Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2

by Lynna Banning

  Cameo’s fingers trembled with such excitement she could barely open the seal. At last, to be able to work with a true artist, someone who would understand. Eagerly, she began to read.

  Dear Lady Catherine Mary St Clair

  In response to your letter regarding painting lessons, I regret to inform you I will not be able to fulfil your request. I have neither the time nor inclination to teach aristocratic society ladies to dabble at art.

  Benedict Cole

  ‘Oh!’ She gasped as if a pail of cold water had been thrown over her.

  Tears smarted in her eyes. If he knew how hard she’d tried to learn, to teach herself. How hard she’d fought for lessons, of her desperation, her despair. No, he dismissed her, just as everyone else did.

  Her heart sank as she crumpled onto the sofa. She’d convinced herself Benedict Cole was the guiding hand she so desperately needed. She dropped her head in her hands, wiped away another tear. Her hands clenched. She might as well give up.

  Just the thought of giving up sparked the flame.

  Cameo’s temper burst into life. Fury burned within her as hot as the coals in the grate. How dared he. Dabble at art. The nerve of the man. How dare he presume that simply because of her title she wasn’t serious about art? It was insulting.

  Jumping to her feet, she crossed to the oval gilt-framed mirror by the door and surveyed her reflection. How could she convince him?

  Off came her pearl earrings and the diamond-studded watch pinned to her bodice. She must appear a serious student of art to make him understand, not the kind of society lady about whom he made such infuriating assumptions. She straightened the white-lace collar and cuffs of her grey morning dress and smoothed down her hair with a nod. Yes, that would do.

  For a moment she hesitated. Could she, Lady Catherine Mary St Clair, go to a painter’s studio unannounced when they hadn’t been formally introduced? Her mama would be horrified.

  The spark surged inside her.

  It wouldn’t be a social call.

  Benedict Cole must teach her to paint. Somehow, she would change the artist’s mind.

  * * *

  The carriage rattled to a stop.

  Cameo’s fury and determination had built with every turn of the carriage wheel. As they rolled out of the quiet, leafy square in Mayfair, with its large cream houses, glossy black-painted doors, marble steps and iron railings, onto Oxford St and the roaring bustle of the shops and crowds, all she could think about was Benedict Cole. She longed to confront him. How could he make such assumptions about her, the kind she’d been fighting against all her life? If he knew...if she told him...

  She leapt up so fast she almost hit her head on the carriage.

  Out on the street, Bert, the coachman, had opened the door and put the box down for her. ‘Here we are.’ He rubbed his forehead and glanced about dubiously. ‘Are you sure this is the place you’re wanting?’

  Briskly, she stepped down into the street and adjusted her skirt. No turning back now. ‘Yes, this is it. Will you mind waiting for me, Bert?’

  ‘I’ll be here.’ He grinned good-naturedly. ‘Anything for you, Lady Catherine Mary.’

  Tying her bonnet with a firm bow, she set off against the wind. In spite of spending much of her life in London, there were parts of the city she barely knew. She certainly never stopped in Soho. The family carriage always drove through. She had expected the soot and dirt, certainly, but not the vibrant activity sweeping her along the cobbled road. Spread with straw and litter, the busy street echoed with the sounds of carriages and carts, horses’ hooves, and vendors shouting their wares. There were shops, too, with people going in and out, tinkling the doorbells. The smell from the fishmonger’s window, full of shoals of mussels and oysters, reached her before she saw it and a yeasty odour emanated from empty barrels outside a public house, a sign with a lamb painted on it swaying above the door.

  Through the crowd she hurried, past two fighting boys, their mothers with baskets on their arms chatting to each other uncaring of the scuffle, and past a flower seller who offered with a toothless grin to sell her a bunch of daisies. A young woman in a low-cut bodice standing on a corner sent her a brazen glare. With a gulp Cameo hastened on.

  In front of a tall red-brick building she checked the number. Yes, this was the address of the infuriating Benedict Cole, yet in front of her stood a bakery, the scent of hot bread and buns wafting out every time a customer opened the door. The artist must live upstairs, but there was no obvious way to get in.

  A girl sat on the pavement nearby, shabby and meek, with bare feet and a shawl around her thin shoulders.

  ‘Matches,’ she called hoarsely, ‘matches.’

  Cameo crouched down and smiled. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, miss.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘It’s Becky, miss. Do you want some matches?’

  ‘I don’t have any money with me.’ Why hadn’t she brought her reticule with her? She normally did, for she kept a tiny sketchbook and sharpened pencils inside, but she’d rushed out in such a hurry. ‘I’ll bring you some another day, I promise.’

  The girl sighed. ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘I will, Becky. Perhaps now you can help me. Do you know how to get in to where the people live upstairs?’

  ‘You go round the back, miss, down that alleyway. There’s a red door.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cameo called, already moving away.

  A cat yowled as she entered the dingy alley. For a moment she hesitated before she picked her way through the sodden newspaper, broken glass bottles, cabbage stalks and something that looked like—no; it couldn’t be. Edging around the rubbish, she narrowly avoided a puddle of something that looked and smelled worse.

  The red door, if the flakes of peeling paint identified it as such, was ajar. At her touch it swung open wider, creaking.

  Inside the cramped entrance hall, she stared, half fascinated, half appalled. She’d never visited such a rundown establishment. The walls had been white once, perhaps, but now they were an indeterminate colour, yellow or cream, with water marks at the bottom, where the damp had crept in. A staircase with a worn green runner lay directly in front of her, the woodwork scuffed and dull.

  Dust dirtied her white-kid gloves as she gripped the banister. She brushed them on her skirt. Up two narrow flights of steps she climbed, passing closed doors on each landing, checking numbers as she went and up a third flight, which was narrower still.

  Out of breath, she reached the attic door at the top. It bore no number, just a name plate beside it, simple and beautiful. She hadn’t expected something so unique. Carved from a piece of oak, a pattern of leaves and berries had been etched on to its square edges, and at the centre scrolled the name: Benedict Cole.

  Well, now, Benedict Cole. You’re about to receive a surprise visit from a society lady.

  Her heart drummed as she rapped on the door. No reply.

  Under her skirts she tapped her foot. She knocked again, harder.

  The door flung open. Cameo gasped and fell backwards at the sheer force of the man who glowered in front of her, his fist gripping a paintbrush. Benedict Cole. She knew it with a certainty flaming inside her belly. Tall, with dark hair that swooped over his forehead, he wore a loose, unbuttoned painting shirt covered with blotches of dried oils in a frenzy of colours. Yet his eyes held her attention. Dark brown, under heavy black brows, they blazed with a fierce inner light that seared into her very soul.

  ‘You’re too late.’ His educated accent held an unexpected warm burr.

  With a huge gulp of air she tried to steady her ragged breathing. ‘Too late?’

  ‘I’m too busy to see you now.’ He started to close the door.

  ‘Wait! I must see you. You are Benedict Cole?’

 
He scowled. ‘Who else would be working in my studio?’

  ‘Please. Just give me a few minutes of your time.’

  Eyebrows drawn together, he studied her. ‘You’ve seen the notice.’

  ‘The notice...?’

  ‘Will you please stop repeating every word I say? Are you dim-witted as well as unpunctual? Yes, my notice seeking a new model. I have a major new work in mind.’

  ‘You’re looking for a model. For your painting.’

  ‘How many times do we have to have this conversation? If you’re not here to be considered, then why exactly are you here wasting my time?’

  In a flash, she realised what had happened. ‘Well, actually...’

  ‘Well, actually what?’ he mimicked, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sneer.

  How dare this man speak to her in such a manner? In person he was just as rude as in his letter, even ruder if that were possible. Cameo opened her mouth to tell him of his mistake in no uncertain terms and then snapped it shut again.

  Her mind whirred. He’d made it clear he didn’t wish to provide painting lessons to Lady Catherine Mary St Clair. Now, upon seeing him, he appeared to be the kind of man who would never change his mind.

  Cameo smiled. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Mr Cole. You’re quite right. I’ve come to be your model.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade,

  She stood.’

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

  ‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Benedict Cole arched his eyebrow. ‘You’d better come in and let me look at you.’

  Leaving the door ajar, he turned away. ‘Are you coming in or not?’

  Cameo followed him into the studio. Was it necessary for him to be so abrupt? He turned his back on her, something that was never done in society. Yet her irritation vanished as she surveyed her surroundings. Why, the studio was exactly the kind of space she had always wished she might have one day. The light that flooded in from the windows was so much better than in the drawing room at home. It glinted on the tools of the painter’s trade scattered everywhere: papers, pots of oil paints, rags, bottles and brushes, and canvases propped against the walls. A huge easel, much stronger than her slender folding one, dominated the room. There were no fine carpets to worry about here, just wooden floorboards, scratched and worn.

  Her eyes closed. She savoured the smell of oil paint and turpentine permeating the studio. No perfume had ever smelled so sweet. Upon opening her eyes, she encountered the artist’s stare.

  ‘Are you quite well?’

  A flush heated her cheeks. ‘I like the smell of oil paints and turpentine, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s unusual. Many models complain about it. They say it makes them feel ill.’

  ‘How could anyone not like the smell of paints?’

  ‘It’s a point in your favour.’ He threw aside his paintbrush and beckoned. ‘Come over by the window.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think? I need to see you in a proper light.’

  To her surprise her hands trembled beneath her gloves. She walked over to the window on legs that were also unsteady.

  ‘Take off your coat and your bonnet.’ His impatience was barely concealed. ‘I need to see your face.’

  With effort she bit down the sprightly retort that sprang to her lips. Removing her pearl-tipped hat pin, she dropped her bonnet along with her grey woollen coat on to a faded brocade chaise longue pushed up under the window.

  He gave a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Is this what you...?’

  ‘Be quiet,’ he snapped. ‘I need to look at you, not listen to you.’

  He must be the most insufferable man she had ever met. No one had ever spoken to her in such a way. Cameo fumed as he stared at her with increasing intensity.

  ‘Take down your hair.’

  Her gloved hands flew protectively to her head.

  He responded with an impatient shake of his own. ‘How can I see you as you should be when your hair is in that, how can I put it...’ He gave a dismissive wave. ‘Overdone style? I must see it loose. The painting will require it.’

  An overdone style. Her mama’s French maid had done it in the latest fashion, with ringlets down both sides, that morning.

  ‘What’s the matter now? Did you come here as a model or not?’

  His words renewed her purpose. One by one, she took the pins from her hair and dropped them on to the chaise longue, sensing Benedict Cole behind her watching each move. She slipped out the last hairpin. Curls whispered at her neck as strands of long, black curls loosened from their ringlets and loops, tumbling about her shoulders, foaming down her back.

  Twirling towards him she met his dark eyes. She couldn’t break his gaze even if she wanted to.

  At last he spoke. His voice had become husky. ‘This is extraordinary. I’ve been thinking of a painting for many months now. I imagined a woman with hair and eyes in exactly your colour. I began to think I may never find her and that perhaps I imagined such shades. You’re precisely the model I’m looking for.’

  Cameo clasped her fingers together as a thrill raced through her. ‘You want me in your painting? Me?’

  As if she were no longer in the room, he turned away. She heard him mutter to himself, ‘Yes, I can do it.’

  ‘Do what?’

  He spun around with a scowl. ‘You must keep silent if you model for me.’

  ‘I will keep silent when I’m modelling, but I’m not modelling now.’ She reached to pick up her bonnet. ‘Nor do I wish to do so if you’re going to be quite so rude.’

  ‘Wait.’ He made an apologetic gesture and sent her an unexpected smile. ‘You’ll have to forgive the moods of an artist. I’m not one for social niceties when I’m painting. You need to understand that.’

  ‘I do understand that,’ Cameo retorted. ‘But you have to understand. If I am to be your model, I will require them.’

  ‘You require social niceties?’ He studied her for a long moment with an expression impossible to fathom. He moved over to the fireplace and indicated a chair. ‘Come and sit down. There are a few questions I need to ask you.’

  Cameo’s stomach lurched. She’d almost given herself away. Her temper mustn’t get the better of her.

  This was her only chance.

  Trying to appear subdued, she followed Benedict Cole to the fireplace. Papers and books lay on each available surface, even on the armchair.

  ‘Just move those,’ he said irritably.

  She placed the pile of books on a gateleg table and sat. Horsehair poked out in tufts on the arms of the chair and, judging by the hard feel of it beneath her, there wasn’t much left in the seat either.

  With one hand, he dragged a straight wooden chair opposite her after dropping more papers on the floor with an easy, casual gesture. No wonder his studio was so untidy. It was unimportant to him. His surroundings took second place to his work, while she spent most of her painting time spreading sheets and tidying away.

  His face was half-shadowed and he didn’t speak for a long moment. Unnerving enough when he stood staring at her, now he was seated, his closeness became even more alarming.

  Cameo’s heartbeat quickened.

  ‘So you want to be an artist’s model?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  He gave her another of his long-considering examinations. ‘Forgive me. You’re different from the other girls I’ve seen who want to be models.’

  He suspected her already, she realised with dismay. ‘Different? In what way?’

  ‘Your voice suggests you’ve been raised a lady,’ he said bluntly. ‘As does your request for social niceties. As do your clothes.’

 
‘I wore my best to see you.’ With trembling fingers she smoothed her foulard skirt, a mix of silk and cotton. Did she dare try to put on an accent? No. She’d never make it work and it seemed horrid, too. ‘This is my finest gown.’

  His dark eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me, why is it you’re seeking employment?’

  ‘I have little choice in seeking employment.’ She put her hand to her forehead. ‘I’ve fallen on hard times.’

  ‘Have you indeed?’

  ‘Yes. I’m alone in the world and I have few options for an income.’

  Crossing one long trousered leg over the other, he leaned back. ‘Tell me more about yourself. First, what’s your name?’

  There was no way she could supply her real name. She cast a quick look down at her dress. The colour? Too obvious. ‘My name is Ashe. Miss Ashe. With an e.’

  ‘With an e,’ he drawled. ‘And your first name, if I may enquire?’

  Surely it was safe enough to use her nickname. ‘It’s Cameo.’

  His head reared. ‘Cameo? I’ve never heard of a girl named Cameo before.’

  ‘I was a foundling.’ She pointed to her necklace. ‘I was found with this necklace, so I was called Cameo.’

  His intent gaze fell to the neck of her dress, where the stone nestled. He seemed to take in more than her necklace. ‘It’s a fine piece.’

  Her cheeks burned. ‘Yes. It is very fine.’

  ‘You say you were found with it. Your mother must have been a person of quality.’

  ‘My mother may have been of quality. She may have been a lady.’ Cameo found she was quite enjoying making up a new life story, her indignation driving her imagination. ‘Though perhaps my father was a gentleman, perhaps he gave her the necklace. It’s often a gentleman who takes advantage of a poor, innocent girl.’

  He arched a winged eyebrow. ‘Is it?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  As he leaned over, a strong masculine scent mixed with turpentine and paint reached her. ‘Some people invite trouble, don’t you think?’

  The horsehair prickled through her dress as she shifted away from him. Suddenly she became aware of the danger of being alone in a room with a man to whom she hadn’t been introduced. Her mama would have fainted away. ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’