“My God,” the half-drunk man gushed, his lids fluttering over eyes so blue one might think they were sapphires. The gin-sotted artist’s cheekbones were also so sharp one might cut themselves if they decided to give him a good slap. “Aphrodite,” he proclaimed, his rich voice booming over the din.
Gabriel Rossetti strode forward and clapped Stark on the shoulder. “You have brought me a goddess, man.”
The artist dropped his hand from Andrew’s shoulder and circled her rapidly, his gaze suddenly alert, his paint- and ink-stained fingers dancing in the air. “I will paint you as the Madonna.”
Her lips quirked, and instead of being wary, her eyes danced with amusement. “I thought you said I was Aphrodite.”
And that brought over William Hunt, another influential member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. At present, the man had two paintings hanging in The Royal Academy and had just sold a piece for five hundred pounds. “She speaks, and one must listen,” Hunt gushed. He threw Gabriel a ball-crushing stare from under his mop of disordered, curly brown hair. “And who says you can have her, Gabriel? She is clearly meant for my fallen woman.”
“I’m Mary Magdalene now?” Ophelia asked. A flirtatious air deepened her voice as she turned from one artist to the next.
Andrew nearly punched both of the artists in the gut. He had to get a hold of himself before he dragged Ophelia out into the street and castigated her for being such a bloody success with the two Brothers. Which, of course, he had known she would be. It was the reason he’d brought her directly to meet them.
Lady Darlington had beamed with delight all morning at the prospect of her daughter meeting the artists they both so admired. He would have preferred the meeting to be elsewhere, but the best chance of a quick meeting had been to come here. And Lady Darlington had been most insistent that Ophelia not wait.
Perhaps Lady Darlington’s lack of time had something to do with her willingness to allow her daughter to explore such strange places. Or perhaps it was that as death neared, Lady Darlington seemed to be done with shoulds and should nots.
At least he was with Ophelia.
Andrew’s good humor at pleasing the older lady had just about vanished.
Ophelia glanced at him. “Are you feeling quite well?”
“Quite.”
“Well, you look remarkably sour. Does your stomach ail you?”
Andrew clenched his jaw before he could say that her being the model of a known profligate was suddenly making his stomach positively roil.
“Johnny must not hear of her,” Hunt said, ignoring Ophelia and Andrew’s discourse. He pointed, jabbing his finger, knuckles swollen, no doubt from recently having punched the daylights out of something. Hunt was legendary for his rages. Hence, his apt nickname, Animal. “If he does, he shall wish her, too.”
“You mean John Everett Millais, the painter?” she asked breathlessly. Her face positively lit up as if she’d seen her lord and savior.
Well, of course she was excited. She’d braved a river to examine how Millais had managed the painting of his infamous canvas, Ophelia.
Andrew looked toward the bar, wondering if he could get away with a large gin. No. He needed all his wits about him.
“Yes,” Andrew said. “That is who Mr. Hunt means.”
“Of course,” Hunt snapped, brushing his hands against his waistcoat. “That poncing little prince of The Royal Academy—”
“But his painting of Ophelia is glorious!” Ophelia interjected, her emerald eyes glowing with the ardor of a devotee.
All the men stared at her for one good long moment. All three let out collective sighs of frustration.
Johnny was the recognized artistic darling, after all. And Andrew? Well, he damned well didn’t like that look on her face, like she’d walk over coals just to be in Millais’ presence.
“Oh God. Not you, too,” Gabriel Rossetti groaned, his face churlish with abrupt jealousy. “Everyone is, ‘Ophelia this, and Ophelia that.’” He propped his paint-stained hands on his narrow hips and pouted rather like a beautiful girl denied a bauble.
Somehow, he still managed to appear manly. It was a mystery. Andrew was certain it had to be his Italian blood that allowed for such preposterous attitudes.
“I saw Lizzie Siddal first,” Gabriel continued. “And now that Johnny’s got her, I shan’t let him have you. He’d snap you up—”
“Am I to have so many admirers?” she teased.
Gabriel gave her a saucy look and snatched up her gloved hand. “Of course you are, my angel. And you can toss off Hunt.” Gabriel leaned toward Ophelia and whispered rather loudly, “You see, Hunt only likes whores, and clearly you are not a whore. You are a delicate, beautiful angel.”
Ophelia’s cheeks flared scarlet.
“You are all mine,” added Rossetti, as if it was the clearest conclusion in all the world.
“No, she is not,” Andrew gritted, and he slammed his jaw shut before he added a resounding, She is mine. He’d known Rossetti long enough to know the other man would simply view it as a challenge. “And take your bloody paws off her.”
Rossetti gave him an odd look, dropped her hands and raised his palms in mock supplication. “Forgive me, old man.” Then the blackguard returned to his perusal of Ophelia. “Please, promise you shall sit for me.”
Ophelia cocked her head. Quite by chance, an errant lock of her fiery hair fell over her brow, a tendril of fire that dared one to reach out and touch it. “What is your recompense?”
Gabriel, eyes widening with delight as he studied that newly escaped lock, echoed, “Recompense?”
“Yes.” She nodded emphatically, her admiration tapering to reason. “I am here to work as a model, and shall not do so gratis.”
“Everyone needs money these days,” sighed Hunt, turning away.
“Back to the whores.” Gabriel scowled. “They’re sure to be cheaper.”
Ophelia shifted on her small feet, eyeing the men carefully.
Andrew curled his fingers into twin fists, desirous to drag her back to his home, ravage her, and ensure she could be good for no one but himself. In fact, he would ravage her so well and so often, she’d have no desire to leave his bed, let alone his room.
Miraculously, he thrust aside the urge, but only because he knew how she longed to be immersed in London’s art set. “She commands five schillings an hour, and I will be present to ensure her honor.”
Rossetti narrowed his eyes. “You? Honor?”
Ophelia’s cheeks, already slightly ruddy against her porcelain skin, bloomed crimson.
Was she thinking of last night? When he’d pushed her far too far? When he’d nearly thrown his last scrap of honor down along with Ophelia upon his incredibly expensive rug? “When it comes to this young lady, yes.”
“Is she your mistress?” Rossetti asked.
Ophelia gasped.
“No,” Andrew bit out, though his cock stirred at the thought that had crossed his own mind all too often. He could take her to mistress, securing her future once she was friendless in this world. If she would allow him.
Rossetti’s brow furrowed, his mind no doubt slowed by gin. “Your betrothed?”
“The idea is preposterous,” Ophelia finally said.
Rossetti shrugged. “Just trying to make sense of Stark’s protectiveness.”
Andrew wasn’t entirely understanding of it himself. All he knew was that the idea of anyone, anyone at all, taking advantage of Ophelia was enough to make him wish to rip off balls and break faces. It mattered not that he had ruminated over ruining her.
No one else was going to touch her. Not if they wished to keep their hands. “I am protective of her for my own reasons. And if you wish me to purchase another painting, you shall obey my strictures regarding Lady Ophelia.”
Rossetti blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Which part did you not understand?”
“Ophelia?” Rossetti tested.
“It is my name,” she replied
, a grin tilting her lips.
Her grin spurred one in Rossetti. He let out a dark laugh worthy of Mephistopheles. “Ophelia, truly?”
“Yes.”
“Lady Ophelia,” interjected Andrew, sending up a silent prayer that her nobility might temper Gabriel’s profane manner. He doubted it would work, but he found himself protesting to the heavens, in any case.
“The gods are laughing at the irony of it all,” Rossetti said. “Yes. You shall be all mine. And that ponce Johnny Millais can keep painting bucolic claptrap now.” Gabriel smiled a devilish grin. “That’s why you love his painting Ophelia. Because it’s named for you? Clearly, you realize I am the superior artist. That hack—”
“Your work is admirable, Mr. Rossetti,” she said evenly, without guile, “but I do find Millais’ work miraculous.”
A long, echoing, awkward moment followed her proclamation as Rossetti took in her words.
A pleased smile pulled at Andrew’s lips. He couldn’t help it. Few ever told artists what they truly thought, and Ophelia had just told Rossetti, who she hoped would hire her, that she thought he was the inferior painter.
Brave, foolish woman. How on earth was she going to survive in this world being so entirely honest?
She wasn’t.
Andrew’s gut clenched as he contemplated the hell that awaited a young woman so friendless, so honest, so pure of soul in the spirit-eating abyss that was London.
Rossetti tossed his curled locks back over his shoulder, a moment of sheer anger flashing through his dark blue eyes before he laughed. “You are a treasure, and that rare thing, a challenge. And with you as my model, I shall reach new heights. You shall never disparage me thus again.”
Ophelia blinked. “I didn’t mean to insult you, sir. I am truly a great admirer of your work and believe you are on the brink of genius.”
Rossetti melted. Positively melted, like a cat with a tummy rub and a bit of cream.
That hard hold on Andrew’s gut tightened as he stared at his seraphim. Perhaps he had been mistaken. He’d made judgment too soon, for on the heels of her blatant honesty, this compliment now seemed more precious than gold.
He peered down at her earnest, soulful face. Was she putting Rossetti on? A niggling suspicion caused him to wonder if he’d been wrong all along.
Perhaps his Ophelia was far more mercenary than he had considered. Perhaps she knew exactly what she was doing with her blushes, her bold comments, and determination to succeed.
Perhaps. . .she did not need him at all.
CHAPTER NINE
Men are mystifying creatures.
-Ophelia’s Notebook
“Did you conquer London, my dear?” Lady Darlington asked as Ophelia entered the room.
Ophelia flung her bonnet onto an empty chair and raced across the chamber, her gaze firmly fixed on her mama’s face. “I did.”
Her mother let out a free and infectious laugh. Delight gave her face a youth and health that she no longer had, and it was glorious to see. “I knew you would, my love.”
Ophelia set herself carefully on the edge of the bed, not wishing to jostle her mother. Despite her care, a subtle wince crossed her mother’s face, and a bit of the joy that had flooded Ophelia earlier diminished. It would always be there now. That deathly shadow, threatening to encompass them all.
Ophelia swallowed, determined not to borrow trouble, determined not to live in a future where her mother was not there, not when her mother was here before her, full of joy. “Rossetti, Mama. He wishes to paint me.”
Her mother clapped her hands together, her blue-gray eyes lighting up. “I am so proud of you. And tonight. . .”
Ophelia reached out and placed her hand over her mother’s thin ones. “Tonight?”
“Lord Stark is taking you to a ball. You shall see Ruskin. Andrew assured me the famous patron will be there.”
“Mama, I am not leaving you. I have spent far too much time away today and—”
Her mother gave her a remonstrating look reminiscent of the ones she’d given when Ophelia was a child. “Did we not come to London for just this purpose?”
“But—”
A slight cough filled the room, and Ophelia tensed. She glanced back over her shoulder and spotted a slightly plump woman with silvery hair. The woman’s face seemed to hold an infinite kindness. For a moment, Ophelia was captivated by the sheer serenity radiating from the woman.
Resentment at the interruption was impossible given the woman had such a lovely countenance.
Her mother reached up and rested her hand over Ophelia’s. “This is Mrs. Rourke. Andrew has obtained her services. She will look after me so that you might continue in your work.”
Ophelia’s throat tightened. She didn’t want to work. She didn’t wish to give up this time with her mother, and yet, she knew she couldn’t lie down and die alongside her beautiful mama. To do such a thing would have been an insult to her mother’s love. Wouldn’t it?
Her heart, her terrified heart, screamed, No. It desired to do nothing but climb into bed, cradle her mother and hold on until there was no one left to hold on to. But such actions were the actions of madness. Still. . . “Mama, I don’t think—”
“Clearly, you haven’t thought,” her mother said abruptly. “Mrs. Rourke, please come here.”
The older woman strode forward calmly, her lavender skirts rustling. “Yes, me lady?” The soft Irish roll of her words rippled through the room, as warm and comforting as a hot apple tart.
“We must convince my daughter that, above anything, I wish to see her happy before. . .” A sheen glimmered in Lady Darlington’s gaze, and she blinked rapidly. “Before I go. I must see her settled.”
Ophelia gripped her mother’s hand a trifle harder and quickly closed her eyes lest her own tears slide down her cheeks. The burn of her throat was almost unbearable at the attempt.
“Look at me, Ophelia,” her mother said gently.
It took great effort not to run away from this moment, but Ophelia drew in a soft breath, then opened her eyes. Her mother, her face determined and urgent, stared up at her. “Yes, Mama?”
“I will not see you shrink. You must embrace this life despite your fears. And I? I wish to see you fully seize your future before I must leave you.” The calmness around her mother felt almost unreal, a moment out of time, as she said, “You know I am going. And soon.”
Ophelia desperately wished to shake her head, to deny it. “Mama—”
“Soon. I feel it in my body. I know that my God is calling me to your father.” A soft smile tilted her mama’s lips, and an elusive contentment warmed her face. “He needs me now. But I desire a last gift from you.”
Ophelia bit down on her lower lip, finally unable to stop the tears slipping down her cheeks.
Her mother stroked her hand, a butterfly-light gesture. “It pains me to see you grieve, and yet I am glad. At last, I am glad to see you cry, my darling girl.”
“W-Why?” Ophelia was taken aback by the peace she saw in her mother’s eyes. Yes. That’s what it was. Peace. And even though she shouldn’t, she hated seeing it. Because peace meant her mother was almost ready to leave her.
“Because it means you are feeling. And what do we have in this life but our feelings? The only thing which could ever break my heart would be to see you sleep-walk your way through this life, unfeeling, unmoved. Promise me that you will live. Let me see you seize this life, despite the fear that is in every heart.”
Ophelia nodded, half-tempted to throw herself on the bed and hold her mother through the night rather than venture out. But the world was not ending with her mother’s life, though that was what her heart told her. Her soul, on the other hand. . . It told her something very different. That her mother was right. That she could give her mother this one last gift. She would live. She would live as no other woman had lived before. “I promise you, Mama. I promise.”
CHAPTER TEN
Being bold can be hard work.
Be bold anyway.
-Ophelia’s Notebook
Ophelia’s heart pounded with sheer glee as she swept across the ballroom filled with the lords and ladies of the glittering ton in Lord Stark’s arms. He pressed one gloved hand firmly into her back, the other cupped her fingertips, and they whirled to a Strauss waltz.
Who would have believed that just a week ago she’d been tucked away in a tiny cottage at the ends of England, barely ever speaking to another soul besides her mother?
It was all she could do to hold in her joyous laughter.
She smiled. She couldn’t help herself. It was so tempting to close her eyes and savor the delicious spinning sensation.
Stark waltzed so masterfully, swinging her quickly about the ballroom. She’d felt nothing like it since she’d been a little girl spinning about the garden, faster and faster and faster, until she’d fallen to the ground, and the sky and its clouds had swung drunkenly overhead.
But she would not fall. Not in his arms. Oh no, he could spin her until the world crashed about them, and his arms would hold her. She felt it in her very core, an instinct rather than a rational thought. And now, in this fantastical moment when his spicy cologne and fierce presence filled her senses, she clung to the feeling rather than the thoughts that told her that he couldn’t be trusted.
Hadn’t her mother told her to trust her feelings?
Ophelia tilted her head back, her coif, a pile of curls and ribbons, heavy as she took in his face.
His gaze? That marvelous gaze. How it thrilled her, sending shivers along her arms, teasing her body to life in the most mysterious ways.
Stark’s eyes burned her with a sort of intensity that tingled through her gown and chemise. How did he do that? Well, how ever he did it, every bit of flesh she had awakened.
It was indecent.
It was delicious.
“You are enjoying yourself far too much,” he said, his dark voice booming over the noise of the orchestra and the other couples swirling around them. A look of pure satisfaction softened his usually hard face.
“Am I supposed to do anything else?”
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