His face was buried in Cressie’s hair. Her breasts were pressed against his chest. He could feel her heart racing. His own was pounding heavily. He ran his fingers down the perfect curve of her spine. The line of beauty. He should be ashamed by how quickly he had unravelled, of his lack of restraint, but he was not. He felt none of the things he had felt before—no ennui, no sadness, no sense of emptiness nor even the slightest hint of the disgust which had seized him when he had been forced to sell himself in order to survive until his artistic success made it no longer necessary. It had become a habit, performed like the most perfunctory of tasks. But this, this was very different.
Cressie’s arms were wrapped tight around his waist. The salty, musky scent of sex mingled with the familiar smell of her, lavender and chalk and freshness. Her face was pressed into his chest. Her breath was soft on his skin. It only now occurred to him how bold she had been. She was no experienced woman seeking amusement, nor was she one of those women seeking the relief of a fresh male body from the tired, familiar one of her husband. But she had been determined, nevertheless, despite her very limited experience, to seduce him. Not for her own pleasure, but for his.
It was that, Giovanni realised, which made it so very, very different. She wanted to please him. Her pleasure was in pleasing him. She had given herself to him unselfishly, encouraged him to take what he wanted and demanded that he show her what he desired. No woman had ever done that before. All they had been interested in was what his body could do for theirs. Cressie wanted him for himself.
As if he needed further proof, she stirred and sat up, smiling shyly, blushing, as she pushed her hair back from her face. ‘I hope my lack of expertise did not spoil things for you.’
Giovanni winced. ‘Rather it was my lack of control which—Cressie, why did you do that?’
‘I wanted to show you that surrendering to passion will make you a greater painter not a lesser one.’
‘So you did it to prove a point?’
Cressie dropped her eyes and tugged self-consciously at her corset, pulling it back up over her breasts. When she looked at him again, her blush had deepened. ‘That is not the real reason. I—after the whispering gallery—I needed to know, Giovanni, that it was not just me who felt—this. To prove something to both of us, I suppose.’
Disarmed by her frankness, he was also uneasy, for he sensed that she was nevertheless holding something back. Giovanni got to his feet, pulling her up with him, and picked her shirt and breeches up from the floor, hastily pulling on his own trousers. The sense of euphoria which had thrown him high in the air vanished, dropping him abruptly back down to earth like a kite which suddenly loses the wind. Angry with himself for having even half-formed the thought that he would give anything to be able to make love to Cressie properly, for even starting to imagine her response, Giovanni grabbed his own shirt and pulled it quickly over his head. She was sitting on the Egyptian chair pulling on her boots and looking horribly forlorn. The twisting in his gut warned him too late what he had risked. That she had risked so much more, and all for his sake made him feel quite sick with guilt. Yet he could not make himself regret it. That feeling, the aftermath of his climax, that feeling of bliss, of real ecstasy, of completion, he would not regret that.
Dio, what a self-centred bastard he was. As if anything was possible between them with his past. As if he would ever inflict his sordid self on such a unique creature. He did not deserve to even fantasise about her. He had to put an end to this somehow, without hurting her feelings and without revealing the shameful facts behind the necessity to end it. He had nothing to offer Cressie save her portrait. It sickened him, knowing how close he had come to ruining her. The taste of what might have been was bitter, but he swallowed it down as he knelt in front of her, taking her hands between his. ‘I say nothing because I don’t know what to say,’ Giovanni said, trying for once to speak as candidly as she deserved. ‘I have no words to thank you for being so—so brave and so—to take such a risk—you have great courage.’
‘Giovanni, I have not—’
‘No, let me speak. What you did for me, it was beautiful, but I cannot allow it to happen again. It was my fault. No, I will not let you take the blame, Cressie. I knew exactly what I was doing. I could have stopped, but I did not—do not pretend that you think differently.’ He touched her forehead, the soft plane of her cheek which he loved for being so very different from his own, the sweet curve of her lips which from the moment he saw her he had wanted to kiss. ‘Despite your years, you are an innocent. And I am not. It is not right, for me to take what you offer. Not for any reason, and especially not in the name of art. I will not pretend that I will find it easy, but I won’t take advantage of you. You deserve far more, far better than me.’
‘You’re not taking advantage of me.’
‘Are you angry?’ Giovanni asked, puzzled by the mulish note in her voice.
‘I won’t be patronised.’ Cressie pushed his hand away and got to her feet. ‘You’re not using me. If anything, I was using you. I wanted to see what it would be like, and now I know. Perhaps now that we have brought this—tension—between us to some sort of conclusion, we will be able to focus on the task in hand. Which, I may remind you, is the completion of our little experiment.’
‘You think I was patronising you? In what way was I patronising you?’ Giovanni asked, struggling to understand her sudden change in mood. How could she have misconstrued what he said?
Cressie strode over to her favourite position at the window. ‘It is my fault. I will not let you take the blame. You deserve better.’ She threw herself down on the window seat, and almost immediately jumped back up again. ‘I am six-and-twenty years old. I am an intelligent woman and contrary to what you said, not without experience. I knew perfectly well what I was doing, Giovanni, and if—and I say if—I chose to do it again, then it would be because I wanted to, and not because you have somehow put me under your spell. I can make up my own mind, as you have spent the past two months telling me.’ She strode over to him, standing with her hands on her hips, her eyes bright with temper. ‘If you wished to put your mind at rest as to my expectations, you had only to ask.’
‘Cressie, that is not—’
‘Take your hands off me!’ She pushed his chest so forcefully that he staggered back. ‘Did you think that one touch from the Adonis of the art world would make me fall at your feet as no doubt hundreds of other women have? Or worse, being your muse, did you worry that I’d fall in love with you? Well, I’ve done neither of those things.’
She dashed a hand over her eyes and took several deep breaths. Her hair covered her face. Her shoulders were hunched. She was obviously trying hard not to cry. He wanted to put his arms around her, but suspected she would strike him if he did. Inferno! This is what he got for attempting to be honest! His conscience pricked him. Not wholly honest. Nowhere near wholly honest, but he could never sully Cressie’s ears with the unadorned, unpalatable truth.
She had pushed her hair back from her face again. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. He hated to see her cry, knowing how much she hated it herself. ‘Cressie, I swear, it was not at all my intention to upset you. I only wanted …’
‘To warn me off.’ She sniffed. ‘There was no need, Giovanni. You have made it absolutely clear that you have no wish to share your life with anyone, and my own plans for the future don’t include any man,’ she said with a toss of her head.
It was ridiculous, but it was as painful as if she had stabbed him. ‘You have plans? You haven’t mentioned any plans.’
‘Why should I? You form no part of them, nor wish to.’ Cressie took a deep breath. When she continued, the hard edge had disappeared from her voice. She looked deflated. ‘That was unkind of me, Giovanni, I beg your pardon. I did not tell you my plans because they are only half-formed. I am thinking of writing to my sister Celia in A’Qadiz. She has established a new system of schooling there, which educates girls as well as boys. For some time she h
as been endeavouring to increase the number of schools but has been struggling to find suitable teachers. I believe I have a talent for teaching. I have come to enjoy it, and I think that in A’Qadiz Celia would give me the freedom to experiment with new methods. I don’t know what she’ll say, but if her reaction is positive—well, it means that I am no longer dependent on my father. And it means I could have finally found my true calling.’
‘Arabia! That is halfway round the world. Could you not teach here in England?’
‘In a ladies’ seminary you mean? I cannot embroider, you know I cannot draw, and I have no wish at all to spend my days beating the basics of arithmetic into the heads of a clutch of girls who see its only application in calculating the annual income of their future husband.’ Cressie clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Now I am being patronising, but even if there are young women out there who wish to learn what I can teach, they will not be permitted to do so. In A’Qadiz, Celia’s husband, Prince Ramiz, is very forward looking and wants the best for all his people. He supports Celia’s desire to see girls educated in the same subjects as boys. It is revolutionary, and in some parts of their kingdom it is being resisted, but—you see what a challenge it would be?’
What he could see was that the evangelical sparkle was back in her eyes. He could see that she meant it when she said she hadn’t considered him at all as part of her future. Which was exactly what he wanted. So why did it hurt? ‘I see that it is a challenge you would relish,’ Giovanni said tightly.
His own contrariness angered him. He’d thought his future perfectly mapped until he met Cressie. He wandered across the room to stand in front of the easel. Mr Brown peered out at him from the canvas, mischievous and sensual and subversive, just as he’d hoped. The colours were vibrant, the brush strokes clearly visible, the portrait itself less defined, more like a sweeping impression of Cressie than a precise mirror-like representation. It would not sell. It was too different. He thought it was good, he thought it was innovative, but he’d been wrong before. If this was his future, then his future was going to be a struggle.
A struggle he would have to make alone. How ironic. Alone, free of demands and obligations, free of the need to sell himself for his art, that was what he’d dreamt of back in the early days. Alone. The word took on a different meaning now that he had surrendered himself to passion. Alone meant being without Cressie. Alone no longer meant safety, security, success. It meant loneliness.
What an idiot he was! He should be glad that Cressie had her own plans. Glad that she was looking forwards to a future of her own choosing, glad that she saw no place for him there. It was a mistake to imagine what had happened between them was in any way profound. A release of pent-up desire, that is all it was. And this absurd wish to divest himself of all his secrets, to confess all—what the devil was he thinking?
‘What about you, Giovanni? What does your future hold?’ Cressie stood at his elbow. How many times had she stood there beside him, inspecting his canvases, speaking her thoughts which were almost always a reflection of his own, and even more often taking him aback with her insights, for she seemed able to see behind the paint to his intentions. Would he be able to develop this new di Matteo style without her? He had no option.
‘I will finish this portrait of Mr Brown,’ Giovanni said brusquely, ‘and that is the only part of my future you need concern yourself with.’
Cressie picked up her cloak. Giovanni clearly wanted her to leave, no doubt already wishing what had passed between them undone. She would not allow him to spoil it for her. For those precious moments, he had been hers and hers alone. For those precious moments, she had allowed her heart free rein and given him all of herself. But he didn’t want her, and now she ought to be very glad indeed that she had not betrayed herself. She would not add her broken heart to the burden he already carried around with him. Wrapping the cloak around her, she managed a bright and completely false smile. ‘Very well. Since you have no need of me, I shall go and progress my own plans.’
Closing the door of the attic behind her, Cressie bit the inside of her cheek hard. She would write to her publisher. Mr Frey worth could not fail to be impressed by the results she had achieved with her brothers. And if he was not, she would find another publisher. That, at least, was something she could control. Her stupid, contrary heart, now that was something else entirely.
Chapter Nine
It was a beautiful English late-spring day, the sky cobalt blue, the hedgerows bursting into life, studded with cow parsley, celandine and campion. Primroses huddled in bright yellow clumps in the lee of the stone walls which bordered one side of the road. The woodlands were bright with bluebells, fluffy white lambs gambolled in the rolling fields and the trees were awash with fresh green foliage. ‘It is as perfect an English idyll as you could wish for, if you were that kind of artist,’ Cressie said, glancing over to Giovanni, who was sitting beside her on the gig.
‘Thankfully I am not. Flowers tend to be painted by flowery painters,’ he replied witheringly.
Cressie smiled. ‘I can think of no adjective less applicable to you than flowery.’
Giovanni bowed. ‘I will take that as a compliment. Tell me, why are you so eager for us to take tea with your neighbours today?’
‘Aren’t you tired of being cooped up at Killellan?’ In fact, it was she who was feeling claustrophobic. In the aftermath of what might well be her one and only experience of making love to the man she loved, even if they hadn’t technically made love, Cressie had discovered yet another example of logic and instinct being at war. There could be no future for them, that was plain, so it would be futile to waste any more time being in love with him. Except she was in love with him, and she couldn’t persuade herself not to be. He kept his distance, as promised. She kept hers. Except that every time they were alone together the distance narrowed to nothing in the glances they exchanged, the looks quickly disguised, sometimes just in the way they talked to each other. It hung there, unacknowledged but palpable like a spectre at the feast, the attraction between them. Giovanni at least had the diversion of his painting to occupy his thoughts. Cressie—Cressie was plain frustrated most of the time. She’d thought getting outside, away from the studio and the portrait and all the attendant emotions and memories, would dissipate the tension. But it was still present in the way he sat as far away from her on the bench of the gig as possible, in the way his hand seemed always to be in the process of avoiding her.
Cressie forced her attention back to the road, though the horse was so familiar with the journey, on account of Lord Armstrong’s housekeeper being the daughter of Lady Innellan’s butler, that she really had no need to do more than keep a loose hold on the reins and point him vaguely in the right direction. ‘You have barely been over the door since you arrived, save that one day kite-flying in the park with the boys,’ she prompted Giovanni, who seemed distracted, lost deep in the recesses of his complex mind. ‘I thought you might appreciate a change of scene.’
‘I will have a change of scene soon enough when I return to London,’ he replied tersely.
He’d been mentioning his departure more and more. Was he managing her expectations, or his own? Cressie wondered. One positive effect it had. The desire to tell him how she felt was well and truly under wraps. She would be horrified if he guessed the depth of her feelings for him and therefore made every effort to ensure he did not, sometimes wittering inanely for hours about Celia and teaching, even though it was much too early for her letter even to have reached A’Qadiz, far less for her sister to reply. ‘I have a confession to make,’ she said with forced brightness. ‘I accepted the invitation to tea not just to get away from Killellan. I had another motive.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘It was meant to be a surprise, a nice surprise, for you. Don’t spoil it by making me tell you.’
‘Cressie, I have told you before that I don’t like surprises. I have had enough of them in my life and none of them have be
en remotely nice. Which is why I cannot abide surprises.’
‘Oh very well, then.’ Cressie sighed. ‘I discovered from Bella that one of the Innellans’ guests is someone I thought you might be very interested to meet.’
Giovanni frowned. ‘Why?’
Cressie hesitated, wondering if she had been a little rash. After all, Giovanni had not actually said he intended to paint anything other than this one portrait in his new style. But he was so passionate about it, he surely could not mean to return to his perfect pictures, even if they did earn him pots of money. Could he?
‘He is apparently something of an expert on the latest vogues in art,’ Cressie confessed in a rush. ‘I thought you might like to talk to him about—about your new—I thought it might be useful if you—talked to him,’ she finished lamely, for the satyr look had given way to something quite thunderous.
‘And what makes you think you have the right to take such a liberty with my work? Do I send off your mathematical primers to a publisher and tell them perhaps he might like to print them? Would I have the temerity to write to your sister in Arabia and suggest she offer you a post in one of her schools?’
‘They’re not all schools as such. Some of them are no more than glorified tents. But I take your point,’ Cressie said hurriedly, for Giovanni looked as if he might throw her out of the carriage. Or more likely himself. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was taking a liberty. I thought that if you could speak to him, explain …’
‘Explain what, precisely?’ Giovanni cursed. ‘One portrait, Cressie. I have painted one portrait—and that unfinished. I don’t even know myself what I think of it. And besides that, are you sure you would wish me to be displaying it to all and sundry, given the subject matter? Do you wish the world to see you dressed as a man and baring your breast?’
‘I hadn’t really thought of that.’
‘No, you hadn’t really thought at all, had you?’
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