Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2

by Lynna Banning

  ‘Cameo.’ He lingered on the word. ‘The word is Greek. Tell me more about your necklace.’

  ‘There’s little else I know about it. Though I’m sure it was a tragedy. I have a strong feeling my mother never left me willingly. I think she was forced to give me up. Perhaps my wicked father gave her this necklace and she left it with me as a keepsake or perhaps, as you say, she was of quality and owned it herself. In any case, it was found with me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In my swaddling clothes.’

  ‘No, where were you found?’

  The question floored her, but only for a moment. ‘There’s a place near Coram Fields in Bloomsbury. Foundlings have long been left there.’ Luckily her mama had given money to help the unfortunate foundlings only a few months before.

  Still he seemed suspicious. ‘And who found you?’

  ‘Nuns,’ Cameo replied wildly. ‘Nuns found me. Then a kind genteel lady took me in and raised me as her own.’

  ‘And her name was?’

  ‘A Mrs...’ From her sleeve she edged out her lace handkerchief to play for time. ‘Cotton. That was her name. Poor Mrs Cotton. She had no family of her own, so she took me in. As I grew up I became her companion.’ With a corner of the handkerchief she dabbed at her eyes. ‘It’s sad. She died close to a year ago. After that I was all alone. It is thus you find me, seeking employment.’

  He crossed his arms. ‘It’s a strange story.’

  ‘Not so strange. There are many others who have found themselves in my sorry position. I cast myself upon your mercy, sir,’ she added, with a dramatic flourish.

  A smile seemed to play at the corner of his lips and then vanished. ‘So you’re at my mercy, is that right?’

  The sense of danger came back as she swallowed hard. ‘Yes.’

  He stood and dropped a log on to the fire. With a blackened poker he made sparks fly. Turning back, he leaned casually against the chimney piece and crossed his long legs, the poker still in his grip. ‘There’s other, more suitable employment than being a model. You might work in a shop or be a governess or be a companion to another lady.’

  The thought of Lady Catherine Mary St Clair working in a shop made her duck her head to hide a smile. ‘That’s true. And it may come to that now Mrs Cotton is gone.’ She dabbed at her eyes again with her handkerchief for effect.

  Deftly he dropped the poker into a brass pot on the hearth. ‘Being an artist’s model is not the most respectable occupation, Miss Ashe. Not all the girls are from such a genteel background as yours, raised as you were by the good Mrs Cotton.’

  ‘What’s the usual background of models?’

  ‘They’re generally girls who work in shops and factories. Have you heard of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood?’

  Had she heard of them? ‘Yes, I’ve heard of them... I mean, I think so.’

  ‘One of the Brotherhood, John Everett Millais, has recently been painting Shakespeare’s Ophelia. The model for his painting is called Lizzie Siddal and she was discovered working in a hat shop. She’s going to be married to another member of the Brotherhood, Dante Gabriel Rossetti.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Not many do. But the artist-and-model relationship is one that often becomes...intimate.’

  Cameo’s cheeks tinted yet again. How she wished she might stop blushing in this man’s presence.

  ‘Lizzie had to lie in water for hours on end in the painting to show Ophelia drowning and she nearly died. Modelling can be dangerous.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of danger.’ If only he knew. Just by being here she risked everything.

  His brow lifted. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Where else do artists’ models come from?’ she asked quickly to change the subject.

  ‘In the past it’s not been unknown for models to have come from the streets.’ An alarming glint sparked in his eyes. ‘As I said, modelling is not the most reputable occupation. Fallen women, kept women, mistresses, whatever you wish to call them—many have modelled for paintings.’

  Cameo gripped her gloves together. She refused to reveal to Benedict Cole that his mention of mistresses and kept women shocked her, even if she never openly discussed such scandalous topics. ‘I’m merely an admirer of art. That’s why I seek employment as a model. Many a wet afternoon have I spent looking at paintings in a gallery.’ No need to mention that the gallery where she’d spent most time recently was the Royal Academy, where she’d been spellbound by his work.

  ‘I’m not sure you’re being entirely honest with me, Miss Ashe. But...’

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  ‘But you’re ideal for my next painting. You’re hired.’

  She exhaled. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m not sure you’ll thank me when we’re working,’ he warned. ‘Being a model is not the easy job many young women think it will be. I shall require you to sit without moving for hours at a time, every day. Do you think you can do that?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Wasn’t half her life spent sitting bored at dining tables and in drawing rooms? ‘I’ll have no trouble with that.’

  ‘I’ve already completed a lot of the background work so I don’t need you for that. The work is partly complete.’ The wooden chair scraped across the floor as Benedict sat by the fire again and pushed his dark hair from his brow. ‘Do you have any questions for me?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then you’re unusual. You haven’t asked the question most models ask the minute they walk in the door.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Payment, Miss Ashe,’ he drawled. ‘Most models are interested in how much they will be paid. Since you’re experiencing such—how did you put it?—hard times, I expected payment to be of the utmost importance to you.’

  Beneath her layers of petticoats she gave herself a kick. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Perhaps it is your preference for social niceties preventing you making mention of the sordid topic of coin? Will a shilling each session be satisfactory?’

  ‘Is that the customary rate?’ she asked boldly.

  His mouth curved. ‘I’m not trying to cheat you.’

  ‘Then that will be perfectly satisfactory.’

  ‘You’re most trusting, Miss Ashe.’

  She dragged her attention away from him and his sardonic expression. ‘I do have a question. The painting’s subject—what is it?’

  ‘That’s a question I can’t fully answer now. I can only tell you it’s based on a poem by Alfred Tennyson. You know the poet’s work, perhaps.’

  ‘Mrs Cotton was fond of his work, as our dear Queen Victoria is,’ she replied, as her mind went immediately to the fine leather-bound volume of the poet’s work she kept on her bedside table. She had read the poems over and over again, revelling in the romance and passion, wishing she could make her paintings speak in such a way.

  ‘Many painters today are drawing on Tennyson’s work for inspiration. I must warn you, the painting may not be what you expect.’ He allowed a silence to fall between them for a moment. ‘How can I put this in a way to suit your delicate sensibilities...?’

  Her skin rippled as his all-encompassing artist’s stare lingered over her. ‘Let me just say the painting will be somewhat—revealing.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Mr Cole.’

  ‘The painting will not be like your cameo. That is a profile of a woman’s face. But my painting will not merely be of your face. What I have in mind will require I make a study of...your form.’ Once again his gaze wandered over her.

  ‘I see.’ Her stomach gave another of those mysterious lurches. ‘To what extent will my...form...be displayed?’

  ‘You need have no fear.’ A smile flickered at the corners of his strong mouth. ‘I will produc
e a work acceptable to common standards of decency and at this stage it’s a private project. In the painting, you will appear in a simple white gown. But in order to paint you as I wish, you may need to show parts of yourself which ordinarily you do not. But even among artists, I can assure you, there are proprieties we observe.’

  ‘I’m no prude, Mr Cole.’ She gulped. ‘I will model to your requirements, assuming all the necessary proprieties are observed.’

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t consider proceeding otherwise. Then we are agreed. Can you come tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’ Somehow, she’d find a way.

  ‘Come in the morning at nine o’clock. The sun will be at the right angle.’ He stood, ending the interview.

  ‘Thank you for calling,’ he added, with a somewhat teasing politeness.

  Cameo got to her feet and replied coldly, ‘Thank you very much, Mr Cole. I will see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Miss Ashe. I think you’ve forgotten something.’ His voice halted her as she picked up her coat and bonnet. ‘Your hair.’

  Why, she’d been sitting there the whole time in the company of a strange man with her hair down! Frantically she found the hairpins she’d dropped on to the chaise longue and began to pin up her heavy mass of hair. How could she restore it to her previous style, without the help of her mama’s maid? After a few attempts, she gave up. With a few hairpins, she coiled it into a spiral at the back of her head and pinned it in place. He made no comment, but she knew Benedict Cole missed nothing of her clumsy work.

  She seized her bonnet and coat. ‘Well, goodbye.’

  He gave a mocking bow. ‘Until tomorrow, Miss Ashe.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘The full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn’d

  Her violet eyes.’

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

  ‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

  The studio door slammed and a gust of wind blew through the window. Crossing the room, Benedict heaved down the sash. Miss Cameo Ashe had not yet appeared on the street. She’d still be going down the stairs with that quick light step he’d noticed, in her fine kid boots.

  Her boots had exposed her. She’d been dressed in that alluringly simple grey dress, which had all the marks of simplicity that only came from quality, carved ivory buttons all the way down the front, a pristine lace collar and cuffs. Her figure was slender, willowy, her tiny waist emphasised by her corset, yet not in the over-exaggerated way he hated, for she was perfectly proportioned. Nestled at the tender point of her throat above her collar was her cameo necklace tied with a black-velvet ribbon, a large stone, black and white, the carving in relief exquisite. But her elegant, obviously expensive boots were the biggest clue. And her ankles, which he’d been unable to ignore as she sat on the armchair, were equally elegant, with the delicate lines of a purebred filly.

  She was no orphan girl turned out on the street. Certainly there was a strength to her he’d noticed immediately, a determination that suggested an ability to survive, but there was also a vulnerability he found himself unable to define.

  The story she had told him. His mouth lifted at the corners. It had so many holes, that story, yet she struggled on, trying to convince him she was a girl who had no choice but to be an artist’s model. How did she expect him to believe her when her voice held no hint of the streets? True, she explained that by saying she’d been taken in by a genteel lady, but it hadn’t added up.

  At his easel he idly picked up a paintbrush, running it through his fingers. Explanations played in his mind. Nothing she told him made sense. Yet she intrigued him, captivated him. He hadn’t been able to believe it when she had lifted off her bonnet and eased the pins from her long black hair. As each silken strand was liberated, his heart had drummed faster and faster.

  He’d found her. He’d begun to think it wasn’t possible, that he might never discover a model for the painting of his dreams. Yet there she was, standing in front of him, slender yet strong. And her eyes. Shaded beneath her bonnet, they had looked grey or blue outside the door when he had first met her. In the light of the studio he’d discerned they were the rare shade of purple he had searched for.

  He’d already painted the background of the portrait in painstaking detail. It had been frustrating beyond belief to have an empty space at the centre of the canvas, waiting for the model to appear in order to complete the work.

  His grasp tightened on the paintbrush as he visualised her. It would be all too easy to respond to her as a man rather than a painter. Not only did the quickening of his body tell him of his instant attraction to her physically, but also the curious vulnerability he saw in her eyes had touched him. She was no hardened model.

  He laid down the brush and ran his fingers though his hair. ‘Trouble,’ he said aloud. ‘That’s what you are, Miss Ashe. Trouble.’

  A knock came at the door. Was she back again to elaborate on her story? He hoped she wasn’t planning to cancel the arrangement. With a frown, he realised just how much he didn’t want that.

  It wasn’t his mysterious new model standing there.

  A familiar husky female voice greeted him. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Maisie. You’d better come in.’

  She entered the studio with the sensual walk that so enticed her many admirers. It was a shame such a movement evaded capture on canvas, he often thought, though its sensuality had long ceased to tempt him. The appeal of Cameo Ashe’s awkward self-consciousness, on the other hand...

  Loosening the thick cream-coloured shawl she wore, Maisie dropped it lazily on the chair by the fire to reveal her blue dress, cut low at her full breasts. Her thick, corn-coloured hair curled. He’d painted her as Demeter, the Greek goddess of the grain, with her arms full of wheat. The ripe epitome of plenty was young Maisie. But as an artist he knew hers were the type of looks that faded quickly.

  Miss Ashe’s face flashed into his mind. Hers was a beauty that would stay the years, for it was in her bones and in her bearing. Puzzlement hit him again. Just who was she? And what had led her to him?

  ‘I came as soon as I heard you’d been looking for someone for your new work,’ Maisie said. ‘Why didn’t you come straight to me? Didn’t you want me to model for you?’ Her arms looped around his neck, giving him a full view of her luscious flesh. ‘No one else is as good as me.’

  He unlooped her clinging arms. ‘You’re not right for this painting, Maisie.’

  She pouted. ‘I want to come back.’

  With a smile she traced a teasing line from his chest down towards his trousers.

  ‘You walked out on me, remember?’ Benedict reminded her. More accurately, her affections had wandered, he recalled drily as he removed her hand, to another man who’d shown her more attention. Clearly that hadn’t worked out.

  Maisie moved her shoulders with a flounce. ‘Only because you’re always painting, painting, painting. It drove me mad. I wanted you to take me out once in a while.’

  ‘Painting isn’t just what I do.’ He’d tried to explain it to her many times before. ‘It’s who I am. I paint the way I breathe.’

  ‘But it’s so boring sitting here all day!’

  ‘Well, you’ve been spared that. I’ve found the model for my next work.’

  From the flare of jealousy in her eyes he judged she didn’t like that news. ‘Who is she? Annie? Jenny?’

  ‘It isn’t anyone you know. It’s someone quite new.’

  Maisie thrust out her chest like an indignant chicken. ‘Why’s she muscling in on our patch?’

  That was indeed the question, Benedict brooded. Just why did Miss Ashe want to be his model?

  ‘Never mind.’ He picked up Maisie’s shawl and gave it to her. ‘I have to work.’

  ‘What a surprise,’ she snapped crossly.

  At the door she turned and let the shawl fal
l away from the front of her dress. ‘You know where to find me, Benedict.’

  The door closed behind her and Benedict let out a sigh of relief.

  Models. He’d not let himself fall into a relationship with one again. When an artist painted a woman posed before him, he created an idealised version of her and, sometimes, that ideal enticed him into bed. But he wouldn’t be tricked that way again. He needed to concentrate, stay focused. He smiled inwardly. It was easier to paint without live models, but he was no landscape artist. Views weren’t enough for him.

  Yet Miss Cameo Ashe, with her mysterious mix of spirit and beauty, stayed in his mind. He picked up his pencil and began to draw.

  * * *

  Cameo lit another candle. The flame flickered, sending shadows dancing on the walls of her blue-and-white bedroom, newly papered in a flowered print, for her mama liked to keep up with the times. Just recently she had installed a water closet down the hall, exactly the same as Queen Victoria’s.

  It was the window seat in her bedroom Cameo loved most. The blue chintz curtains were open tonight, letting in the cool air. Through the windowpane a full moon outshone the fog, silvering the dark grey trunk and slender boughs of the ash tree outside. Sometimes, she heard the call of a nightingale in the square as she sketched through the night. Trying again and again, always aiming to improve. Attempting to make her hand recreate what was in her mind, in her heart. It was so hard, working alone. There was no one to share it all with, the triumphs and the failures. No one who understood that hidden, passionate part of her. No one who sensed the heat of her flame. Now, at last, even though it was a secret, she had a chance. To watch and to learn from a real artist.

  From Benedict Cole.

  She clasped her pencil. As his model she would spend hours in his studio, watching him as he worked like the apprentices of old and yet he had no idea of her true identity. There was so much she’d be able to learn, incognito.