Yet again she changed the subject. ‘You’re not a member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, though? You seem to know them well.’
Benedict hid his disappointment at her continued deception. He had hoped she’d started to trust him. Didn’t she realise he would never judge her, no matter what she told him about her circumstances? Did she realise what was happening between them? Instead he answered her question. ‘I’m friendly with them. We share an interest in the same techniques, especially to do with the natural world. We aim to reproduce it as exactly as possible.’
Her lower lip took another bite. ‘You achieved that in the painting of the girl with the wheat. The one of Maisie Jones.’
‘You’ve seen that work?’
She gave a quick nod.
‘You’re a woman of constant surprises,’ he drawled. ‘I’m beginning to wonder what you’ll come up with next.’
She flushed pink, always a giveaway with Miss Ashe.
‘My work does draw on the Pre-Raphaelite ideas about nature, among other things,’ he went on, when she said nothing more, though the colour in her cheeks continued to deepen. ‘But no other painter taught me. I learnt that from my parents.’
‘Your parents?’
He’d surprised himself. He so rarely discussed his family background. He hesitated for a moment. Then he said, ‘Before I came to London, my...my father, Arthur Cole, was a gamekeeper on a large estate. We lived in his cottage. He knew every inch of the estate, every wood, every lake, each animal and each tree. He was also a wood carver and he taught me to carve. You have to be precise, detailed. I still carve my own frames for my paintings.’
‘And your bed.’
‘My bed?’
‘Your bed in the studio. That’s carved, isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t realise you took such an interest in my bed.’ He enjoyed making her retrieve another of those deep breaths as she flushed even rosier.
After a moment she rallied. ‘Where is he now? Your father, I mean. Is he still on the estate?’
Tightness formed in his throat. ‘He died.’
‘I’m so sorry. And did he teach you to paint, as well?’
His mouth twisted. ‘Not Arthur Cole, no.’
‘Your mother?’
The warmth of her memory flooded back. He could almost feel himself back indoors in their cottage. ‘My mother possessed a gift for colour. Our home was humble, but she made it beautiful. It didn’t look like the other cottages on the estate. She didn’t leave her furniture plain. She painted it with simple designs of flowers and fruit in reds, yellows, blues and greens.’ He paused for a moment, found it hard to go on. ‘Colour surrounded her. At night, before I went to sleep, I’d lie awake, soaking in those designs as they glowed bright as jewels in the lamplight, my mother, in her red dress, the most colourful sight of all. My father...my father used to tease her. He said she looked like a gypsy.’
‘She sounds beautiful.’
‘She was. I painted my first-ever portrait of her sitting at the door of our cottage in her scarlet gown.’
‘Where is she now?’
The pain inside him became almost unbearable. He clenched his fists and forced himself to say evenly, ‘She died not long after my father. Because of the way she was treated, no doubt.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She was cast out,’ he replied, unable to keep the rage from his voice. ‘The lord of the manor forced her to leave our cottage, our home. All the loyalty...it was not returned. Just broken promises. But that’s how some members of the aristocracy behave.’
She opened her mouth and closed it again, as if she meant to speak but changed her mind. She waited a moment before she asked him another question. ‘That’s terribly sad. Then what happened? How did you become a painter?’
He shrugged, trying to cast off the memory of those years. ‘I came to London. I studied. I painted. Through my art I am determined to be accepted on my own terms.’
Terminating their conversation, he stood. ‘I think that’s enough air, Miss Ashe.’
* * *
Stones crunched under Cameo’s boots as she tried to keep up with Benedict’s fast pace as he strode away. She barely noticed her surroundings as they headed away from the lake towards the gates of Hyde Park.
While she’d listened to him talk about the way his beloved mother had been treated she had longed to reach over and erase those bitter lines bracketing his mouth. Yet ever since their kiss, he’d made it clear they needed to keep their distance.
Cameo frowned slightly. He said he had grown up in a cottage, but that didn’t explain his cultured voice, his obvious education. He had vision and a God-given talent, and passion, so much passion. He was an enigma, yet there was no doubt about his hostility towards the aristocracy and their broken promises.
She could never tell him the truth about herself.
Her heart ached as he strode away ahead of her. As if sensing her gaze, he stopped and turned. Her pulse skipped a beat. His long brown coat hung open, his red scarf tied carelessly, his dark head bared, for he didn’t bother with a hat. He pushed his hair from his forehead in what had become a familiar gesture as he waited for her. She stepped towards him, her heart seeming to lift—and froze on the spot.
Behind Benedict, another man approached.
It couldn’t be! Her mouth dried. But there was no mistaking Lord Warley, that correct figure with his top hat and cane, out for a promenade in the park.
Cameo swallowed her shriek. Pulling her bonnet down over her face, she skittered sharply on her heel, hitched up her skirts and sped away. Fast footsteps came behind her, closer and closer. She ran on, hardly knowing where she went. Spotting a glade of trees, she dashed into them, a low branch scratching at her bonnet. She cried out as someone caught her from behind and spun her around.
Benedict Cole gripped her by the elbow. ‘What is it? Tell me.’
Frantically Cameo tried to peer past him, through the trees. Where was Lord Warley? Had he recognised her, followed her? Of all the people to discover her secret!
‘I must leave! I must go straight away.’
Benedict’s jaw set as he twisted his head and scanned the area behind them. ‘There’s no one following you.’
He clenched her elbow harder. ‘What exactly is it you’re running from? Or should I say whom?’
‘No one...’
‘I don’t think so. You saw someone you knew, I didn’t see who it was. But you certainly didn’t want them to see you.’
With a grip of fury, Benedict tugged Cameo deeper behind the trees. ‘I told you not to lie to me. Do you think I can’t see you’re concealing something?’
‘You’ve no right to question me!’ In panic she tried to wrench free. ‘Let me go! Let me go, I say!’
Benedict’s eyes glittered as he released her. ‘All right.’ His mouth formed a furious line. ‘Go. Go now. But, Miss Ashe? Don’t come back to the studio until you’re ready to tell me the truth.’
Chapter Ten
‘The heavy clocks knolling...’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
‘Your parents are in the drawing room, Lady Catherine Mary. Your mother asked for you, I believe.’
Cameo bit her lip as Briggs took her bonnet and cloak. With shaking fingers she smoothed down her dress. The hem was grass stained from her dash across the park. Hopefully no one would notice. If they did, she would have to think of another convincing lie.
So many lies. There seemed to be no escape.
‘Thank you, Briggs.’
‘Where have you been?’ her father demanded the minute she entered the drawing room. ‘Your mama tells me you couldn’t be found. Lord Warley called. And you weren’t here to receive h
im!’
‘The servants looked for you everywhere, Cameo dear.’ Lady Buxton was fluttering, twisting her rings. ‘You’ve been out so much of late. Lord Warley expressed such disappointment not to find you at home.’
‘Terribly rude of you, Cameo!’ the earl barked. ‘The son of my greatest friend came to pay his addresses to you, I understand, and you don’t even do him the courtesy of being here. And he had some story about seeing you in Hyde Park.’
‘With a gentleman,’ her mother added in a horrified note. ‘Unchaperoned!’
So Lord Warley had seen her. ‘Well, I...’
‘And you’re not in your riding habit, Cameo.’
‘Come on! Out with it!’ her papa barked. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I’ve... I’ve... I’ve been...’
‘With me.’
Cameo spun around to see George coming into the room.
‘Sorry, Pater. Cameo has been out with me at...’
‘The park.’ Cameo threw George a grateful glance.
‘That’s it. The park. We went for a stroll.’
‘Humph.’ The earl grunted. ‘Took your sister out, did you?’
‘That’s right, sir. Apologies if she was meant to be here.’
‘That’s all right, George dear.’ The countess gave her son a doting glance. ‘It was thoughtful of you.’ She diverted to her daughter. ‘But you simply must be here tomorrow, Cameo. We have callers on Thursdays and I’ve asked Lord Warley to tea.’
‘But I can’t be at home tomorrow morning. I’ve got another riding lesson,’ Cameo protested. What conclusions would Benedict Cole come to if she didn’t appear at the studio, after the warning he’d given her? She had to tell him the truth, beg his forgiveness.
The earl frowned, brushing his whiskers. ‘You must cancel your riding lesson and stay at home tomorrow with your mama.’
Lady Buxton spoke up. ‘I’ll be so pleased to have you with me, Cameo dear.’
‘But—’
‘No more arguing.’ The vein on her father’s forehead popped out. ‘What’s the matter with you, young lady? It’s high time you remembered your duties.’
‘I’m sorry, Papa.’ Cameo’s head reeled. She must see Benedict tomorrow and tell him the truth. She must!
‘Good.’ Her papa nodded and turned to his wife. ‘We’ll go into luncheon, Charlotte. Goodness knows where Briggs has got to—he ought to have announced it by now.’
‘What the devil’s going on?’ George muttered to Cameo, pulling her back into the drawing room before they followed their parents into the dining room across the hall. ‘Where have you been?’
‘It’s a secret, George.’
George threw her a frown of concern. ‘Secrets are never a good idea, old girl. Maud and I have noticed you’ve been disappearing rather a lot lately. We guessed you were up to something. We know the signs all too well. What is it?’
‘I’ll tell you both when I can, George, I promise.’
‘Promise?’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’ She waved in the air as they used to when they were children.
‘Hmm. I suppose that will have to do. I say, you’re not involving Maud in one of your schemes, are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘That’s all right, then. Maud’s not the same as you, always up to some scrape or another.’ He gave her a pat on the arm as they went towards the dining room. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, I really do. I get the feeling, little sister, you’re playing with fire.’
* * *
‘Well. This has been most pleasant.’
Lord Warley replaced the thin porcelain teacup so slowly on to the saucer Cameo nearly screamed. On the marble chimney piece, with its vast urns on either side, sat the French clock that chimed noisily on the quarter-hour. All day she’d watched the needles drag as she sat taking calls with her mama, listening to endless plans for the Season, for balls, dinners and other entertainments. She had hoped Lord Warley might be detained and she might escape. But right on time, on the stroke of four o’clock, Briggs entered the drawing room with the silver tray aloft bearing the Warley-crested calling card upon it. Now, forced to take tea with him, Cameo sat stuck in the same position, her feet crossed beneath her skirts, her hands folded in her lap, a fixed smile and falsely interested expression on her face. It was harder than modelling for Benedict.
Benedict. Under her skirts, she rubbed her shoes across the thick oriental carpet. How she longed to be in the studio in Soho with its bare boards. Would he be there now, painting? Had he already sought out another model? How long would he wait?
He would give up on her.
Her mother brought her out of her reverie. ‘Aren’t we, Cameo?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Cameo dragged her attention back to the drawing room to find Lord Warley studying her as though he were guessing at her thoughts. Her skin crawled.
‘We’re delighted you could come this afternoon, especially after Cameo wasn’t here when you came to call yesterday.’ Lady Buxton apologised. ‘Her brother, George, took her to the park.’
‘Who am I to deprive a brother and sister of company on a sunny day in Hyde Park? But I must admit—’ Warley hoisted one leg over the other ‘—I didn’t think it was your brother I saw you with in the park, Lady Catherine Mary.’
Cameo choked on her tea.
‘Perhaps I am mistaken.’ His lips pursed in a suggestive manner that told Cameo he didn’t believe himself mistaken at all.
It seemed safer not to reply. Why, she’d been right about Lord Warley all along. There was something nasty about him, something unwholesome. He knew she hadn’t been in the park with George. For some reason he was holding it over her.
Picking up a plate of sandwiches from the tea stand, she leaned over and offered them to him. ‘Another cucumber sandwich?’ she asked coldly.
‘I think I’ve had quite sufficient.’ He fingered the gold watch hanging from a chain on his blue silk waistcoat. ‘It really is time I left you dear ladies. But before I depart I must say I’m looking forward to welcoming you to Warley Park.’ He smoothed his hair and addressed her mama, but his eyes flicked towards Cameo. ‘The grounds are particularly magnificent in the spring.’
‘Lord Warley persuaded me yesterday to bring our visit forward, Cameo,’ her mama explained. ‘We’ll travel to Sussex on Saturday.’
Why, that was in only two days. Her heart sank. It was the worst possible moment. It made it even more pressing to get to the studio and Benedict.
‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, Lady Catherine Mary.’
‘It will be delightful,’ the countess replied to Lord Warley with a smile when Cameo didn’t respond.
His tongue darted out. ‘I’ll be particularly pleased to show your daughter my estate.’
‘Oh, she’s very happy to come, aren’t you, Cameo dear?’
‘Of course,’ she answered politely, though she couldn’t think of anything worse.
‘Then it’s settled.’
Lord Warley stood up and took his silver-topped cane. Why did he always carry it with him? He wasn’t old. It made her uneasy.
‘Charmed, Lady Buxton. Lady Catherine Mary.’ He leaned over Cameo’s hand. She could have sworn his tongue flicked her wrist before she snatched it away.
‘Always a pleasure,’ her mother said.
‘How can you say that, Mama?’ Cameo demanded after he left the drawing room. For once, she refrained from holding back. ‘How can you say it’s a pleasure?’
‘Cameo!’ Her mother appeared utterly shocked, fanning her face with her handkerchief. ‘He’s such a handsome young man and always so polite.’
No, he’s not, she recalled mutinously, choking back the words. She wished she could tell her mama about the way
Lord Warley made her feel, but they never discussed those kinds of matters. It just wasn’t done.
‘Lord Warley’s a member of the same club as your father and dear George, like his father before him. Your father was always such good friends with his,’ her mama reminded her. ‘He won’t hear a thing against that family and Lord Warley has become a most eager suitor.’
Cameo repressed a chill. ‘Lord Warley is attentive to many young ladies.’
‘But most attentive to you, Cameo dear. We all noticed at Lady Russell’s ball. What a charming couple you made! Now, don’t go disappearing anywhere in the next few days. I’ll supervise the packing of your belongings. My maid will attend to it. You’ll enjoy visiting Warley Park, once you get there. It will be delightful.’
I don’t think it will be delightful. The desperate words almost burst out of Cameo’s mouth. She didn’t desire to go to Warley Park. For her parents’ sake she would obey but, oh, how she yearned to stay in London, in Soho, to be precise. She had to see Benedict.
‘Yes, Mama. I won’t go anywhere tomorrow,’ Cameo replied.
It wasn’t exactly lying if she slipped out tonight.
Chapter Eleven
‘So home I went, but could not sleep...’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
Cameo pushed aside the chintz curtains and stared out her bedroom window. Fog drifted into the square. Beside her window the boughs of the ash tree gleamed faintly.
Even the ash tree couldn’t soothe her now. Cameo kept hearing Benedict’s voice in her head over and over again: Don’t come back to the studio until you’re ready to tell me the truth.
The decision had been made. She must tell him without delay. Would he, an artist, be able to see her real self and not just an aristocrat? Would he let her continue to model for him?
Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 Page 46