become involved with Antonio! She didn’t need any more complications to her life. She couldn’t allow Antonio to continue as he was, either. It wasn’t in her. But if something has happened to him before she could make amends...?

  No. She wouldn’t think of it.

  “What could be so important that you’d disturb my sitting, Lady Brighten?”

  The Comtesse Dachon asked it, raising a perfectly groomed hand to her lips as she spoke. It didn’t help. Averill had seen the yellowed, foul-smelling teeth the comtesse tried to hide at their very first sitting. She hadn’t even hesitated when the woman suggested a somber pose. It was obvious the comtesse couldn’t close her lips correctly. It was a difficult portrait, but Averill thought it was coming along well enough. She’d even managed to disguise the comtesse’s condition by painting her lips in a slightly curved position.

  She hadn’t any inspiration, but that didn’t matter. She knew her role and that no one would pay for an unflattering portrait.

  “What...has happened, my lady?” Averill finally asked, acting as unconcerned as they’d expect.

  “It’s the portrait of Antonio. It’s fallen. They’re afraid it can’t be salvaged. They’re asking for you. Immediately. They sent a gondola.”

  Averill’s relief was so tangible, she nearly laughed aloud. They were calling that a dreadful accident?

  “Well. I mustn’t delay, then,” Averill answered, wiping at her brush.

  “What of my sitting?”

  “We’ve finished for today, Comtesse. Come. See for yourself. It’s coming along quite nicely, I think.”

  Averill watched the woman scan her painted face and then she turned and beamed at Averill. “Why…it’s a very good likeness. You’ve done well. I look lovely.”

  “Your entire family is lovely, my dear comtesse. I can see how proud you must be of all your children. We look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Vernon? Serve the comtesse some refreshment. Come along, Averill. Don’t dally. They said immediately!”

  Averill just had time to put on a cloak and her bonnet, before following Lady Brighten. It wasn’t until she was seated in the gondola that she realized she still wore her paint-smudged smock. Her fingers were spotted, as well. And she didn’t even have gloves.

  She wondered, yet again, why she cared.

  ~ ~ ~

  “You can repair it, can’t you?”

  Averill had never seen the Dona Francesca show such emotion. She found that more interesting than the slight damage to the corner of Antonio’s portrait. The paint hadn’t cured completely, so that a bit of the background had smeared when it had fallen. Averill pursed her lips and glanced sidelong at where Antonio stood. She caught his gaze on her, but he looked quickly away.

  “How could such a thing have happened?” she asked.

  “The hook wasn’t strong enough for it. I’ve seen the man punished. I won’t abide such incompetence in my household. You can repair it, can’t you?”

  “If not, Dona, another can be painted.”


  “It wouldn’t be the same, though! Call me an old fool, but I can see the proof in front of my face. I begin to think I’ll never see the old Antonio again, unless it’s in this painting.”

  “Grandmamma,” Antonio said. “Please. You said you wouldn’t speak like that.”

  “Oh, Antonio, I don’t wish to lose you, too!”

  Averill averted her eyes. There was too much emotion on display. She noted Lady Brighten didn’t avert her eyes. She looked to be absorbing every detail of the lady’s distress. If Averill ever painted her patron again, it wouldn’t be a flattering rendition.

  “It can be repaired, Grandmamma. Trust Averill. Come. I’ll escort you to your rooms.”

  “She can’t take the painting, though. It has to be done here! Do you understand, Antonio? Here!”

  “But why, Grandmamma?”

  “She won’t let me see it...just like before.”

  Averill raised her brows when Antonio looked over his grandmother’s shoulder at her. It was Lady Brighten who answered.

  “That’s ridiculous! Averill doesn’t bar—”

  “I’ll correct the damage here, Dona Francesca,” Averill spoke up, interrupting Lady Brighten’s words. “It will be as you ask. I can repair it. I swear.”

  “Bless you, child.”

  Averill watched them leave. Lady Brighten waited until the double doors shut before speaking. Her voice was taut, low-toned, and crisp, sounding like the sisters at the orphanage had when they were disciplining.

  “That was stupid, Averill. A new portrait would bring in much more than correcting an old one. This is why I speak for you, why I’m your patron.”

  “Perhaps I need a new patron,” Averill said quietly.

  Lady Brighten was taken aback. Then, her eyes and lips narrowed.

  “I wouldn’t ask it of the Dona Francesca if I were you. I don’t believe she’ll be as accepting of certain things, as I am.”

  “She already knows I’m the by-blow of a painter. What of it?”

  “Does she know of the child you carry?”

  Averill went white. Faint dots swirled through the air. She grabbed the top of a chair for stability. She’d never fainted. She wasn’t beginning now. Not in front of Lady Brighten.

  “You couldn’t hide it forever, Averill. I am a woman. I know the signs. I just wonder if Captain Tennison knows.”

  “How...do you know it’s...the captain?”

  “I don’t. I’m guessing. But he disappeared from every social function, and strangely enough, that’s exactly the time that Sen-Bib character first started bothering me about you. Then…when you arrive at my doorstep, every painting you have seems to feature Captain Tennison. It’s as plain to me as this minor damage here. You were together. And you were lovers.”

  “What...will you do?”

  Lady Brighten must know she’d won. It showed in the conciliatory tone she used next. Averill kept her eyes on the floor.

  “Oh, Averill, why do you make me say such things? I don’t want bad blood between us. All I want is a business relationship. A lucrative one. And you continually sell your talent too cheaply.”

  But it’s mine to sell!

  “I also don’t believe you’re going to be able to repair this painting. The damage is too great.”

  Averill watched with horror as Lady Brighten stuck a fingernail under the canvas nails, and pried on it until it tore.

  “I believe you’re going to have to start another one. And it will cost the Dona Francesca double. Do we understand each other yet?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Antonio? Is it possible that you’d assist me in transferring funds to...a bank that the Lady Brighten wouldn’t know about?”

  He lifted an eyebrow further, but didn’t reply for so long Averill regretted speaking. There wasn’t one bit of life in the new painting. It was a good thing she’d already repaired the other. It was going to be her salvation. He finally answered, but it was in a cool, reserved tone.

  “My family’s fortune comes from a long line of bankers. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Why do you not ask the comte?”

  Averill stepped back from the mess of color she’d attempted for a background before she answered. “I don’t trust him,” she said quietly.

  “You don’t trust your own patron, either, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not a very trusting person, are you?”

  “Not anymore,” she replied.

  “Then, why do you trust me?”

  “This painting is getting us nowhere, Antonio.”

  “Are you failing again? It isn’t my fault. I’ve tried to hold still. I’ve done all that’s required.”

  “It was never your fault, Antonio. It was mine.”

  He left off the indolent pose against the window frame and turned his attention fully on her.

  “I thought you are a poor, destitute painter, while I am a rich woman’s grandson who has insulted you. You told me so yourself. I fail to see what you speak of.”

  “I have...something for you, Antonio. I’ll be right back.”

  Averill raced to her suite before she lost her nerve. She wasn’t good with words, but her work spoke for her. And right now, that’s what she needed. She returned with the cat picture, forced herself to walk to where he stood, and handed it to him. Then, she stepped back.

  Averill gloried in every emotion crossing his face. She wondered why she’d been so hesitant about showing it to him. The instant widening of his almond-shaped eyes, the slight whistle from his perfectly formed lips, and the way he pushed the hair from his forehead to stare at her were everything she’d seen missing in him lately.

  “This...this is how you see me? Truly?” His voice was choked, making him sound even younger.

  “It’s an apology, Antonio.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re too much man for me to consider. I…wasn’t insulted by you. I’m afraid of you. And, unlike you, I am not good with words.”

  “This is how you see me.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “Marry me, Averill. Marry me, and I’ll show you there is nothing to be so frightened over.”

  Her mouth fell open, her scalp tingled, and Tenny’s child kicked so fiercely that she gasped. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

  “You don’t...know what you ask, Antonio.”

  “Is it such a difficult question?”

  “I—yes. Yes, it is.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because you’re a wealthy member of Lombardy-Venetian aristocracy. You are probably betrothed. You have an expected future. You have a grandmamma who adores you. You have been raised from birth to take your place alongside them. I’m nothing, but a—”

  “And you have too many arguments.”

  He set the painting against the window frame and approached. Silently. Inexorably. Looking exactly like his painted image. Averill backed until the wall stopped her. She hadn’t realized he was this tall, either. Or this overpowering. Mainly because she’d tried to stay away from him. His chin grazed her head as he put his hands on the wall beside her shoulders, penning her in. Breath touched her nose. The top of her lip.

  “This is no answer, Antonio.” Her voice was breathless. Feminine.

  “Marry me. I’ll show you answers. I swear it.”

  He definitely had his self-confidence back. He had every bit of his sensuality, too. He lowered his head a fraction, scratching her forehead with whiskers she hadn’t known he possessed.

  “I…can’t! And you can’t ask!”

  “Why not? What is wrong with me that you won’t accept my suit?”

  “There are so many reasons. Please, don’t make me list them!”

  “Are you going to spout again about your position in life? And then mine? Are those are your reasons?”

  “You can’t be asking me these things. I shouldn’t have shown you the painting. This isn’t happening.”
/>   “We can elope,” he whispered at her nose.

  Oh, my. Her knees even quivered. Averill knew better than to look up at him. She was terrified of it. “They’d stop us, Antonio. Surely you know that?”

  “We wouldn’t have to face any recriminations until it was done.”

  “No. No. You aren’t asking me to marry you. You aren’t.”

  “Very well. I won’t ask. I’ll try to convince you that it’s the only fate for us. We belong together. I’ve felt it since I met you, Averill Ben-Masiz. You know it.”

  “But…your grandmamma…”

  Her voice ended with an upward lilt. She sounded as if she were really entertaining the idea!

  “Adores you.”

  “Not as her granddaughter!”

  “She hasn’t been given that option yet. Trust me, Averill. We’ll make it work. It’s a new world, you know. Revolution is in the air. We chafe beneath the strictures of the Lombardy.”

  “Antonio!”

  “I’ve met others who believe as I do. I’m not alone. It won’t be long before it happens, we think. Trust me, Averill. I’m not the idle rich man you seem to think I am.”

  And for a moment, she actually dropped her arguments and let herself think it possible. The barest moment. No. She’d watched the noblesse. She wasn’t acceptable. And she knew it.

  The sigh she gave carried every bit of her regret. “You live in the blind faith of youth,” she told his neck.

  “And you talk like an old woman.”

  “It may feel like a new world, but it’s just colored differently. You haven’t lived as I have! You haven’t been an outcast. You haven’t sired children that it would happen to. I can’t consider what you offer. I just can’t!”

  “Averill, look at me.”

  She shook her head vehemently.

  “But, I want you, Averill. What of that? What would you have me do with this emotion now that I know it’s returned?”

  Oh, no! That emotion wasn’t real. It was a fantasy. A dream. He needed to see it. And somehow she had to find the words to make it so. “Antonio. Please. You just want me because I’m forbidden fruit.”