by Lara Temple
‘Sally, is it you I must thank for allowing Miss Trevelyan to dance the waltz?’ Bryanston grasped Lady Jersey’s hand and raised it reverently to his lips. ‘If so, I offer you my profound gratitude. She waltzes divinely. Like a nymph or a zephyr or whatever it was that turned into a spray of water. I can never remember their names; it’s all Greek to me. Do you know, Miss Trevelyan?’
‘I am sorry, I don’t, but in any case it doesn’t sound very enjoyable for either the nymph or her dance partner,’ she replied, feeling her flush deepen as she felt everyone watching her and waiting for her to slip up. She had no idea what Max was thinking and she really didn’t want to embarrass him again. At least Lady Pennistone was nowhere in sight.
‘Quite right!’ Bryanston agreed, struck. ‘Who wants to embrace a spray of water? What’s wrong with the fellow who wrote that? Sounds like a dashed damping experience, if you pardon my indelicacy, Miss Trevelyan.’
She couldn’t help laughing at his comical expression. Somehow his nonsense made her feel less nervous.
‘I don’t think it was meant so literally, Lord Bryanston, but it is annoying the way poets are forever transforming women into and out of things. If it isn’t a water nymph it’s a swan or a statue. I suspect they don’t know what to do with us as we are.’
Lady Jersey burst into a trill of her distinctive laughter.
‘How very true. Then you are quite lucky that Max here has no poetic leanings. And he knows precisely what do with us. As we are.’
‘Manners, Sally.’ Max said easily. ‘Are you trying to scare off Miss Trevelyan?’
Lady Jersey’s humorous eyes met Sophie’s.
‘I don’t believe I can. Certainly not like that. Could I, Miss Trevelyan?’
‘Certainly not like that, Lady Jersey,’ Sophie agreed demurely.
‘Oh, marvellous.’ Lady Jersey laughed again. ‘I do like your betrothed, Max. I am quite surprised you showed so much sense in the end. Come, Bryanston, you may dance with me and pay me outrageous compliments as well.’
She led Bryanston off and Max took Sophie’s hand and drew her away from the group. Even through her glove she felt the heat of his hand, and it flowed up her arm, reminding her vividly of the amazing interlude of the afternoon. She could feel the colour stain her cheeks like the sting of warmth after being out in a frost. She had thought Max was leading her out on to the dance floor but he drew her down a corridor. She glanced up at him, but he merely gave her a gentle shove round the corner and then let the curtain fall back behind them and she realised they were in another, narrower corridor. There was still enough light behind them, but in the gloom Max suddenly seemed even larger than usual and for a moment Sophie did feel a spurt of alarm, not at what he might do, but at the swiftness with which her body switched into expectation. She took a step back and came up against the wall and they stood for a moment in silence.
‘I haven’t had the chance to ask you if you are feeling well...after what happened.’
He sounded both distant and contrite and though she was touched, she felt a stab of disappointment. Clearly this was not a seduction.
‘I am quite all right, thank you,’ she replied and he nodded.
‘Come.’ He took her hand again and drew her along the corridor, thoroughly confusing her. At the end he opened a door into a room lit by a candelabrum on the mantelpiece which provided enough light to bring to life the painting on the other side of the room. It was an old man seated at a table, looking at her. With a sense of shock she moved towards it, unconsciously still holding on to Max’s hand.
‘Who painted it?’ she whispered.
‘A Spanish painter called Velazquez. I have one of his paintings at Harcourt Hall. This is almost two hundred years old. Amazing, isn’t it?’
She nodded mutely, hardly even noticing as Max moved to stand behind her until his arms pulled her back against him, enveloping her in heat.
‘I wanted to surprise you. I thought you would like it,’ he murmured as he bent to touch his mouth to her half-bared shoulder.
‘I do...’ She tried to focus on the astounding painting, but her eyelids sank and it became hard to breathe with the way his mouth was moving over her shoulder and neck. And then he found a point just below her ear that made her gasp and twist against him. His arms tightened and one hand slid down over her abdomen, sending coils of heat and need through her and her body wakened in anticipation.
‘Max...’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t go too far...unfortunately...’ he murmured as his other hand slipped inside the bodice of her gown, closing on her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple. She bit her lip against the cry that gathered in her throat and leaned her head back against his chest, baring her neck again to his mouth. She had still enough sanity to know that if she said anything, anything at all, he would stop. The flickering orange light of the candles seeped through her closed eyelids and she felt like liquid fire from without and within and the whole room seemed to be shaking, vibrating, and she was losing the ability to distinguish between her body and his. The urgent, needy ache between her legs was back, layered over the remnants of the pain from their coupling, and she felt the same bubbling internal confusion, the need to act without knowing what to do. She reached back, her hand moving between them without even realising what she was doing, until her palm slid over his erection and even as a shudder ran through her in anticipation he caught her wrist and she realised it was over. For a second she thought of resisting, but she remained motionless, willing herself back to sanity. Finally he pressed a light kiss to her shoulder and let her go.
‘I told myself I would just bring you here to see the painting, nothing else,’ he said ruefully after a moment, but there was sufficient amusement in his voice to relax her. ‘We should get back. But we need to arrange your dress first...’
She was just about to answer when she heard voices and laughter outside.
‘Hell,’ Max cursed under his breath and propelled her towards the back door. ‘Fix your dress and go back to the ballroom, I’ll head off whoever it is.’
The door barely closed behind her when she heard a man call Max’s name merrily.
She adjusted her bodice hurriedly when suddenly the curtain at the other end of the corridor swung back and she raised her arm against the glare that hit her eyes.
‘Well, well. Providence indeed.’
Sophie dropped her hand. He was still only a dark shape against the light, but she did not have to see him to recognise Wivenhoe.
‘Have you just been to see the Velazquez, my dear? Quite exquisite technique, don’t you think? Even if his subjects are less than exceptional. I admire what he does with such a limited palette. I once tried to paint one in his style and I think I did a rather good job. If you care to visit me one day, I will show you.’
Sophie had no idea how he could be so urbane after what had happened between them. Perhaps it really had been an aberration and she was making too much of it. Still, that did not mean she wanted to be alone with him and the suggestion of actually visiting him was ludicrous.
‘I don’t think that is a good idea, Lord Wivenhoe. Excuse me.’
She started moving around him, but he shifted his weight and, though he did not quite block the narrow passage, he effectively was forcing her to brush by him if she wished to get by.
‘Where is your ever faithful watchdog?’ he asked as she hesitated. ‘If you were mine I would certainly take better care not to let you wander darkened corridors on your own. Has his interest waned now that you have secured him? Never fear, as I know only too well his overly rigid sense of duty won’t allow him to go back on his word, no matter how wrong he might be. You can rest easy in your conquest.’
‘He isn’t a conquest,’ she flashed, and his hands rose as if to grasp her arms, but fell back.
‘Do you
know,’ he said slowly. ‘I would love to paint you. You are very different from what I usually appreciate, but I find I am quite fascinated by your many layers. You appear so open and yet I would wager there is much more bubbling beneath that charming lid. Yes, I would really like to paint you.’
‘Thank you, Lord Wivenhoe, but I don’t aspire to that honour.’
His lips curled and she could sense the anger rising above his suave surface. But contrarily it relaxed her slightly. At least this was a human emotion, not the manipulative veneer he favoured.
‘Don’t try those society airs with me. I know that isn’t what you are.’
‘And what am I, then?’
‘I am not quite sure. A study in contradictions. I wonder what might have happened had I not met you in Harcourt’s company at the outset. He brings out the worst in me. And you seem to have awakened the beast in him which is no small feat, believe me.’
‘Why do you hate him so?’
There was an expression in his eyes she didn’t understand.
‘I have good reason. Ask him. You might learn a thing or two about your future husband.’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘He took everything from me.’
The words were so quiet and banal, but they had a force that caught her breath. Before she could respond the door behind her opened and she turned. She did not know whether to be relieved or dismayed that it was Max and that he was alone. She half-raised her hands as if to stop him, but for a moment he didn’t move, then he came forward, his eyes on Wivenhoe and his face a mask.
When he reached them he glanced down at Sophie.
‘Are you having difficulties finding the ballroom, Sophie?’
‘Yes. Would you mind taking me there?’ she replied and the stony look dimmed slightly. He held out his arm.
‘With pleasure. Excuse us, Wivenhoe.’ He moved forward, not waiting to see if Wivenhoe would step aside, and Sophie almost expected him to walk straight through the man when Wivenhoe bowed and moved aside, his mouth twisting.
When they were safely back in the ballroom she glanced up at him and he turned and looked down at her, the distant look she disliked fading further.
‘I really can’t let you out of my sight, can I?’ he said, and though his eyes remained cold there was a teasing note in his voice and her shoulders relaxed slightly.
‘That was sheer bad luck. But he didn’t do anything, really,’ she assured him, telling herself it wasn’t really a lie. He didn’t answer and then Lord Cranworth appeared to claim a dance with her and she was relieved to give herself up to harmless banter after the intensity of the past hour. She had always wanted to live a more exciting life than the one she had led in Ashton Cove, and it seemed fate was answering her prayers, in spades.
* * *
Max watched as Cranworth led her on to the dance floor, just catching the edge of her smiling face raised towards his friend before she was blocked from view by other dancers. He turned away, resisting the urge to either take her back to the privacy of her parlour or to go in search of Wivenhoe and make it abundantly clear that Sophie was out of bounds. And he should have kept his hands off her in the first place. It was just that he couldn’t get his mind off the events of the afternoon, every sense of his seemed to have been completely subverted by memories of their encounter, playing with images of her, her soft, urgent cries, the sight of her lips parting, her head arched back and eyes dark with pleasure... It was a constant, unrelenting assault that was far more powerful than the guilt and self-disgust that also kept circling him like aggravating gnats. Even her sweet, laughing embarrassment during the conversation with Bryanston and Lady Sally Jersey had pulled at him in ways that were new to him. He had held himself ready to shield her if anyone had dared say anything to make her uncomfortable, but somehow even those, like Sally, who would usually enjoy making mincemeat of someone as unusual as Sophie were disarmed. She had a way of making people comfortable with her that had nothing to do with breeding and everything to do with empathy. It might be unfashionable, but it was undeniably effective.
Still, he wished she had more of a shell to help her draw a firmer line about her. It was precisely that warmth that laid her open to manipulation and hurt. She had not seemed to welcome Wivenhoe’s presence just now, but neither had she apparently been able to make it clear to him they had nothing to say to each other. Someone more skilled in society would have had no problem drawing that line in the sand and Sophie would have to learn how to do just that.
He wondered what Wivenhoe was really after with Sophie. When Max had returned to England, his experiences during the wars had made his past with Serena and Wivenhoe appear distant. His fury had faded, leaving behind just wary contempt. Until now. Still, even with his newly discovered jealousy, he could detect no overt sign that she favoured Wivenhoe. Perhaps the man was just doing it to provoke him, but there was something excessive in his persistence. Beyond Max’s natural inclination to do Wivenhoe damage, he couldn’t help being uneasy. Right now, with the memory of those moments in front of the Velasquez still sharp and hot, that inclination had an extra bite. It had taken every ounce of his self-control not to react when he had opened the door and seen her silhouette and beyond her Wivenhoe looking down at her with an intent look that Max would have very much enjoyed erasing. He would have to keep a much closer eye on him in future. He might have begun this whole farce because of the past, but he was damned if he was going to repeat it.
Chapter Fifteen
Sophie leaned closer to inspect both blues where Mr Reeves had spread them on the wooden palette. He was right, there was a very, very faint difference, a slightly smoky feel to one that would do very well for the sky in Marmaduke’s portrait and for the highlight in Hetty’s dress.
‘How do you manage that?’ she asked, jealous of his ability to mix such amazing colours. He grinned down at his achievement, his bony face shining with pride.
‘It takes years, miss. That and almost every compound known to man. One day when I’m not rushed I’ll take you to the back where we do our grinding and mixing.’
‘Oh, I would love that! I think I will take both after all.’
‘Very good, miss.’
As he wrapped them for her she turned idly towards a couple who stood at the other end of the counter talking to a sales clerk. The woman, dressed in a bottle-green dress with coquelicot ribbons and a very high poke bonnet pushed back slightly to reveal rumpled black curls, was leaning against a cupboard, looking bored. Sophie stared at her in surprise, recognising her as the woman in Wivenhoe’s painting that she had seen at the Exhibition. The woman, or maybe she was just a very well-developed girl, it was hard to tell with her sullen expression and gaudy clothes, noticed Sophie’s stare and raised her brows insolently. Strangely, Sophie wasn’t offended, but she smiled and some confusion entered the young woman’s eyes and she flushed, looking down at the tips of her scuffed red slippers which peeped out from under her skirts.
Sophie thanked Reeves, took her package and walked over to the young woman.
‘I’m sorry I stared,’ she apologised. ‘It is just I think I recognise you from a painting at the Exhibition. Though you looked very...sad in it.’
She snorted. ‘Maybe because it were of me and it weren’t,’ she said sullenly and her companion at the counter turned to them with a frown.
‘Here, Liz, go wait outside if you mean to chatter!’
The girl shrugged and headed towards the door and Sophie followed.
‘Go away. I’m working and you’ll get me in trouble.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to. You’re an artist’s model, aren’t you?’
‘I am. What’s it to you? You one of them female artists?’
‘I suppose I am.’
‘What, don’t you know?’ she mocked.
‘Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.’ Sophie smiled, unoffended. There was something touching about the stubborn girl and the more she looked at her, the younger she appeared. She might be no more than sixteen or seventeen. The girl tried to sneer at Sophie’s answer, but her mouth pulled down and she looked merely tired.
‘What did you mean before?’ Sophie asked and the girl’s dark eyes shot to hers.
‘I didn’t mean nothing. I do what I’m told. You want me to pose like someone, you ask, I pose. I told him I ain’t no actress and I sure as hell don’t do tragic. It ain’t my fault I look like some dead woman.’
‘Like who?’ Sophie asked, trying to make sense of what the girl was saying, but her generous mouth tightened as the door opened and her companion stepped out.
‘Come on, Liz, let’s go catch the light.’
The girl lowered her head and hurried after him and Sophie watched her disappear around the corner.
‘Now that is a strange coupling,’ a voice said behind her and Sophie froze in shock and turned slowly to face Lord Wivenhoe.
‘Buying paints, my dear? And no watchdog today? Of either kind?’
‘James, my aunt’s footman, is waiting for me in the carriage.’
‘You needn’t worry. I won’t pounce. What were you and the lovely Liz discussing? Harcourt would disapprove of your consorting with fallen women, you know.’
‘Did she fall? I recognised her from your portrait and was curious.’
‘Curious. About what?’
‘The experience of being an artist’s model. And why she looked so sad in your painting.’
His clear blue eyes darkened, his pupils expanding visibly.
‘What did she answer?’
‘She didn’t. She had to go.’
His lips pulled back slightly and her sense of danger deepened.
‘She is very lovely, isn’t she? Lush. Men like that dark, voluptuous look. She looks remarkably like Max’s previous betrothed, Lady Serena. Have you heard yet of Serena, Miss Trevelyan?’