Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2

by Lynna Banning

  Why, oh, why hadn’t she told Benedict the truth when she’d had the chance? It was all too late now. She couldn’t go to him after what Lord Warley had said. She would be signing his artistic death warrant. Ending his career, all he’d worked for, all his life. He lived in a garret to achieve his aims. She never suffered, never went without. She’d been cosseted and pampered her whole life. Her slightest whim had been catered for, every demand met. She had the finest home, the finest clothing, food and furnishings—the finest of everything. Even though she hadn’t had the painting lessons she wanted, she’d bought paints, paper, canvas. She’d not lived in poverty.

  She made no sacrifice for her art, as Benedict did.

  So many differences between them. She didn’t waken to the sounds of carts in the morning, but to the sounds of carriages and of breakfast rattling on a tray.

  Their love for each other, the passion they shared—her pulse quickened at the recollection of touching him, tasting him, her lips on him—that had been real. But she’d idealised his bohemian, artistic world without fully comprehending the hardships it involved. She hadn’t thought about the difficult days when work went badly, when a painting didn’t sell.

  She’d been playing. Pretending.

  Posing.

  The paintbrush snapped in two. She stared down at it. She loved Benedict Cole too much to destroy him. She must give him up and she must give up painting, too. Without him, what would be the point of it? Life seemed to ebb from her, along with the force driving her to paint, to capture life and beauty.

  She would never paint again.

  Everything had changed.

  Her passion for painting had led her to another unforgettable passion. It had changed her, deepened her and made her into a woman, instead of a wilful girl.

  Her eyes blurred with tears as she pushed back her chair, the snapped paintbrush falling to the floor. Agitated, she paced the bedroom carpet. It wasn’t her parents or Lord Warley stopping her painting. It was her heart, her aching heart. How could she bear to paint, to be reminded of Benedict, when she had almost destroyed his career? She’d thought her hands would never stop aching to hold a paintbrush. Now there was another ache filling her, an empty, deeper, desperate ache she knew would never depart.

  A talent such as Benedict Cole’s must never be destroyed.

  He might forgive her for lying about her identity, but he would find it hard to forgive her if she let his artistic career be further ruined. Who knew how far Lord Warley would go?

  No! She couldn’t risk him carrying out his threats. She couldn’t let any more damage be done to Benedict’s life, to his career, to himself, because of her. It didn’t matter what happened to her. She had to save him.

  She picked up the broken brush. Crushing the paper into a ball, she threw it into the wastepaper basket along with the watercolour paints and glanced out at the ash tree.

  Never again would she experience the colour and excitement of Benedict’s studio, or the passion she’d found in his arms.

  There was to be no escape.

  It was her turn to sacrifice, now.

  When her mother came into her bedroom, her face was quite dry of tears. ‘I’ve come to a decision, Mama. I’ll marry Lord Warley.’

  * * *

  Wild anger.

  Fury.

  Passion.

  Desire.

  Mixed together like oil paints on his palette.

  Into colours and forms he never knew it was possible to create.

  Day and night Benedict worked as he had never worked before or had known he could.

  Time had stopped, gone into another dimension.

  Benedict refused to stop. A sense of urgency had been building in him, a force he couldn’t ignore. Almost impatiently he painted, willing his body to keep up with the images in his brain.

  Faster and faster.

  By the pink light of dawn.

  Into the grey dusk.

  By the golden lamplight.

  No need for sleep, just an hour or two, snatched on the chaise longue.

  Barely any need for food or drink.

  His hand soared, swept, flew. Powerful. Steady, sure.

  On and on.

  As if it was her body.

  Her skin, not canvas.

  His hands on her.

  Wilder and wilder. Into the night.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘All the land in flowery squares,

  Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind,

  Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud

  Drew downward.’

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

  ‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

  ‘I’m sorry, Maud, what did you say?’

  ‘Oh, Cameo.’ Maud sighed. ‘I hate to see you this way. George and I are so worried about you. Are you still thinking about him?’

  ‘About whom?’

  ‘Don’t pretend. About that painter, the one in the studio in Soho. Benedict Cole.’

  ‘It’s been weeks since I saw him,’ Cameo said flatly. Almost six weeks, to be precise, the most terrible weeks of her life, each day dragging since she’d agreed to wed Lord Warley.

  ‘You’ll be a summer bride,’ her mama had said with satisfaction. Cameo wanted to get it over with as soon as possible and her father had agreed, but her mother had insisted that there were certain preparations to be made. ‘There are some things that just can’t be rushed,’ she had exclaimed. ‘There’s the dress, and the cake, and the—’

  ‘Humph,’ her papa had interrupted. ‘Fuss and bother.’ Sometimes Cameo saw him peer at her from beneath his eyebrows as if he wanted to say something, but the moment always passed. His anger seemed to have passed, too, to her relief. Yet her determination to protect Benedict remained true.

  Now Maud slipped her arm through Cameo’s and slid closer to her on the sofa. ‘You’re in love with him, aren’t you? With that artist. With Benedict Cole.’

  ‘How I feel about him is immaterial.’ Cameo’s heart sank as she spoke. ‘He despises me.’

  ‘But how do you feel about him?’

  ‘Why are you asking me all these questions about Benedict Cole, Maud? I’m going to marry Lord Warley—I mean Robert. I suppose I must call him by his Christian name now. The wedding is only weeks away. You’re going to be my bridesmaid.’ She realised she’d been sharp with her friend. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t been myself lately.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologise. I’m worried about you. I’m sure there’s something you’re not telling me. You’re so unhappy. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep. And you’re not painting.’

  ‘I will never paint again.’

  ‘Painting is everything to you!’

  ‘It’s nothing to me now.’

  Maud pressed Cameo’s hand in sympathy.

  On Cameo’s finger sparkled the diamond ring Lord Warley had given her as a betrothal gift. It was ornate and heavy, a family heirloom, one he hadn’t pawned to pay his gaming debts, she presumed. It seemed to chill her skin. She’d barely been able to slide it onto her finger. She shivered again.

  ‘Cameo.’ Maud patted her sleeve. ‘You must tell me what’s wrong. I can’t believe you’re marrying Lord Warley. You flinch when his name is mentioned and you’re losing weight, and you’re so pale. You always said you hated Lord Warley.’

  ‘Please, Maud.’ Cameo’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I have to marry him and that’s that.’

  * * *

  Benedict stood back, almost shaking with exhaustion.

  He refused to stay cooped up in the studio a moment longer. He flung a scarf around his neck, grabbed his coat, thrust the cameo in his pocket and headed out the door.

  As usual he went to the Lamb, pushi
ng through the crowds.

  Maisie stood propped against the bar in a scarlet corset and white blouse. ‘Hello there. You look as if you could use a drink.’ Her warm breath fanned his face. ‘I heard what happened at the Royal Academy, about your painting being removed from the exhibition.’

  His exhalation tasted acrid. ‘All around London, is it?’

  ‘We models always hear what’s going on. It’s a shame, your work being taken down like that.’

  He scowled and signed to the innkeeper. ‘What are you drinking, Maisie?’

  ‘Whatever you fancy.’

  He ordered her a whisky and another for himself. He suddenly remembered Cameo drinking whisky, how she’d held the glass like a child, spluttering as she tasted it.

  The innkeeper poured him a generous measure. He swallowed it in one.

  Maisie swigged her drink. ‘I knew she wasn’t any good for you, that new model of yours.’

  Benedict swallowed more whisky.

  ‘It’s not right,’ she went on indignantly, jiggling her body. ‘People of that sort, coming and taking ordinary people’s work. A fancy titled lady? Why’d she want to be a model, then?’

  ‘She didn’t intend to be my model. She desired to be a painter.’ Amazed, Benedict heard himself defending her.

  Maisie rubbed up against him. ‘Let me come to the studio. You don’t need that sort. I’ll model for you again.’

  ‘I don’t need another model.’

  She sighed gustily and moved away, propping her elbow on the bar. Her expression became candid. ‘She caught you, didn’t she?’

  He toyed with his glass.

  ‘Come on, Benedict.’ Maisie rolled her eyes. ‘I know artists and I know men. You barely noticed me since you had her modelling for you. It’s like I’m invisible or something.’

  It was true. His head had been full of images of Cameo ever since he’d met her, from the moment she’d lifted her bonnet and he’d seen those violet eyes. Other women seemed to melt into the background; he barely discerned them. Only her face stood out, as if in relief, like the carving on her cameo necklace.

  ‘I can’t imagine how you’re going to paint using another model. Maybe you should try landscapes or something.’ Maisie waved to the innkeeper. ‘Come on. Let’s have another.’

  He dropped some coins on to the counter and shook his head. ‘Not for me. You have one, Maisie. I need to go and see someone.’

  ‘Artists.’ She scooped up the coins. ‘Suit yourself.’

  With his fist clenched on the carved stone inside his pocket, Benedict made for the door.

  * * *

  Cameo stared around Hyde Park. Summer flowers were starting to bloom, the grass a bright emerald threaded with yellow-and-white daisies. Birds twittered in the leafy boughs above them, bees and butterflies danced across the lawn. All of London seemed to be out of doors today, soaking up the sunshine. Little girls in smocked dresses and boys in sailor suits, similar to those she, Maud and George used to wear, were shrieking with laughter at a nearby Punch-and-Judy show. Not far away in the pavilion a band played and from further away the distant sound of horses’ hooves came, as gentlemen and ladies in smart black riding habits and top hats, with the occasional military man resplendent in uniform, rode through the park.

  Just like she had pretended to be doing.

  Desperate for some fresh air and solitude she’d slipped away from the house, avoiding the servants. She had to be alone.

  She tried not to think about the time she’d sat in Hyde Park with Benedict, on a park bench as she now sat alone. She tried not to think about him at all. Yet only yesterday she’d passed a bookshop where the window display had caught her attention. In the window had been a book—the famous art critic John Ruskin’s The Stones of Venice. She had bought it; she hadn’t been able to stop herself. The second volume would be out the next year, the bookseller told her.

  I must tell Benedict. The thought came unbidden into her head, before she remembered, her eyelids prickling with tears. She wouldn’t be able to tell him. She’d never discuss the book again with him now. She wouldn’t hear his voice grow bright with enthusiasm when he spoke of Venice, wouldn’t see his eyes glow when he described to her the paintings by the great masters he saw in that glittering city of canals. He wouldn’t speak to her of Ruskin, or Venice, or anything else.

  It felt better to be out in the open air at least. She took a deep breath. She was no longer being locked in her bedroom in the Mayfair house, but she had spent a great deal of time there alone recently, not only seeking solitude, but also trying to avoid Lord Warley. He called regularly since she had agreed to marry him. She often pretended to be indisposed, staying upstairs feigning an illness, and he would go away. He’d bide his time, licking his lips in the way she’d begun to hate. He could afford to wait. He’d trapped her.

  Terror reverberated through her body. Her fingers fumbled as she opened her lace parasol and trod slowly towards the gates. For a moment she imagined a figure walking down the path, tall, dark-haired, in a brown coat and a long red scarf.

  She blinked away her tears.

  A voice startled her. ‘Why, Miss Cameo!’

  It was Nicholas Trelawney, smartly dressed in a top hat, his red spotted cravat and handkerchief as jaunty as ever.

  He halted in front of her. ‘It is Miss Cameo, isn’t it?’

  She smiled. It was impossible not to respond to his irrepressibly cheerful face and she felt a shaft of joy, like sunlight from a cloud, at seeing someone from Benedict’s artistic world. ‘Hello, Mr Trelawney. It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘And you, my dear.’ He bowed, tipping his top hat. ‘My apologies. I’ve just recalled you’re not a Miss, are you? A Lady, wasn’t it, as we all found out? What a shock.’

  ‘No, I’m not a Miss. I’m Lady Catherine Mary St Clair, that’s my full title. But please call me Cameo. My family and my—’ her throat choked on the word ‘—friends do.’

  ‘I’m honoured. My dear, how can you look so sad about your illustrious full name? There are many people who would give their eye teeth for a title. I dare say I would.’

  Cameo couldn’t contain herself. ‘Mr Trelawney. Please, tell me. How is—Benedict? He is painting, isn’t he? I haven’t seen him since my portrait was withdrawn from the Royal Academy of Art.’

  Her stomach lurched at the memory of that terrible meeting.

  Trelawney threw his hands in the air. ‘He’s been painting night and day. A man possessed. I’d never seen anything like it when I popped into his studio. My dear! His papers piled high, dust everywhere, and I’m not sure when he’d last slept or ate. But the paintings—well. He didn’t plan to show anything this season after what happened with the Royal Academy, but it’s incredible, he already has enough for a new show. They’re magnificent.’

  Cameo experienced a pang of longing at the description. With the amazing artistic focus Benedict possessed she could well imagine him painting on and on, regardless of his surroundings, ignoring the need for sleep or food. She felt relieved to hear he was painting still. She’d been frightened he might give up completely after the crushing blow of her portrait’s ban. ‘So this new show won’t be part of the Royal Academy?’

  ‘Alas, no, my dear. It will be at a small gallery, not quite as prestigious. In fact, they’re showing The Gardener’s Daughter there already. I had to practically prise it out of Cole’s grip, but he needs a sale.’

  Cameo’s stomach lurched. She’d done this to Benedict.

  Tucking his cane under his arm, Trelawney pulled a stubby pencil from his waistcoat and patted his trouser pockets. ‘Now, do I have a scrap of paper...? Ah, yes, I do!’ Triumphantly he unfolded a small square of paper and started scribbling. ‘I’m writing down the address.’ He held it out to her. ‘You simply must see it hanging.’


  Cameo recoiled. ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘You must,’ Trelawney insisted.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Really, Lady Cameo, you must. I won’t tell you why,’ he said mysteriously. ‘I’ve seen it and you should, too.’

  There was no way to explain why it was too dangerous to go anywhere near Benedict or his paintings. If Robert found out, there could be a terrible price. ‘I don’t want to see Benedict Cole’s work. He wouldn’t want me to go and see it, either.’

  ‘You need to go and see this exhibition. Trust me, Lady Cameo. Go and see it.’ He folded the piece of paper into her unwilling fingers. ‘Well, goodbye, my dear. I dare say we’ll meet again.’

  Trelawney gave her a bow before he tripped off down the path.

  Cameo unfurled the scrap of paper from her clenched fingers. The Belleview, Soho. Not a name she had heard of. It was certainly a step down from the Royal Academy, she thought, feeling sick. And it was all her fault.

  She tore the paper in two.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘News from the humming city comes to it

  In sound of funeral or of marriage bells;

  And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear

  The windy clanging of the minster clock.’

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

  ‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

  ‘Cameo, dear. You’re the bride and you’re not ready.’ Lady Buxton swept into the bedroom, wearing a blue watered-silk gown with sapphires sparkling against her throat and wrists and an elaborate diamond tiara set on her piled dark curls. ‘Where’s the maid?’

  Cameo wrapped her white dressing gown more tightly, covering her stays and chemise. ‘I can dress myself without help from a maid, Mama. Many women do.’

  Her mother squawked. ‘You simply must stop saying such things. You’ve been doing it too much of late. It upsets your father so. It’s your wedding day. You must appear your best.’