‘What do you think?’
The tone of Giovanni’s voice sounded uncharacteristically uncertain. Realising with some surprise that her opinion mattered to him, Cressie eyed the portrait with renewed concentration, endeavouring to see it objectively, trying to recall the exact terms of their challenge. ‘As proof of my thesis, it is well-nigh perfect. You have created beauty using nature’s formulae,’ she said eventually.
‘But that is not what I asked.’
‘I know.’ Cressie peered at the woman in the portrait. ‘She is beautiful, but she is not me. I don’t mean the way she looks—it is a very good likeness, Giovanni, and the execution is masterful, but …’
‘Tell me how it makes you feel.’
‘It’s strange, but it’s as if there are parts of me missing. If art is truth, then this is a lie. Perhaps not a lie but a fib. You have omitted all my faults and implied characteristics I don’t possess. There is very little of me behind that face. I look as if I would not say boo to a goose, as my Aunt Sophia would say, but I’m not biddable like that, nor do I recognise that sort of knowing confidence.’
‘No, you are none of those things, but you are extremely perceptive. Not many people are capable of such insight. Especially in relation to themselves.’
Cressie circled the portrait, then stood in front of it again, frowning deeply. ‘The proportions, the ratios, the angles, everything is perfect, but it is a lie. Mathematics is the purest of truths, its rules are irrefutable, and yet somehow you have refuted them. I don’t understand. Is beauty not its own truth, Giovanni?’ She whirled around to face him, her skirts catching on the legs of the easel, so that it rocked alarmingly. ‘I am not this woman. I don’t even want to be this woman, this simpering, pouting siren.’
‘Though she is exactly the kind of woman you claimed you wished you could be, all compliance and conformity? This woman,’ Giovanni said contemptuously, ‘would have married to please her father without hesitation.’
‘I am not that woman!’
‘No, you are not. But you are not honest with yourself either. You like to think yourself a rebel, subverting the strictures of your life with little gestures, but your instinct is still to conform, to comply. This painting,’ Giovanni said pointedly, forcing her to face the canvas once more, ‘is not a complete lie.’
Cressie stared at her portrait afresh, her anger dying as she assimilated the truth of what Giovanni had said, what Giovanni had painted. ‘Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, and cry content to that which grieves my heart, and wet my cheeks with artificial tears, and frame my face for all occasions,’ she quoted ironically. ‘Richard the Third,’ she added, glancing over her shoulder, to where he stood behind her. ‘Apt, apparently, but hardly flattering.’
‘Nor the whole truth. When I paint you as Penthiselea, I would like you to have your hair completely down.’
‘So you have decided that I am to be an Amazon after all?’
He took her hand between his. ‘It is certainly true that you are much stronger than you think you are,’ he said, kissing her wrist.
His mouth was warm, her pulse flickered beneath his gentle caress. ‘And much more inclined to self-deception, if your character assessment is to be believed,’ Cressie replied, trying to ignore the way his touch made her so conscious of her body, of the proximity of his. The tension between them altered subtly, from fraught to dangerous.
‘I wished to make you feel better about yourself, not worse. I know how deep go the ties that bind us to those whose blood we share. I know how strong is the urge to please them. I know how difficult it is to please oneself in the face of it.’ Giovanni touched her hair, running his hand down the wild curls, to rest on the exposed flesh of her shoulder. ‘I know what it is to suffer in this way, and I know what it is to escape.’
His other arm slid around her waist, pulling her to him. His eyes were dark, passionately dark, his voice low, mesmerising. There were secrets, painful secrets, hidden behind the words he used, but she was too distracted by his touch, his scent, the nearness of him, the elemental pull of him, to care. Her skin was heated. She could see the quiver of her breasts, rising and falling in the low-cut gown, as her breathing quickened.
Giovanni’s fingers trailed down from her shoulder, along the lace at the neckline of her dress, the lightest and most tantalising of touches. ‘You are so much more, so very much more than you think you are, Cressie,’ he whispered. His lips touched hers. The slightest of kisses, the merest brush of lip on lip. ‘Penthiselea, the warrior goddess. Fight for yourself.’
He dipped his head, and began to kiss his way across her décolleté. She moaned softly as his lips, his tongue, trailed tiny kisses over the mounds of her breasts, lingering in the depth of her cleavage. His hands cupped her bottom, his fingers kneading her buttocks. She arched against him, lifting her breasts higher for his attentions. The puffed sleeves of her dress slid off her shoulders, and the front of the gown slid over her breasts, just exactly as if it were designed to do so.
‘Sei bellisima,’ Giovanni muttered, and took one of her exposed tight, pink nipples into his mouth. He sucked, and a shot of pure pleasure made her jerk against him. She staggered back against the wall. He sucked again, and cupped her other breast with his hand, teasing the nipple with his thumb. Her belly tightened. An aching throb took hold inside her, an exquisite tensing of all her muscles. ‘Sei bellisima,’ Giovanni said again, and she believed him. Not that she was beautiful, but that he thought her so at this moment. His tongue circled her nipple, flicking, licking, his thumb mimicking the movement on her other breast, rousing her into an agony of wanting.
His hand tightened around her bottom, pulling her tight up against him. She could feel his arousal, hard, unmistakably hard, against her belly. She wanted, desperately wanted, to feel him closer. ‘Giovanni.’ Her voice sounded hoarse. ‘Giovanni,’ she said, more insistently now. He seemed loath to lift his head from her breasts. She was loath to urge him to do so, except … ‘Giovanni!’
His lids were heavy over his eyes. Slashes of colour accentuated the planes of his cheekbones even more than usual. Cressie touched his jaw, running her palm over the slight abrasion of his stubble. ‘You want me to stop?’ he said, his voice husky.
She shook her head. ‘I want you to kiss me.’
His mouth curled into the most sensual of smiles. One hand cupped her breast, the other her bottom. ‘Per fortuna, that is exactly what I would like to do.’ His lips touched hers. She opened her mouth to him.
The attic door flew open with a crash. ‘Here you both are! I told James this is your secret room, but he didn’t believe me,’ Harry exclaimed, bursting excitedly into the room. ‘You must tell him I was right, Cressie. You must tell him—Cressie, you must come at once.’
‘Why? Whatever is the matter?’
‘Papa is here.’
Chapter Five
‘That was a most meagre dinner, I must say. What was cook thinking of, sending up such a paltry selection of side-dishes? You must have a stern word with her, my dear. It is a question of maintaining standards, don’t you know.’
Lord Armstrong shook out the tails of his evening coat and eased himself into a chair by the fire, opposite his wife. They had retired to the formal drawing room after dinner, a large chamber which had lain unused for several months—since his lordship’s last visit to his country estate, as a matter of fact. As a result the room was chilly, the air stale. Bella had of late taken to sharing an early supper tray with her stepdaughter, before retiring to her bed almost immediately afterwards, and was struggling to stay awake. Huddled in a large cashmere shawl, obviously horribly uncomfortable in the constraints of her evening gown, Lady Armstrong remonstrated weakly. ‘Had we been expecting you, my love, I would have made sure to order a more suitable and substantial dinner.’
‘Always be prepared for every possibility,’ her husband said bracingly, ‘always stay one step ahead of the opposition, and you will never fail.’
‘We are your family, not the opposition, and if you had not failed to send us a note apprising us of your imminent arrival, Father, we should not have failed to provide you with a dinner worthy of your elevated status.’ Cressie, seated enough of a distance away from the fire to feel distinctly cold, was also feeling distinctly abrasive. Bella’s skin had a waxy pallor, she noted. Her cheeks were also unnaturally flushed, and she knew, for her stepmother had confided in her that evening, that her ankles were so swollen as to make her slippers pinch painfully. ‘Bella has been most unwell,’ she said pointedly. ‘She should be in her bed.’
‘Nonsense. It does the circulation good to be up and about. It is good for the child too, for you to get some exercise, Bella. I am sure Sir Gilbert Mountjoy did not mean for you to be lolling abed all day.’
‘What Sir Gilbert actually said was that Bella needed to rest,’ Cressie said pointedly.
Lord Armstrong, who had made a career out of turning the truth in whichever direction most suited him, waved his hand dismissively. ‘She has been resting for some weeks now. As I recall, it was in order to allow my wife to rest that I sent you down here, Cressida. I wonder that it has not occurred to you to relieve her of some simple household tasks. Such as the ordering of a decent dinner.’
An angry retort sprang to her lips, but Cressie caught it just in time. It was her father’s most successful tactic, to turn the tables on her, and she rarely failed to rise to the bait. But not this time. He was wholly in the wrong, would never admit to being in the wrong, and she would be wasting her time in trying to make him do so. Such a little thing it was in the grand scheme of things, to refuse to be belittled, but she did refuse, and she felt better for it. Taking a leaf from Giovanni’s book, for in many aspects her father was every bit as childish as her brothers, she did not deign to reply at all, but got to her feet.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Though it seems to have slipped your mind, Father, the main reason you sent me down here was to act as governess to your sons. I am going to make sure they are abed and settled. They are such very boisterous boys,’ she said with a sweet smile, ‘that I fear they do not always heed their nursemaid and often refuse to retire when they ought. Perhaps, now you are here, you will wish to assume the duty for yourself? In fact, I wonder it did not occur to you earlier to offer to take my place in reading them their bedtime story. My apologies. I will ensure that I do not usurp you tomorrow.’
‘I have no time to be reading stories,’ Lord Armstrong said, his eyes narrowing. He was not accustomed to hearing sarcasm in his own household unless it originated from himself, but if he didn’t know better he might imagine that Cressida was mocking him.
‘Cressie has been very good with the boys, Henry,’ Bella said faintly. ‘They heed her much more than they do me. Poor little souls, I was worried that I was neglecting them, for I really have been feeling very low, but they seem perfectly happy with their big sister.’
‘Why thank you, Bella,’ Cressie said, astonished, earning herself a tight little smile.
‘Cressie has been most solicitous to me too, Henry,’ Bella persisted. ‘She has taken all of the household burdens from me, for there have been days when I have been as weak as a kitten, you know. The morning sickness is quite debilitating.’
‘Sickness! But you must be well past that stage by now. You are what—five months gone?’
‘Indeed, for your last visit here was November.’
Lord Armstrong was rather disconcerted by this embarrassingly personal snippet of information. ‘Nonsense, my dear, you are misremembering. I am sure …’
‘You were present for a time on Christmas Day. You arrived in time for church, as I recall, and left after dinner. You have not stayed the night here since November. It is no wonder that little Freddie and George were so awkward with you this afternoon—you are quite the stranger to them.’
Once again, Cressie stared in astonishment at her stepmother. She had never once heard Bella speak to Lord Armstrong in such a way. Seeing her father’s face, she realised that he was just as taken aback as she, and hid her smile. For the first time in her life, she felt that she and her stepmother were fighting the same corner.
Bella, it seemed, was not quite finished either. ‘You will no doubt wish to become re-acquainted with your sons, now that you are here,’ she said. ‘Cressie would appreciate the morning off from teaching, I am sure, if you wish to take the boys out fishing.’
First Cressida had openly mocked him and now Bella had decided to get uppity. Something was most definitely afoot, Lord Armstrong decided and he was not at all sure he approved of it. ‘I would not dream of interrupting their school work. Besides, I am due back in London almost immediately. I am off to St Petersburg with the duke, you know. I may be gone for some months. That is why I am here, to ensure that the appropriate arrangements are in place before I depart.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Bella wilted visibly. Had she not been paying close attention, Cressie would have missed the disappointment, so quickly was it erased from her expression. Her stepmother was hurt. It should not have been a blinding revelation, but it was. Bella actually loved her husband. Bella thought he had come to visit her, obviously hoped he had come because he was concerned about her, when all Lord Armstrong was interested in was his appropriate arrangements! With a shock, Cressie realised what arrangements he meant. He would be absent for the birth of Bella’s child. His child!
Forgetting all about her strategy of indifference, she could no longer hold her tongue. ‘Father! You cannot go with Wellington. I am sure he will be able to find an able replacement. Bella needs you here.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Cressie!’ Bella exclaimed.
‘Bella will not say it, so I will say it for her.’
‘Cressida, I beg you will not!’
‘She does not wish you to travel so far beyond reach at such an important time.’
‘Henry, do not heed her. I am sure I will do perfectly well on my own.’
‘You will not be on your own.’
Lord Armstrong got to his feet. He rarely betrayed anger, but Cressie could see, from the rigidity of his posture, that he was having to work extremely hard to hide his feelings. Under any other circumstances, she would have been gleeful, but for now she was simply concerned with trying to make him see the utter selfishness of his behaviour. ‘Father, I know it will be a sacrifice, but surely Bella is more important than …’
‘How dare you! How dare you tell me what to do! How dare you decide what is important for England and what is not.’ Lord Armstrong shook with rage. ‘It seems to have escaped your notice that my wife has already given birth to four healthy boys without complication or drama.’
‘Father, it is different this time. Bella has been most unwell.’
‘And whose fault is that? I have no doubt at all that you have been encouraging her to think herself worse than she is. Mountjoy had no real concerns when he examined her, or he would have informed me of them. My wife has expressed no real concerns either, until today, and no doubt that is thanks to your encouragement. She has not once written to me of any serious complaints, have you, my dear?’ Lord Armstrong demanded, turning suddenly on his wife, who seemed to be trying to bury her bulk into the depths of her armchair.
She shook her head. ‘I did not wish to worry you, Henry. I know how important—’
‘There, you see!’ Lord Armstrong declared. The obvious note of triumph in his voice, however, made him rein in his emotions. When he spoke again, it was in his more usual tone, and most pointedly directed only at his wife. ‘Despite your reluctance to burden me, I was worried, my love. Which is why I have arranged for Sir Gilbert to attend you every month until your date. Though he is almost as much in demand as I, he has graciously agreed that he will take up residence at Killellan Manor for your lying-in. You see how much of a care I have for our child.’
For our child! Not for
his wife. The nuance would before today have been lost on Cressie, but Giovanni had helped her to look at her world in a very different light. She fully expected Bella to be reassured, however, and was as unprepared as his lordship for her response.
‘No!’ Bella struggled to sit up, casting cushions and shawls aside. ‘I will not have him here. I don’t want him here.’
‘Sir Gilbert?’ Lord Armstrong looked puzzled. ‘But he has attended the births of every one of our sons. He is the best in his field.’
‘No!’ With a supreme effort, Bella rose from her seat. ‘I won’t have him, Henry, do you hear? I want a midwife. I want a woman. I will not have that man prodding and poking me with his cold fingers and telling me not to make a fuss in that finicky voice of his. “Come, Lady Armstrong, show a little restraint. Do you hear the cows calving in the field bellowing so loud?” I’d like to see him give birth to such great strapping boys as mine without a bellow or two. I’d like to see him managing to be stoic, faced with those dreadful instruments of torture of his. I will not have him. I shall make my own arrangements, Henry, since you will not be here, and that is the last I have to say on the matter. I am retiring to my bedchamber now. Since your visit is to be of such short duration, I will make no further calls on your time. I do not expect to see you until morning.’
With as much dignity as her rippling flesh and swollen ankles shuffling in their tight slippers could muster, Bella left the drawing room. Cressie, dumbfounded, also decided a strategic retreat was much the best tactic. It had been quite a day and she had much to reflect upon.
Cressie recounted the events of the drawing room to Giovanni the next morning. ‘I feel such an idiot. I was so taken up by resenting poor Bella that I completely failed to realise that she is just as much a victim of my father’s selfishness as my sisters and I. She really does care for him, and he really does care naught for her. You were right,’ she whispered, for her brothers were all four of them seated at the table working, George and Freddie on their letters, James and Harry at their geometry. ‘My father is no more interested in what Bella wants than he is in what I want. You should have seen her face last night when she realised that he was only here to make sure we all behaved ourselves while he swans off to Russia with Wellington. I actually felt sorry for her.’
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