Cameo blushed. She glanced over to where Benedict stood in a group by the window. A drop of wine caught in her throat. Next to the artist stood one of the most beautiful women Cameo had ever seen, with improbably golden hair that shone bright as a beacon. She laughed up at Benedict, her head thrown back, revealing strong white teeth slightly buckled at the front. This small imperfection seemed to make no difference to the crowd of admirers gathered around her.
As if she sensed Cameo’s stare, the woman revolved. She gave her a hard look, then moved closer to Benedict.
‘Who is that?’ Cameo asked Trelawney in an undertone.
‘That’s Maisie Jones. Lovely, isn’t she? She was Benedict’s model before you, my dear.’
A wave of jealousy soured the wine on Cameo’s tongue. Of course Benedict had had other models before. She chided herself. The man was an artist, after all. She recognised the woman now. She was the model holding sheaves of wheat in Benedict’s painting at the Royal Academy of Art. In real life, she appeared even more beautiful.
Another surge of envy rose up inside her followed by a dashing slump of her spirits. She toyed with her wine glass. It was unbearable to imagine the beautiful Maisie Jones in Benedict’s studio, alone with him as he painted. She was just so dazzling.
Suddenly Cameo felt pale and wan. She almost wished she hadn’t come. What was better, to have entered the bohemian artistic world of Benedict Cole or to never know it existed? And what was she going to do about the feelings aroused in her by the artist himself?
Trelawney jerked his head towards Maisie. ‘She’s a good girl really, but she isn’t right for Benedict.’
‘Oh?’ Cameo asked in a small voice. So their relationship had been more than professional. She felt shocked at how much the information hurt.
‘All over long ago,’ Trelawney added hastily.
‘Have you been acquainted with Benedict for a long time, Mr Trelawney?’
Trelawney sipped his wine. ‘I met him when he first came to London,’ he said after a moment. ‘Hard times, for such a young man. He doesn’t dwell on that, of course. He’s not the type. But I expect you know all about that, don’t you?’
At last, Cameo thought, someone who might be able to unravel the mystery that was Benedict Cole. She had to know. What was behind the anger he’d revealed against the upper classes?
‘Well, I know some things, but...’
‘Know what?’ Benedict’s deep voice startled her. ‘What have you two been gossiping about, Trelawney?’
* * *
From across the room Benedict had been watching Miss Cameo Ashe. He had practically ignored poor Maisie, chattering away beside him, but he found it difficult not to study his new model constantly, thinking about the best way to paint her. It was an urge, a constant need for him. He wanted to be alone with her, hold a paintbrush and capture that beautiful visage on canvas. He realised he had felt proud to enter the room earlier with her beside him, with her engaging manner and eagerness. She obviously loved being there among all the artists, drinking in the scene with those deep purple-grey eyes.
But something was bothering him more and more. Unbeknown to her, before the soirée he’d lurked around the front of Trelawney’s house, waiting until she had appeared in a black-crested carriage, the same one, he was sure, that he’d spotted around the corner of his studio the day he’d followed her. He had watched her get out of the carriage and something about the way the coach driver had sprung to attention implied more than the status of a governess.
Cameo Ashe wasn’t a seamstress, or a governess. He was convinced of that by the way she told those stories, with a quick wit and imagination, but without the brazenness of a hardened liar. And why would a governess have a carriage available to her? Her story didn’t ring true.
After weighing up various explanations he began to think of a reason for the inconsistencies in her story. A primitive kick in his groin told him how much he disliked the explanation, but it persisted in being the only one that added up. Was she a wealthy man’s mistress? And if so, why was she modelling for him?
Now, once again he stared over to where Cameo’s lovely profile was bent towards Trelawney, deep in conversation.
She wore her grey dress, the one he’d first seen her in, less plain than her usual weekday attire. He knew her blue everyday dress well now, how perfectly it fitted the subtle curves of her body. He could have drawn it blindfolded. Tonight a silk paisley shawl lightly hung over the grey. That dress had felt smooth when he’d guided her to the sofa by the waist earlier, silky to the touch. He’d been forced to get up and walk away from her as their debate became more heated, raising her temperature, making her eyes sparkle and her skin warm up, sending gentle wafts of her violet scent over him.
Beside him, Maisie had ceased talking and twisted her blonde head to see what held his attention. ‘Who’s that, then? Over there with Trelawney? I’ve never seen her before.’
His attention returned to the soirée. ‘She’s the model for my new work.’
Maisie’s lips pursed. ‘I think you’d better introduce us.’
Benedict followed her as she wove her way over to where Cameo Ashe and Nicholas Trelawney sat near the fire.
‘Well?’ he asked them again. ‘What were you whispering about?’
Miss Ashe coloured as pink as her shawl.
‘Never fear!’ Trelawney assured Benedict, as quick understanding flashed between them. ‘No dark secrets have been revealed.’
‘I should hope not.’ Benedict kept the warning light, but it was there all the same.
Maisie broke in. ‘You said you’d make some introductions, Benedict.’ She brushed up against him, her lush figure spilling out of her tight blue gown, the colour heightening the shade of her eyes. He saw those eyes turn as cold as the ocean as they looked upon Cameo.
‘Maisie, this is Miss Cameo Ashe, my new model. Miss Ashe, this is Miss Maisie Jones.’
‘Hello,’ Maisie drawled. ‘I don’t think we’ve met, have we?’
‘No. I don’t believe so. How do you do?’
Maisie crossed her arms, emphasising her breasts even more. ‘Been modelling long, have you?’
‘This is my first time.’
Maisie ran a finger up and down Benedict’s arm. ‘And you got Benedict Cole? My, my. Not that you would have got him if I’d been still been—what did you call me, Benedict? Your muse?’
He smiled at the blonde woman who came up to his shoulder. ‘I don’t think I ever used the word muse, Maisie, though you were perfect for my last painting. I’ve told you that before.’
She gave a pout of pleasure but her face hardened again as she returned to Cameo. ‘There’s already plenty of models for all the artists round here.’
‘Now, now, Maisie.’ Nicholas Trelawney wagged his finger. ‘Put away your claws.’
With a toss of her head the model flounced away. ‘I’ll see you soon, Benedict. You know where I am for your next painting.’
‘I never knew what you saw in that woman, Cole.’ Trelawney laughed. ‘Or perhaps I do.’
‘She’s a good model,’ Benedict vouchsafed as he sat down and tried not to stare at Cameo Ashe.
* * *
Benedict lit the lamp in his studio.
Ever since Trelawney’s soirée a few nights before, sleep had proved impossible.
Mixing his paints, he brooded on the occasion when he became aware of the seriousness of his feelings for Cameo.
To put it bluntly, she fascinated him.
As they’d gone to leave the soirée, Trelawney had murmured to Benedict under his breath, ‘Take good care of your new model. She’s charming.’
And he’d found out more about her. It had gutted him, but he’d had to know. After the gathering he had taken a hackney cab and followed the carr
iage that bore Miss Ashe away. It had rolled along to Mayfair, to a quiet, stately square that spelt money and class. The carriage had stopped outside the front of one of the houses and, with a furtive look over her shoulder as though she didn’t want to be observed, Miss Cameo Ashe had alighted from the carriage and hurried into the house.
By the front door.
There could be no doubt. She wasn’t a seamstress or a governess as she claimed. They would have entered through the servants’ entrance.
Benedict had barely closed his eyes that night or for the few nights afterwards. He had continued to work, hour after hour, not only at her portrait, but also on other sketches and drawings of her until fatigue made it impossible to continue. He fell into bed satisfied with what he’d done, though sleep usually slipped further away, into the dawn.
Her face haunted him. Her face and also the story she’d told him, the inconsistencies in it. He frowned, yet again perplexed. What was she trying to hide?
He hoped more than ever it wasn’t what he suspected. But why could he assume he was the only man who found her captivating?
Damnation. This model was proving to be the most captivating of all. And the question continued to haunt him.
Who was she?
Chapter Nine
‘The garden stretches southward. In the midst
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.
The garden-glasses shone...’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
Benedict threw down the paintbrush, his face white with exhaustion. ‘That’s enough.’
Cameo released her pose and breathed out. Every single muscle in her body ached with tension. ‘Is the portrait going well?’
‘It’s hard to say at this stage.’ Benedict covered it up with the sheet. ‘It’s absorbing me night and day. I’ve never worked so quickly.’
‘Oh.’ Cameo’s heart sank. She didn’t want him to work quickly. She wanted her days in the studio to last for ever, but they were passing all too soon. Since the soirée at Nicholas Trelawney’s house, Benedict hadn’t seemed to stop working. She worried about him, seeing the lines around his mouth and the shadows under his eyes. She knew artists could be obsessed, as Trelawney had told her. She knew from her own passion for art. ‘Do you need me to pose any more today?’
‘No, Miss Ashe. I think that’s enough.’ He flexed his shoulders in a strong, leisurely movement from which she found it difficult to turn away.
‘You’ll still want me tomorrow?’ It was getting harder and harder for her to slip away, but Maud and George’s engagement had proved to be a diversion at home. Still, it wouldn’t last for ever and she wasn’t sure how long she could keep it up.
He nodded.
‘Where do you live?’ he startled her by asking as she went to collect her bonnet and coat, hanging over the armchair by the fire.
She couldn’t say Mayfair. ‘Not far from here.’
‘Do you walk home after our sessions?’
‘Of course.’ As far as the carriage hidden around the corner.
‘It’s a beautiful day. I could do with some air. I’ll accompany you, if I may.’
Cameo choked. ‘Accompany me?’
‘Is there some difficulty?’
‘It’s just that... I’m not going straight home today. I plan to go to...Hyde Park.’
‘Perfect. We’ll go to the park.’
Her first instinct, of sheer pleasure at the thought of being outdoors with him, was overcome by panic. She couldn’t go with Benedict Cole to Hyde Park, the place where society gathered to walk or ride, or simply to see or be seen. She couldn’t risk it. There’d be a scandal if she were spotted unchaperoned with a bohemian artist. A lady with no relations such as Miss Cameo Ashe might be able to take a promenade with an unknown male in the park, but for Lady Catherine Mary St Clair: unthinkable.
Helplessly, she watched as he pulled on his long brown coat and slung his scarf around his neck. ‘Come along, Miss Ashe. To the park.’
* * *
Benedict glanced at Cameo sideways as she sat on the park bench in her blue bonnet with its paler blue trimmings and her smart grey coat, cut away in a cape to allow for her layers of skirt. She appeared nervous, jumping like a frightened deer each time someone walked past.
When he stretched his legs beside her she flinched, as aware of his body as he remained of hers. She moved away from him, putting a bigger space between his thigh and her own.
He knew why. It was that kiss, still unspoken between them, and the growing attraction he found harder and harder to resist.
Balling his fist, he focused his attention on the ducks in the water opposite. It was driving him mad, the mystery of her. His fingers itched for a pencil, to catch the swanlike slope of her white neck as she leant back slightly on the bench. Instead he forced himself to focus on the lake in front of them and the sleek feathers of a mother duck, grey-brown with a flash of turquoise-blue on the underside, with her ducklings, three balls of feathered fluff, beside her. Nearby, a boy and girl with their nanny were throwing bits of bread, shrieking in delight, with the look of joy that only came after a long winter ended and the spring sunshine seeped into the earth. The cold still bit at his skin, but a hint of warm April air hovered. Already the park lawn was studded here and there with white flowers, the kind that came first in the spring time, the grass, after the winter rains, lush and vivid.
Next to him the sun seemed to be having an effect on his model. She relaxed somewhat, her fingers less clenched inside her kid-leather gloves.
He glanced sideways at her. ‘You’re enjoying the air.’
As she lifted her face to the gentle sunshine, she gathered a deep breath that lifted her corset. ‘Spring is my favourite time of year in Hyde Park. Did you come here for the Great Exhibition last year?’
‘With half of London, yes. What were there, six million people, the newspaper said?’
‘The crowds were enormous. I don’t think I ever saw anything as beautiful as the Crystal Palace. I liked the way they enclosed the trees within the structure. The displays were wonderful.’
He chuckled. ‘I agree with you, though John Ruskin certainly didn’t.’
Cameo inched towards him on the bench. ‘What did he say?’
‘He created a furore. He bemoaned the fact that lesser works were being displayed at such expense in the Crystal Palace while in Venice the works of great masters were “rotting in the rain, without roofs to cover them, and with holes made by cannon shot through the canvas”,’ Benedict quoted. ‘He had a point.’
‘I still liked the Great Exhibition. Do you ever work outside?’
He laughed and quoted Ruskin again. ‘“In the rain without a roof to cover me?”’
She laughed, too. He hadn’t heard her laugh much before, that light, musical gurgle. ‘Just out of doors.’
‘I do. It’s essential. I did most of the work for the background of your portrait outside.’
‘I thought you were working on it in the studio.’
‘Yes, but I already had done a lot of the preparatory process before I found you.’ He ignored his swift pulse at the memory of first seeing her. ‘That’s the time-consuming part. I made sketches and colour studies to make sure I got the setting as exact as possible. Nature trains the artist’s eye, you see.’
He faced her squarely, his leg moving against hers, and saw her hold back a jolt. ‘Your sketch. The one you did the other day.’
She took another of those corset-filling breaths as her leg stayed against his. ‘What about it, Mr Cole? I told you I have an interest in art.’
‘Yes, you told me that, among many other things.’ He let the note of disbelief ring in his voice. ‘Your sketch showed some skill. Do you only work in pencil
and charcoal, or also in colour?’
‘I use watercolours and oils, too. Only once or twice, of course. They’re expensive,’ she added hastily.
‘You need to use oils to paint properly.’
She bit her lip. ‘What did you mean by the correct study of nature?’
Why had she changed the subject? ‘I’m not sure I’m in the mood for giving an art lecture today.’
‘Please.’
‘You’re most persistent.’ He pointed to a single flower blooming at the base of the trunk of an oak tree nearby. ‘Look at that daffodil. What do you see?’
‘I see a daffodil.’
‘Look again. Describe it to me.’
‘It’s yellow.’
‘Is that all you see? Yellow? What kind of yellow?’
She swallowed hard. He guessed she was holding back one of her sharp retorts. To be honest he enjoyed them.
‘There are many yellows,’ she said after a moment. ‘There’s the more golden yellow at the centre of the flower, it’s almost orange. And then there’s the paler yellow of the petals. At the tip they are almost translucent.’
‘Good. What else?’
Two tiny lines formed between her fine eyebrows. ‘They’re like sunshine. That’s how to paint them. To try to capture their warmth and brightness, their golden life, not merely their colour.’
It wasn’t often he shared such a sense of connection with a model. He felt strangely pleased by her answer. She’d grasped immediately what he meant. ‘Very good. Artists see in terms of light and shade. Even if we paint using dark colours we capture light by layering the darker colours over paler ones so the light is revealed. Titian, one of the greats of the Venetian school, was an expert at it. He used feather-light strokes to let the light come through.’
‘I think I understand.’
‘By paying attention to the natural world we can see what truly is. In this I agree with the Pre-Raphaelites. Truth from Nature is their motto. I, too, paint what I see. Truth is of great value to me. If there’s one thing I cannot abide, Miss Ashe, it’s a lie.’
He could see he had hit home with that comment. Her lips quivered and then parted. He hoped briefly she might choose to tell him the truth about herself. It had become so important to him. Continuing to paint her with his need to discern her soul was becoming unbearable. The portrait would be a masterpiece if his passion for her was unleashed, he knew it.
Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 Page 45