Giovanni paused in his work, frowning over at Freddie, whose hands he was painting. He was finding Cressie’s pacing presence far too distracting. It had seemed only practical to move the schoolroom to the portrait gallery, to allow Cressie to teach the boys while he worked, with only occasional breaks necessary to have them in the formal pose. The arrangement meant that he had made excellent progress on the portrait, sufficient to free him in the afternoons to work on Cressie’s picture without impacting on the commission. But today, he could not concentrate.
She was different. It was as if she had changed overnight. Having cast off her resentment, her anger on Lady Armstrong’s behalf seemed fresher, had somehow lost its previous debilitating quality and turned into a positive force. Penthiselea, the warrior queen. There were no half-measures with Cressie. She was on Bella’s side now, and would not waste time bearing a grudge for how she had been treated by her stepmother in the past. He wondered fleetingly what Lady Armstrong would make of this turnabout. From what Cressie had recounted of last night’s denouement, it seemed that she too was beginning to resent his lordship’s high-handed treatment. They would make unlikely allies, Cressie and her ladyship, but it seemed probable that allies was what they would become.
Giovanni smiled to himself. He’d like to see the outcome of the revolution in the Armstrong household that he had played a part in igniting. Sadly, it was unlikely, for this commission would take him only a few more weeks. An ache like a hunger pang gripped his belly, but he dismissed it. It wasn’t so much that he would miss Cressie, it was more that he was worried he would not have enough time to finish painting her. He’d have to work like a demon.
He tried to concentrate on the work in front of him, for which Lord Armstrong was paying, but he was far more interested in Cressie’s change of attitude towards her father. He doubted very much it would be so easy for her as she thought right now, to cast off the habit of obedience. He knew from his own experience that it was a durable and persistent habit which required constant vigilance to suppress. The important thing was that Cressie had made a start.
She had confided the small morsel of praise Lady Armstrong had bestowed upon her last night. The effect it had on her seemed out of all proportion, for it sounded to him like the most grudging of compliments, voiced as much to irk her sire as to bestow approval on her stepdaughter.
How little Cressie required to make her blossom. It had been obvious to Giovanni, how much her brothers had come to enjoy being with her, simply by the significant decrease in disruptions to his work. Harry, in particular, had a head for numbers, and had earned James’s fury by finishing the exercises in Cressie’s primer well ahead of his older brother, then demanding more difficult sums. James, a boy made in his dear papa’s image, had not taken well to this evidence of superiority, but Cressie had ignored his tantrum, and there could be no better tactic.
If only Giovanni could ignore Cressie, but he was horribly aware of her as she paced restlessly behind him, stopping every few moments by his easel and preceding almost every remark with ‘and another thing’ as she replayed last night’s scene for him, or recalled another incident from her past in which her father had put his own needs over others. There were a great deal of these, a bottomless well of examples which she had obviously, unwittingly, been storing away in that clever brain of hers with every detail intact.
He abandoned his attempt to complete his depiction of Freddie’s hands. The expertise with which he rendered hands was one of the things for which he was most praised, one of the techniques he had worked hardest to master, but he was not in the right frame of mind today. Picking up another brush, he began to paint in the boy’s shirt instead.
‘It is extraordinary how many shades you use to portray something which looks simply white to me. Watching you paint makes me realise the enormity of your skill. I cannot believe I ever suggested you were merely a craftsman.’
Cressie stood by his shoulder, gazing at the canvas. One of her curls tickled his cheek. She smelled of chalk and lavender and rather deliciously of strawberries, which Giovanni traced to the sticky patch of conserve on the sleeve of her gown where one of her brothers had grabbed hold of her. They were always grabbing hold of her. Though she was not naturally tactile, it was another change he’d noticed, her willingness to join in their rough and tumble and lately, to administer cuddles and even the occasional consoling kiss. His hand tightened on the long handle of his sable brush, thinking of those consoling kisses. He swore quietly under his breath. What, was he envious now, of a few childish kisses? Ridiculous. But yesterday, just before Harry burst in on them—that had been a kiss so very far from consoling, he’d been quite unable to think about anything else since.
He was thinking about it now, as Cressie’s skirts brushed against his trousers. She was asking him about shading. He had to find something to distract his thoughts. ‘Here, you can apply the next pigment. I will guide you.’ He loaded his brush with lead white, and handed it to her.
‘Giovanni!’ She looked as if he had given her a diamond necklace—or at least, as any other woman but Cressie would look, upon receipt of diamonds. ‘You can’t mean—I would not dare. You saw my attempt at a horse.’
It touched him unbearably, her glowing gratitude, the genuine admiration it implied, which meant so much more than any other because there was no one else, not in England, not in Italy, who understood his work so well. So little it took to please her, and so much she deserved. If she were his to please …
He strangled that thought at birth. Cressie was staring at him uncertainly. ‘I can see you’ve changed your mind. I don’t blame you,’ she said, obviously swallowing her disappointment.
Giovanni shook his head decisively. ‘The beauty of oils is how easily any mistake can be repaired, for they take so long to dry. But you will not make a mistake. Come here.’
He pulled her backwards against him, holding her still with one hand on the curve of her hip, which was another piece of her anatomy which had kept him awake at night, before covering her hand which held the paintbrush with his. The nape of her neck was warm, so delicate. Her fingers trembled under his. She had been making an effort not to pick at the skin around her nails of late. He had refrained from commending her, knowing she would prefer that he didn’t notice. ‘Gently,’ he said, meaning the reprimand just as much for himself as for her. ‘The lightest of strokes, but keep the brush steady. Don’t press down too hard. See.’ He guided her hand over the outline of a shirtsleeve on the canvas.
‘I’m painting! I’m actually painting. Imagine, in a hundred years’ time when some expert looks at this portrait, they will frown over these very brush strokes, and wonder if you have allowed an apprentice to work with you.’
Cressie’s fingers fluttered under his. Giovanni told himself she was simply nervous. And the way she was pressing her delightful bottom against his thighs, that was just for balance. He struggled against the rush of blood to his groin which was his instant response. Her breathing seemed to have quickened. Nerves again, he told himself. He would not look down over her shoulder at the rise and fall of her breasts. Such sensitive breasts, her nipples the same dark pink as one of the roses which grew in the gardens at Palazzo Fancini. He tried instead to think of the pigments he would use to create the exact shade, but it was too late. Unbidden, his hand had slid up from Cressie’s thigh to span her ribcage, just under the swell of her breast. Appalled, he made to remove it.
‘Don’t!’ Her voice was no more than a ragged whisper. ‘I mean,’ Cressie said, ‘please do not move, lest the brush slips. I would not like Freddie’s shirt to be ruined.’
He refrained from pointing out what he had already about the nature of oils. Relying on the fact that the easel and the large canvas obscured them from the view of the boys, he let his fingers drift upwards to cup her breast. She shuddered. His erection stiffened. The paintbrush wobbled. ‘More,’ Cressie whispered. ‘I think we need more paint.’
The palette was
on a side table. A stretch away. She leaned forwards, her bottom rubbing against him, and this time he knew it was deliberate, for she glanced over her shoulder at him with a smile that was both mischievous and sensual, before she loaded the brush and managed to nestle even closer against him on her return.
‘Papa, have you come to see our new schoolroom?’
‘Papa, have you come to look at our picture?’
‘Hell and damnation!’ Cressie exclaimed rather loudly. Fortunately, the scraping back of chairs and the delighted squeals of her brothers meant that no one other than Giovanni heard her.
He caught the paintbrush just before it spattered the polished oak boards of the gallery’s floor with lead white. He was on the point of assuring her that her father would have noticed nothing untoward when he caught Lord Armstrong’s assessing gaze and abruptly changed his mind. These last few weeks, he had come to think of the man, whom he had met only once, as an ignorant buffoon. He had forgotten the salient fact that Lord Armstrong was one of the most respected diplomats in England, if not Europe. Such a man did not achieve success without having acute powers of observation, the ability to assess a situation accurately. Judging from his expression, those powers were telling him that something was not as it should be. His eyes, which Giovanni was disconcerted to note were a faded version of Cressie’s, were not focused on his sons but on his daughter.
‘Why was I not informed that you had abandoned the schoolroom?’
‘Come, Father, you know you have no desire to be bothered with petty domestic detail. I thought you would commend my arrangements, for they are most efficient, allowing me to teach and Giovanni—Signor di Matteo—to paint at the same time.’
Cressie was flushed, but she seemed remarkably unflustered. In fact, she seemed almost to be relishing the situation. Giovanni suppressed a smile, and made a very small bow. ‘Lady Cressida is most resourceful,’ he said.
Lord Armstrong’s eyes narrowed. He was patently puzzled, but was fortunately so entrenched in his view of his daughter as undesirable and lacking in desires of her own that the reason his suspicions had been aroused did not occur to him. He made no attempt to return Giovanni’s bow and turned his attention to the canvas. ‘Hmm.’
‘Signor di Matteo has made excellent progress, do you not think, Father?’
‘Better part of the canvas is still to be covered.’
‘Yes, but he has completed all of the faces, and most of the hands. These are the most time-consuming and important elements. They are excellent likenesses, do you not agree?’ Cressie persisted.
‘Yes, not too shabby,’ Lord Armstrong admitted grudgingly, ‘but I’d expect nothing less for the kind of fee he demands.’ He turned away from the canvas after the most cursory inspection, ignoring the various pleas of his sons, now clustered around him, to agree that their particular likeness was the best. Swatting and patting indiscriminately at his offspring, for he hated to have his clothing pawed, he turned to Giovanni. ‘I had hoped to be here when the portrait was completed, but that will not be possible now. I am needed in Russia on important matters of state.’
As ever when he mentioned his calling, the diplomat seemed to puff up his chest. If he had feathers, Giovanni thought, Lord Armstrong would have preened them. He said nothing, however, refusing even to pretend to be impressed, though it was his normal custom to pander to his clients’ vanity.
‘I shall have my man of business pay half your fee on completion,’ Lord Armstrong continued. ‘You will understand that the remainder will be held until I have returned, and can signify my acceptance of the piece.’
Giovanni sensed, rather than heard Cressie’s protest, and quelled it with a quick shake of his head. He picked up the cloth and covered the easel and then began to gather together his brushes.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ his lordship demanded.
‘You pay me half my fee, I leave you half a painting. When you return, and are available to signify your acceptance, I will complete it. Until then, my work here is done.’
‘I say! That is most unreasonable.’
Giovanni shrugged. Across from him, he saw Cressie cover her mouth with her hand. She knew he was bluffing. It surprised him, that she could read him so well. He continued to pack up his painting equipment.
‘You are being most unprofessional,’ Lord Armstrong protested.
‘We agreed on the terms of my commission. I happen to know that you—how do you call it—pulled strings—in order to gain precedent.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Sir Gareth McIlroy was to be my next client. He informed me that he would cede his place in my schedule to you. I know how desperate he was to have a portrait of his wife, who has consumption, completed as a matter of urgency. I must therefore deduce that the favour he owed you was significant.’ Giovanni permitted himself a small smile. ‘But if you wish to call a halt to proceedings I’m sure Sir Gareth would be most grateful and relieved.’
Lord Armstrong, quite disconcerted, made a show of consulting his watch. ‘I cannot be wasting the morning haggling over a picture. Very well, Cressida shall authorise full payment to you when the portrait is finished.’
‘Not Lady Armstrong?’
His lordship’s eyes narrowed. He was fairly certain that he was being disrespected, but he had no idea how. He closed his watch with a brisk snap of the gold case and returned it to his pocket. ‘My wife has more important matters to concern herself with. My daughter, on the other hand, has nothing better to do. Which puts me in mind.’ He turned towards Cressie. ‘I have left a list of instructions for you to follow in my absence, but there are two other things I want to mention. Firstly, Sir Gilbert. You will prevail upon your stepmother to let him attend to her when he visits. All this stuff and nonsense about midwives is just that. Secondly, Cordelia. Your Aunt Sophia is, naturally, authorised to accept any suitable proposal while I am away. She knows my preferences.’
‘What about Cordelia’s preferences, Father?’
‘Cordelia will prefer whomever her aunt directs her to prefer. Cordelia knows her duty. Sophia knows all about the business of launching a girl, none better,’ Lord Armstrong said, quite forgetting the misalliance his sister had failed to prevent Cassandra from pursuing. ‘You will leave her to it, and you will refrain—refrain!—from interfering, do you hear me, Cressida?’
‘I do, Father. Though why you should be concerned about any influence I may have with Cordelia when you are so sure that she knows her duty …’
‘Impudence is a vice that is tolerable in the very young. In a woman of your age, it is quite misplaced. I will bid you farewell, Cressida, for I aim to spend the rest of the day with my boys, and must leave before dinner. You may write me with news of my wife when her time comes.’
With a dismissive nod to Giovanni, Lord Armstrong departed with his gleeful sons. ‘And I am willing to bet that within the hour he will have had quite enough of their angelic company and will be calling for me to take them back,’ Cressie said to his retreating back.
Giovanni laughed drily. ‘I hope that you will make a point of being unavailable, since he so summarily dismissed you.’
‘Not just me. He was barely civil to you.’
‘Do not apologise on his behalf. I do not care this much for the man’s opinion.’ Giovanni snapped his fingers to demonstrate, a gesture which Cressie thought peculiarly Italian. He began to clear away his brushes.
‘Aren’t you going to carry on with the portrait?’
‘I find I am no longer in the mood for painting.’
Cressie picked up the brush of lead white and drew it over the back of her hand, leaving a faint trace of paint. ‘Can you only paint when you feel inspired?’
‘If that were true I would have produced nothing in the past decade. It is many years since I felt inspired to paint any subject. Until I met you, that is.’
‘What is so different about me?’
‘I don’t know. I
t is a mystery, and therein, perhaps, lies the answer. You are fascinating, unfathomable and quite unlike any woman I have ever met. It would appear that you are also my muse.’
Cressie flushed. ‘An object of obsession? That doesn’t sound at all like me.’
‘To obsess does not seem at all like me. And yet …’
Seconds passed in silence, the atmosphere crackled with tension like the moments before a thunderstorm breaks. What he had left unspoken hung between them like overripe fruit ready for plucking. Cressie blurted out the first thing that came into her head. ‘I can help you with that.’
Giovanni stared at her in dumb incomprehension.
‘The brushes,’ she faltered, pointing vaguely, ‘would you like me to help you clean the brushes?’
Bemused, Giovanni agreed. She followed him down a service staircase to the basement scullery which he had requisitioned for his own. A dank room no longer used by the kitchen staff, it was lit only by an oil lamp. He had left his coat up in the gallery. She watched him at the sink, admiring the lean lines of him, the way his forearms flexed as he worked his brushes free from paint.
Cressie felt restless. Tense. Exhilarated. She felt as if she were looking at the world anew, with a clarity that was almost painful. It made her want to behave outrageously, to make up for years of compliance. For the first time, facing up to her father made her feel better, not worse. She was buoyed with confidence. The way Lord Armstrong had looked at them, she and Giovanni, in the gallery, he had known that there was something amiss, but it had not occurred to him that his daughter, his obedient, mousy little daughter, could have been behaving so outrageously.
‘Here, let me see your hands. You have white paint all over them.’
The Beauty Within Page 10