With only a curt nod in his daughter’s direction, Lord Armstrong hurried from the room, content that he had in one fell swoop neatly resolved all his domestic problems and could now concentrate his mind fully on the much more important and devilishly tricky matter of how best to address the issue of Greek independence without standing on either Turkish or Russian toes.
Left alone with the artist, Cressida surveyed him properly for the first time. She had been so absorbed in trying to maintain control of her temper that until now she had noted merely that Signor di Matteo’s dress was not at all like the peacock she expected, that he was younger than she had surmised from his reputation, and that his English was excellent. What struck her now with some force was that he was starkly and strikingly beautiful. Not merely handsome, but possessing such an ethereal magnetism and sense of physical perfection that she could almost question whether or not he was real.
Aware that she was staring, she took a mental inventory in an attempt to unscramble her reeling senses. High cheekbones and a high brow, the sleek line of his head outlined by the close-cropped cap of raven-black hair. His eyes were dark brown under heavy dark lids. It was a classically proportioned face, albeit vaguely saturnine. The planes of his cheeks were sharp, accentuated by the hollows below. He had a good nose. A near enough perfect nose, in fact. And his mouth—it was wasted on a man, that mouth. Full lips, top and bottom, deeply sensual, sculpted, and at the same time it curved up just enough to make him look as if he was on the verge of a smile, just enough to take the edge off his forbidding expression. Even without measuring the precise angles, Cressie could tell she was looking at the physical embodiment of perfect mathematical beauty. A face which would launch a thousand ships—or flutter a thousand female hearts more likely, she thought cynically. But it was also the epitome of her theory. And at that thought, her heart gave a little unaccustomed flutter.
She was being rude, though, judging from the way Signor di Matteo was returning her gaze. Haughty and at the same time wearily resigned, he was clearly accustomed to being stared at. No wonder, and even less of a surprise was his indifference to her, for he had painted some famous beauties. Unlike her father, Cressie had studied several examples of Signor di Matteo’s work in the course of her research for her treatise. Like the man himself, his paintings were perfectly proportioned and classically beautiful. Too perfect, almost. His subjects were portrayed flawlessly and flatteringly. There was, in the small number of portraits she had managed to view, a similarity in the way their faces conformed to an ideal, the result of which was undoubtedly a very accomplished likeness, but also moulded the individual features from a kind of template of beauty. Which was exactly the premise of the theory that Cressie had developed. Beauty could be reduced to a series of mathematical rules. It would be fascinating to see first-hand how Signor di Matteo, the famous artist, set about creating his works.
A famous artist who, Cressie now noted with deep embarrassment, was tapping his fingers impatiently on her father’s desk. She flushed. How rude he must think her. ‘I trust you have in mind a suitably flattering composition, signor. As you will no doubt have noticed, my father dotes on his sons.’
‘His charming boys.’
Was there just the lightest hint of irony in his voice? Could this artist actually be mocking his patron? ‘They are very good-looking,’ Cressie conceded, ‘but they are most certainly not charming. In fact, you should know that they have a particular liking for practical jokes. Their governess has recently left without notice as a result of one such, which is why I shall be taking her place, their reputation being—’
‘You!’
Cressie stiffened. ‘As I have already informed my father, I am perfectly capable of teaching the rudiments of mathematics.’
‘That is not what I meant. It is merely that the Season is almost upon us. I would have thought you would have had parties to attend—but forgive me, it is none of my business.’
‘I have already experienced several Seasons, signor, and have no wish to endure another. I am six-and-twenty, and quite beyond dances and parties. Not that I ever—but that is of no account.’
‘You have no wish to find a husband, then?’
The question was extremely impertinent, but the tone of his voice was not, and Cressie was, in any case, eager to vent her spleen now that the real object of her wrath had departed. ‘There are some women whom marriage does not suit. I have concluded I am one of them.’ Which was not quite a lie, but more like putting the truth through a prism. ‘Until I am at least thirty and saying my prayers, however, my father will not accept that. His gracious permission to excuse me this year is more to do with ensuring I do not intrude on my youngest sister’s chances of making an excellent match. Once she is safely betrothed, I am to be wheeled back on to the market. My role as governess is merely a temporary expedient.’
Her frankness had obviously perplexed him. It had taken her aback too. A small frown marred that perfect brow of his, and confusingly there was also a hint of upward tilt of that far too perfect mouth. Was he laughing at her? Cressie bristled. ‘It was not my intention to provide you with a source of amusement, signor.’
‘I am not amused, merely—interested. I have not before met a lady so determined to boast of her unmarried state and the fact that she understands more than the—er—the rudiments of mathematics.’
He was mocking her. ‘Well, now you have.’ Indignation and anger made Cressie indiscreet. ‘And I do understand considerably more than the rudiments, if you must know. In fact, I have published a number of articles on the subject, and even reviewed Mr Lardner’s book, Analytical Treatise on Plane and Spherical Trigonometry. I have also written a children’s geometry primer which a most respected publisher has shown an interest in printing, and I am currently writing a thesis on the mathematics of art.’
So there! Cressie folded her arms over her chest. She had not meant to blurt out quite so much. Having done so, she waited for Signor di Matteo to laugh, but instead he raised his brows and smiled, not a condescending smile, but rather as if he was surprised. His smile made her catch her breath, for it transformed his beauty from that of a haughty statue to something much more human.
‘So you are a published author.’
‘Under the pseudonym Penthiselea.’ Cressie had just betrayed yet another jealously guarded secret without meaning to. What was it about this man? He had her spilling her innermost thoughts like some babbling child.
‘Penthiselea. An Amazonian warrior famed for her wisdom. It is most—apt.’
‘Yes, yes, but I must urge you to discretion.
If my father knew …’ Cressie took yet another deep breath. ‘Signor, you must understand that in my position—that is to say— my father thinks that my facility for mathematics is detrimental to his ambition to marry me off, and I must confess that it is my own experience too, by and large. Men do not value intelligence in their wives.’
Signor di Matteo’s smile had a cynical twist to it now, his dark eyes seemed distant, turned in on some unpleasant memory. ‘Blood and beauty rule supreme, signorina,’ he said. ‘It is the way of the world.’
It was a stark little expression, which said more precisely than she ever could exactly what Cressie herself believed. Beauty was this man’s business, but she wondered what he knew of the burden of pedigree. She could not find a way of framing such a personal question without inviting offence.
He put an end to her attempts, with a question of his own. ‘If you are studying the relationship of mathematics to art, you must have read the definitive work by my fellow Italian. I refer to Pacioli, his De Divina Proportione?’
Pleased to discover that he was not the type of man to assume her sex prevented her from understanding such an erudite work, Cressie was at the same time distracted by how lovely the title of the book sounded when spoken by a native Italian. ‘You have read it?’ she asked foolishly, for he obviously had.
‘It is a standard text. You agree with
what he says, that beauty can be described in the rules of symmetry?’
‘And proportion. These are surely the basic rules of any art?’
Signor di Matteo began to prowl restlessly about the room, frowning. ‘If painting was simply about getting angles and proportions right, then anyone could be an artist.’
‘How did you learn to paint so well?’ Cressie countered.
‘Study. Of the Old Masters. In the studios as apprentice to other painters. Practice.’
‘So it is a skill. A craft, with rules which can be learned. That is exactly my point.’
‘And my point is that art is not simply a craft.’ There was anger in his tone now.
‘I don’t understand what I’ve said to upset you, signor. I was paying you a compliment. The primary purpose of art is to adorn, is it not? And if it is to adorn, it must be beautiful. And if it is beautiful, then it must conform to what we know is beautiful—to the mathematical rules of symmetry and proportion which we see in nature, as your countryman Signor Fibonacci has shown us. To be reckoned the best, not only must you have mastered the technical skills of the draughtsman, but you must obviously have the firmest grasp of these underlying rules.’
‘So I paint by rote, that is what you are saying?’
‘I am saying that you are a master of the rules of nature.’
‘Yet nature has created you, my lady, and you hardly conform to those rules. By your process of deduction, you cannot then consider yourself beautiful.’
The cruelty of his words was like a slap in the face. She had been so caught up in propounding her theory that she had unwittingly insulted him, and his response, to turn her own plainness against her, was much more painful than it ought to be. The light of intellectual conviction died from her eyes, and Cressie tumbled back down into harsh reality. Signor di Matteo possessed the kind of looks which made women cast caution to the winds, though most likely the caution they cast was physical rather than intellectual. ‘I am perfectly well aware, signor, that I am not beautiful.’
‘There is beauty in everything if you know how, and where, to look.’
He was standing too close to her. She was acutely aware of his brooding physical presence. Cressie got to her feet, intending to push him out of the way, but he caught hold of her arm. His fingers were long, tanned and quite free of paint, she noted absently. Her head barely reached the broad sweep of his shoulders. This close, there was no mistaking the strength which lurked underneath that lithe exterior. Being so near to him made her breathing erratic. It was embarrassment which was making her hot. Every propriety must be offended. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Unhand me at once.’
He ignored her, instead tilting her chin up and forcing her to meet his piercing gaze. She could escape quite easily, and yet it did not occur to her. ‘It is true,’ he said softly, ‘that your nose is not perfectly straight and so spoils the symmetry of your profile.’
Cressie glowered. ‘I am perfectly aware of that.’
‘And your eyes. They are too wide-spaced, and so not in the proportion to your mouth which Pacioli requires.’
One long finger traced the line he mentioned. His own eyes had a rim of gold at the edges. The lashes were black and thick. His touch was doing strange things to her insides. It made her jittery. Nervous. Was he flirting with her? Definitely not. He was merely punishing her for her unintended insult. ‘And my ears are out of alignment with my nose, the ratio between my chin and my forehead is wrong,’ Cressie said, with an insouciance she most certainly did not feel. ‘As for my mouth …’
‘As for your mouth …’
Signor di Matteo trailed his finger along the length of her bottom lip. She felt the most absurd urge to taste him. He growled something in Italian. His fingers splayed out over her jaw. He bent his head towards her. He was going to kiss her.
Cressie’s heart thudded. He really was going to kiss her. The muscles in her calves tensed in preparation for flight, but she didn’t move. His fingers slid along her jaw to tangle in her hair. She watched, urging herself to escape, but at the same time another part of her brain was enthralled, mesmerised, by that perfectly symmetrical face. Let him, she thought. Let him kiss me, if he dares!
His lips hovered a fraction over hers, just long enough for her to have a premonition of melting, a premonition of what it would be like to cede, to unleash whatever it was he kept restrained. Just long enough for Cressie to come to her senses.
She yanked herself free. ‘How dare you!’ It sounded very unconvincing, even to herself. She was struggling to breathe, praying that the heat which flooded her cheeks, which was surely mortification, was not too apparent. The nerve of him! He was outrageously attractive and he obviously knew it. Also, he was Italian. Everyone knew that Italian men were quite unable to control their passions. Obviously, it was not such a cliché as she had thought.
‘To return to your point, signor, I concede that my mouth is too wide to be considered beautiful,’ Cressie said, relieved to hear that her voice sounded almost composed.
‘Beauty, Lady Cressida, is not exclusively about symmetry. Your mouth is very beautiful, in my humble opinion.’
Giovanni di Matteo did not look the least abashed. ‘You ought not to have kissed me,’ Cressie said.
‘I did not kiss you. And you ought not to have spoken so scathingly of my work, especially since you have never seen it.’
‘Do not assume that I am so ignorant as my father. I have studied it, and I did not speak scathingly! I merely pointed out that you—that painting—that any art—’
‘Can be reduced to a set of principles and rules. I was listening.’ But even as he curled his lip, Giovanni had a horrible suspicion that this wholly unorthodox female had somehow managed to get to the root of his dissatisfaction. In the early days, when he painted for the simple pleasure of creating something unique, he had channelled that tangible connection between canvas and brush and palette and blood and skin and bone, painting from the heart and not the head. It had earned him nothing but mockery from the so-called experts. Naïve. Emotional. Lacking discipline and finesse. The words were branded on his heart. He learned to hone his craft, eradicate all emotion from his work. To his eye it rendered it soulless, but it proved immensely popular. The experts acclaimed it, the titled and influential commissioned it. He chose not to disillusion any of them. Giovanni made his bow. ‘Much as I have enjoyed our discussion, Lady Cressida, I must go and continue with the more prosaic task of capturing the likeness of my current client. I bid you good day.’
He took her hand, raising it to his lips. As he kissed her fingertips, the spark of awareness took him by surprise. Judging by her shocked expression, he was not the only one affected by it.
Chapter Two
Giovanni leapt down from the gig as it drew to a halt in front of Killellan Manor, the country estate of the Armstrong family, airily dismissing the waiting footman’s offer to escort him to the door. He had travelled to Sussex on the mail, which had been met at the nearest posting inn by Lord Armstrong’s coachman. It was a cold but clear day, the clouds scudding across the pale blue sky of early spring, encouraged by the brisk March breeze. Pulling his greatcoat more tightly around himself, he stamped his feet in an effort to stimulate the circulation. There were many things about England he admired, but the weather was not one of them.
Lord Armstrong’s impressive residence was constructed of grey sandstone. Palladian in style, with the main four-storey building flanked by two wings, the façade which fronted on to the carriage way was marred, in Giovanni’s view, by the unnecessary addition of a much later semicircular portico. Enclosed by the high hedges into which the gates were set, the house looked gloomy and rather forbidding.
Wishing to stretch his legs after the long journey before announcing his presence, Giovanni followed the main path past a high-walled garden and the stable buildings to discover a prospect at the front of the house altogether different and much more pleasing to the eye. Here, manicur
ed lawns edged with bright clumps of daffodils and narcissi stretched down, via a set of wide and shallow stone steps, to a stream which burbled along a pebbled river bed towards a watermill. On the far side of the river, the vista was of gently rolling meadows neatly divided by hedgerows. Despite the fact that the rustic bridge looked rather suspiciously too rustic, he couldn’t help but be entranced by this quintessentially English landscape.
‘It is a perfect example of what the poet, Mr Blake, calls England’s green and pleasant land, is it not?’
Giovanni started, for the words came from someone standing immediately behind him. The rush of the water over the pebbles had disguised her approach. ‘Lady Cressida. I was thinking almost exactly that, though I am not familiar with the poet, I’m afraid. Unless—could it be William Blake, the artist?’
‘He is more known for his verse than his art.’
‘That will change. I have seen some of his paintings. They are …’ Giovanni struggled to find an appropriate English word to describe the fantastical drawings and watercolours which seemed to explode out of the paper. ‘Extraordinary,’ he settled on finally and most unsatisfactorily. ‘I find them beautiful, but most certainly they would fail your mathematical criteria.’
‘And this?’ She waved at the landscape. ‘Would you consider this beautiful?’
‘I suspect your father has invested rather a lot of money to ensure that it is. That bridge, it cannot possibly be as old as it appears.’
‘There is also a little artfully ruined folly in the grounds, and you are quite correct, neither are older than I am.’
It had been more than two weeks since their first meeting in London. In the interval, Giovanni had replayed their conversation several times in his head, and that almost-but-not-quite kiss too. It had been a foolish act to take such a liberty with the daughter of the man who was paying his commission, and a man of such palpable influence too. He couldn’t understand why he had been so cavalier. Attempting to recreate Lady Cressida feature by feature using charcoal on paper had proved entirely unsatisfactory. He had been unable to capture the elusive quality that had piqued his interest. Now, as she stood before him, the sun shining directly behind her, making a halo of her wild curls, the dark shadows under her startlingly blue eyes, the faintest trace of a frown drawing her brows together giving her a delicate, bruised look, he could see that it was nothing to do with her features but something more complex which drew him to her. It puzzled him, until he realised that her allure was quite basic. He wanted to capture that ambiguity of hers in oils.
The Beauty Within Page 3