My hips rocked with the sensual image in my head. My breath caught and I grabbed the arm of the chair as I arched my back, plunging two fingers deep inside me.
I licked my lips as I turned and met Thomas’s heated gaze. His hand was poised midair, his eyes filled with need. I wondered what he was thinking; if he, too, was remembering that day. I continued to roll my hips as my juices, warm and wet, spilled over my fingers. I swallowed and held my hand out. “I surmise this is vivid enough for you?” My gaze drifted down to the tented hood of his trousers. “Yes, I do believe it is,” I said, and shifted to find my pose.
Chapter 5
THERE WERE DAYS I WANTED TO SCREAM. I WANTED to ask him what he saw in Helen that he did not see in me. But I would stop myself, bathed in my self-awareness of the answer. The distinctions were painfully clear. Helen represented everything innocent, unstained, not yet scarred by the world. I was the embodiment of exactly the opposite. When I first met Thomas, with his eccentric behavior, his healthy appetite for sex and his modern view of things, I never expected him to be the sort to put people in boxes. Not once, before the night at the opera, had I ever felt he judged me for my past, but he had made his true thoughts on that quite clear. Ironically, the notoriety I had achieved by modeling for the brotherhood had caused many of my former clients to shy away, afraid to be seen with me for what it might do to them socially. As long as I was a faceless, nameless whore, I was worth a romp, but now I had a sordid reputation and I could not go back to prostitution.
I’d been posing for Thomas off and on for several months, often wondering if he ever mentioned me to his new muse. The truth was, I wondered many things about them. Did they talk and laugh as we once had? Did they enjoy walks in the park together? Were they, too, lovers, as Thomas and I had been? Perhaps it was foolish to entertain these thoughts, as they only served to frustrate me more.
Still, all must not have been paradise in Thomas’s world. He was moody, unsettled. One day he would be full of life, and the next pensive and withdrawn. Whatever was going on over at his studio was affecting him like a barometer. By good fortune, he no longer used me as a vehicle for his repressed sexual needs. This made me realize, with some sadness, that he was, or had been, bedding his new muse, and his mood swings were most likely a result of her compliance, or lack thereof.
It was an oppressive summer day. The air was thick with the stifling humidity of an approaching thunderstorm. The view beyond the hotel window was dismal, gray, a foreshadowing of impending rain. Thomas was in one of his moods. Sour faced, tired, unshaven. He looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed…alone. Either that or he was taking ill. I tried to stay out of his way.
An itch on my nose caused me to move, scratching it with the tip of my finger.
“Grace, do not move,” he snapped.
We’d become like actors in a silent play, playing our parts, not touching, not connecting with each other. It was strange to see Thomas so void of passion. Regardless of how we’d parted those many months ago, I could not cast his welfare aside. My heart would simply not allow it. Deep down, I still cared for him.
His eyebrows pinched together in fierce concentration as he dabbed his brush on his palette.
“Thomas? Is there something weighing on you?”
“Don’t ask,” he muttered, adding more paint and then scowling at his choice.
“If you need someone to listen, Thomas. If it’s about the academy—”
“I don’t need to talk to anyone about anything. I don’t want to talk about it. Do you understand, Grace?” He scraped off the blob of paint he’d been mixing and started over, his jaw set firm in determination.
I stared at the back of the canvas, noting the wooden framework that held it in place. It had more personality at present than did Thomas. The light outside was waning as the dark rain clouds rolled in. I’d posed enough for Thomas and the others to know that he’d either have to quit or light some lamps soon to continue.
“Are you at a point where I can move?” I asked. “I’ll light the lamps if you wish.”
He glanced up briefly. “Make it quick.”
There was a measure of comfort in that he trusted me to know what needed to be done. If only he would trust me with other things.
I did not bother putting on my dressing gown as I moved in haste to light the kerosene lamps. I placed them where I thought the light would do most good, having decided Thomas would move them where he wanted.
I was hurrying back to the couch when he reached out and grabbed my wrist. I looked first at my arm, and then at Thomas. He had a far-off look on his face as he stared at the canvas.
“I’ve asked Helen to marry me, Grace.”
Though I never expected to resume a relationship with Thomas, a cold spot formed in my stomach at the thought of him married. Why did I assume that we would always stay as we were? I stared at where his long fingers curled around my arm. His hands, capable, strong, were one of the first things I’d noticed about him. “Then I suppose congratulations are in order,” I stated quietly.
“Grace.” He looked up at me.
I glanced away immediately, my body tensing at the tone in his voice. “I’m quite sure the two of you will make a handsome couple and be desperately happy.” I forced the words from my mouth though I did not believe them.
“There’s more to it, Grace. I had to propose because…it was the right thing.”
I eased from his grip. “The right thing? What do you mean?”
“She carries my child, Grace.”
I grabbed the edge of the canvas and it slid off the easel, crashing to the floor. I watched in a blind stupor as he picked it up, righting it. My heart pounded against my chest and I found it difficult to breathe. I could barely see the floor before me as I found my dressing robe. My hands were shaking violently as I fought the silky fabric trying to find the goddamn fucking sleeve. At last, I punched my arm through the hole and pulled the robe around my nakedness, tying the belt at my waist with a resolute jerk. Still feeling exposed, I turned, at least now able to face him. “I think that you should go, Thomas. Go attend to your affairs, to your future bride and to your…child. I wish you all the best, truly.” I held my back straight, forcing my knees not to buckle.
“You said you would listen,” he remarked, dotting it with a sarcastic laugh.
I whirled on him then. “So I did. But I thought you were pouting over some asinine art critic, or maybe you’d missed out on the freshest scones this morning. For God’s sake, I had no idea it would be this!”
He dropped his palette on the table and strode toward me, his eyes blazing. I noted how dark the circles were under his eyes. He grabbed my arms and shook me once. I stiffened under his stern glare.
“Do you think I want this? Good God, Grace. Me? A father? You know me better than anyone. Can you honestly see me expounding on life’s virtue and offering discipline to a child? But what can I do? Jesus, Grace, what choice do I have?”
“Are you certain it is yours?” I asked, a spark of hope emerging in my mind.
“Fairly certain,” he said, searching my eyes as if maybe I’d found an escape to his dilemma. He shook his head. “No, I am certain.”
Though I did not wish to confirm his certainty by asking for details, I needed to know one thing. “Do you love her?” The warmth of his hands on my arms only increased the ache in my heart. He stared at me, looking for answers that I could not give. “Jesus, Grace, I don’t even know that I’m capable of the kind of love she deserves.”
His words, though unrealized by him, showed the enormous feeling, if not love, that he felt for her. A sharp pain stabbed my heart. “She has agreed to marry you, then?”
He nodded.
I bit my lip, forcing the words from my mouth. “You care deeply for her. I…can see it.”
“But is that enough, Grace?” he asked. His eyes, always alive with passion, were filled with dread, uncertainty. “We have so little in common. She demands so much of m
e. The poor thing is so frail. She…needs me.”
I shut my eyes to the softness in his voice as he talked of her. Perhaps there was a difference between loving someone and feeling a need to be there for them, but that was something Thomas would have to decide for himself, not something I could tell him now.
“You’ve already decided. You are bringing a child into this world, and that child will need you, as will its mother.”
His face was pale, as if he might be sick. “I am not reliable in matters of the heart, Grace.” His eyes turned pleadingly to mine.
“On that we agree,” I said with a slight smile.
Those mesmerizing eyes looked at me, and I caught a glimpse of the man I had once called my friend.
“You were right, you know. I am a snob—or was. I have kicked myself every night since you climbed out of that carriage.” The look in his eyes was contrite and I knew he was being sincere.
It seemed absurd to me that he would bother with such a confession now of all times, but for Thomas, it was like making restitution for his sins. “How very odd,” I stated with a tilt of my head. “I have done exactly the same thing. You must be severely bruised by now.” I raised an eyebrow.
His face, though drawn, managed a weary smile.
“Can you ever forgive me, Grace?” he asked, taking my hands in his.
How could I forgive that his new muse was living my dream? Then again, I had to be honest and ask myself whether his behavior would be any different if it was me carrying his child. Thomas was who he was, and I could not change that. Time would tell, but I doubted that even marriage would.
I reached up, cupping his face. I was not one to judge anyone’s character. With all of his faults, Thomas was, deep down, a good man. “I already have, Thomas. Many times over.” I studied his face. “But I have dearly missed our companionship.”
He hugged me close, pressing his face into my shoulder.
“Dear Grace, your friendship means the world to me. It is my constant.”
He kissed my cheek. My breath caught and my eyes drifted shut.
“You know me best, Grace. You have seen me at my worst—”
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“And at my best,” he said, easing me back to look at him. His eyes shimmered.
“Definitely.” Already my body was reacting to his warm gaze.
“Be mine tonight, Grace. Let me share this one night with the woman who knows me best and loves me, anyway.”
I should have said no. I should have sent him away. But he was right.
A rumble of thunder rattled the windowpanes. The ping of rain pelting the glass punctuated each moment that he stared at me, waiting for my answer. I undid the tie of my robe and dropped the garment at my feet. “Come with me, Thomas.” I led him to the bed that the hotel staff had shoved, with the rest of the room’s furniture, to the corner of the room. I lay on the bed waiting, watching as he peeled off his clothing and his firm body came into view.
He lay down, stretched out beside me on the bed, and I welcomed his mouth, as we sought solace for the wrongs we could not right, for a past we could not recapture. All we had was this moment, safe from the eye of the turbulent world around us—this moment of his hands gliding over my skin, our bodies touching, soft flesh to hard muscle.
“You are my heart, Grace,” he whispered against the small of my back. His hand caressed the sensitive valley between my thighs, stroking me until I was wet and writhing for him.
I rose on my knees, pressing my back to his chest, his hands gently caressing, squeezing my breasts. “Do not speak such things, Thomas. Passion is all I want tonight.” I bowed forward, raising my hips in silent invitation.
His breath was hot, wafting over my back, his teeth nipping my bottom. A groan tore from my throat when he parted me, easing into me slowly, moving his hips with measured ease until our bodies fused entirely.
“I never want to lose you,” he whispered, curling his body over mine, brushing my hair aside and kissing my neck.
My fingers fisted into the tangled linens, my teeth raking across my lower lip, tasting him on my tongue.
His rocked his hips, his flesh moving against my thighs, drawing me up quickly, and then he began to pump with deep, masterful strokes and I surrendered with my sighs, etching this moment in my mind.
We’d never used a sheath. I’d never had need to, as I could not bear children. At one time it was something that I’d fretted about. But it didn’t matter now. He was going to have a child of his own to cherish, and his own family.
My climax ripped through my body at the same time his name tore from my throat, a viable sign of our joining, and, too, our parting.
Thomas uttered a guttural sound, teetering on his own release. He grabbed my hips and held me close, slamming into me once more, spilling his hot seed.
He kissed the back of my shoulder and drew me down beside him on the bed. For a time we lay together in silence. I did not want to speak. I wanted only to have his arm wrapped around me as it was, his fingers caressing the underside of my breast.
“Let me braid your hair once more.”
He brushed my hair to the side and laid his cheek against my shoulder.
I smiled, though the feeling was bittersweet. I turned into his arms. “Perhaps later, Thomas. This time I want to look at you when I come.”
He made love to me again and I fought the selfishness of wishing it was me and not Helen who, by her pregnancy, had managed to claim Thomas when I could not.
Later, I sat facing away from him, the bedsheets pulled over my legs as he braided my hair. I debated whether to bring up the subject of his child again, but thought that if I were to talk about it, it would just make it more real. “Have you thought of names, Thomas? I finally asked.
“I can’t bring myself to do so, Grace. I have left that in Helen’s hands.” His bodiless voice answered from behind me. Lightning flashed through the window, bathing the room in a brilliant ghostlike wash.
“Perhaps I’ll call her Grace,” he said softly.
I whirled to face him. “You wouldn’t dare. Promise me, Thomas. You promise me that you will never give that name to this child, or any others you may have.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He kissed me gently.
I shook my head, contrite. “It’s just that there are so many other wonderful names to bestow on a child.”
He kissed my shoulder. “Perhaps, but none of them nearly as lovely as yours.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Thomas. Stop it,” I demanded.
“Stop? Stop what?”
“Stop putting thoughts in my head that I am dearer to you than I really am. We have known each other for too long and in truth, we have only used each other when one of us is lonely. Hasn’t that been the way of it?”
“Grace, didn’t you hear me? Weren’t you listening when I said—”
“I know.” My voice lowered as I pressed my hand to my mouth. “I know. There is no need to tiptoe around me. I will always care about you.”
When there was no response, I turned to look at him, finding him staring at me with a puzzled expression. My hair, partially braided, hung loose in his palm.
“Is that what you think? Do you really think I’ve spoken these words to anyone else? Yes, we’ve both had our share of lovers—do not look away from me, Grace.”
He came around the bed and knelt in front of me. “I swear to you that I have never had what we share, beyond the bed—this bond we have—with any other woman. And I fear, though I believe you already know, that I never will have. You have spoiled me, Grace, but I cannot change the way things are.” He studied me. “And maybe if things were different, we might have never met.”
Too raw was the notion that we were his ideal of the tragic Shakespearean lovers, destined never to be together. My view of things was clear and, for his own well-being, Thomas’s view should be as clear. What good were his heartfelt confessions to me now? They would not keep
me warm in a cold bed while he slept at Helen’s side. “Perhaps, but we shall never know, shall we?” I leaned toward him, brushing his hair over his ear. “I will be nothing more than a dear memory in your old age.”
He shook his head, grabbing my hand. “No, Grace, you are the only woman I have ever loved.”
“Loved? Oh, dear God.” I held up my hand. “If you care even just the tiniest bit for me, Thomas, you will not say another word. Just go…go now.”
“But Grace…”
“I beg you, Thomas. Go.”
“But the painting? No, you must understand—”
I pushed him away and scooted off the bed. His words raced after me like tangible things, nipping at my heels. “I’ll speak to the baron about the painting. Perhaps someone else could—”
“That is my work,” he thundered. “I will be the only one to finish it.”
He followed close behind as I picked up his clothes that had scattered when he’d tossed them in the throes of passion. I spun on my heel and dropped the clothes in his arms. “Perhaps later, but not now, Thomas. I beg you, please leave.”
He dressed slowly, eyeing me as I doused all the kerosene lamps, save one. He gathered his paint box and tools, and reached for the painting.
“Please leave it. It isn’t dry anyway, and the rain will ruin it.” I had pulled on my dressing gown as if the normalcy of it would somehow put things back to the way they were before.
“When will I see you again, Grace?” Thomas asked as he pulled on his coat. “I will need to finish the portrait in order for us both to receive our payment.”
“I’ll send word when I am ready. Goodbye, Thomas,” I said quietly. “Please tell the desk clerk I’ll be staying here tonight.” He leaned forward to kiss me and I turned my head. If he didn’t leave soon I would not be able to hold in the storm of tears that were about to be unleashed.
“Good night, Grace.” He hesitated in the hall and turned, starting to speak. I closed the door gently and leaned against it. I squeezed my fists and gulped for air as the sobs crawled up my throat. I’d never hated my life more than at that moment. I hated my past, hated what I’d done, hated the choices I’d made.
The Master & the Muses Page 29