Gallant Officer, Forbidden Lady

by Diane Gaston

  ‘I am just glad to be away from him.’ Nancy glanced around at the shops that lined the street. ‘Jack, may I visit the perfumer for a moment?’ The shop was right there.

  Jack checked back at the door of the Egyptian Hall as if to see if Edwin followed them. ‘I’ll stop in Mr Hewlett’s, then.’ He pointed to a shop with a sign saying Thomas Hewlett Oil and Colourman. ‘And meet you in front of the perfumer’s shop.’

  Ariana accompanied Nancy into the perfumery, although her mind was not on scent, but on Jack. She cared about him, cared that he was disturbed by Edwin, cared about what happened to him in the past as well as the present. She was surprised at the depth of emotion he aroused in her. She’d not expected to feel so strongly about a man again.

  Until she met Jack.

  ‘I should like to buy a throwaway for Mama,’ Nancy told her as they walked to the counter.

  A throwaway was a small vial of perfume, sold in a small amount so the purchaser could sample many different mixtures of scent. Nancy approached the shop keeper and began discussing fragrances. She pointed to the pretty gilded and enamelled glass bottles that would hold the scent.

  Ariana wandered back to the shop’s window and gazed out into the street as Nancy’s discussion went on and on. After a time, she saw Jack come from the colourman’s shop. ‘I will wait with your brother right outside,’ she told Nancy.

  Nancy nodded and lifted one of the slender bottles up to examine it more closely.

  ‘She will be a few minutes,’ Ariana explained as she walked out of the shop and Jack approached her. He still looked disturbed.

  ‘I wish Edwin Tranville did not distress you so, Jack.’

  He took her hand in his for just a brief moment. ‘Forgive me. I am not good company.’

  ‘Being with you,’ she murmured, ‘is enjoyment enough.’ She checked to see if Nancy was still occupied with the clerk. ‘I wish you would come to my room tonight, Jack.’

  The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. ‘It would not be wise.’

  ‘I do not care who discovers us,’ she said valiantly.

  His expression was serious. ‘We must not be seen together. Tranville can make a great deal of trouble for you. We should not meet, except at the studio.’ He blew out a breath. ‘Come to the studio in the morning tomorrow. We can work all day.’

  She nodded. He spoke of work, but she longed to repeat the pleasures of the previous night. She pointed to the package in his hand, wrapped with brown paper and tied with string. ‘What did you purchase?’

  ‘Some brushes and colours that I needed.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘A great deal of Cremora white.’

  For her portrait.

  She smiled back at him and gazed into his eyes. It was as if a spark flared between them, a shared passion that would take little to ignite.

  Nancy came out of the perfumery carrying her purchase, even more carefully wrapped than Jack’s. ‘I chose a lovely blend of rose, violet and jasmine.’

  ‘It makes me yearn for spring.’ Ariana smiled.

  Nancy looked at Jack. ‘I hope Mama will like it.’

  Jack put his arm around her. ‘Of course she will like it.’

  They walked back to Henrietta Street. The day had not at all turned out as Ariana had hoped, and she had the rest of the afternoon, the evening and the night to endure before she would see Jack again.

  That night, after what seemed an interminable performance of Romeo and Juliet, Ariana did her duty in the Green Room. Tranville was there, deep in conversation with Lord Ullman, his expression quite serious. She chewed on her lip and hoped Ullman had not mentioned she’d been with Jack.

  To her relief Lord Tranville did not approach her, although his eyes followed her like a cat watching its prey. She shivered and turned away.

  Unfortunately, as she turned, Edwin Tranville, glass in hand, stood directly in her path.

  She tried to walk past him, but he stepped in her way and smirked. ‘I wonder what my father would think if he knew you were out with the Vernons.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘I cannot fathom why he would care.’

  Edwin took a gulp of his drink. ‘Ullman told me all about it. My father, pathetic old man that he is, pursues you. Is that not right?’

  She sniffed. ‘If you are not in your father’s confidence, you can hardly expect to be in mine.’

  ‘Touché, my dear.’ He laughed and drained the contents of his glass. ‘But before you brush me off, let me tell you something about Jack. He may fancy himself above his betters, but his mother is nothing but a common whore.’

  She almost slapped him, offended to the core on Jack’s mother’s behalf. But she would leave Jack out of it.

  Ariana leaned conspiratorially towards Edwin. ‘Someone called my mother that once,’ she whispered. ‘Her lover shot him.’

  Edwin shrank back.

  ‘Be careful with your words, Mr Tranville. You might find yourself challenged to pistols at dawn.’ She strode away and joined a group that included Mr Arnold.

  As she glanced back, Edwin made his way to where his father and Ullman continued to converse. His complexion remained deathly white.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jack rose early the next day, so early he begged breakfast from his mother’s cook in her kitchen, discovering from her chatter that Tranville had not shared his mother’s bed the previous night. Not knowing if that boded well or ill, he returned to his studio to prepare another canvas while waiting for Ariana.

  Dressed only in a paint-stained shirt and trousers, Jack undertook the physical work of constructing the frame and stretching the linen. It was a good distraction from the anticipation of seeing her again. Their time together at the Egyptian Hall had been ruined by Edwin’s presence, but today, with any luck at all, there would be no Tranvilles to spoil the work.

  Because it must be work, not pleasure, that they indulge in today, although the memory of making love to her still fired his blood. He knew he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms once again and carry her to his bed, to the devil with his painting.

  He laughed out loud.

  Whom was he attempting to fool? Painting her excited him almost as much as tumbling into bed with her. He wanted the painting to be everything she wished. He wanted the image he created of her to last for ever, her beauty, her essence, preserved for all time

  When Jack finished stretching the canvas, he placed it on his easel and walked into his galley to prepare his paints. He needed to mix up a great deal of lead white to use in preparing the canvas. The more expensive Cremora he would save for the painting itself. On a stone slab, he mixed the pigment powder with linseed oil, adding a few drops of turpentine until achieving the exact consistency he desired. With his palette knife, he scooped up most of the mixture and tied it into a small bladder which he’d prick with a tack to extract small amounts of pigment at a time. The rest of the white he scraped on to his wooden palette.

  Returning to the easel, he chose a wide brush and began to cover the linen canvas with thin, even layers of white. When the canvas was totally dry it would be ready.

  Some artists now purchased canvases already prepared, but Jack liked the methodical nature of this task, engaging enough of his mind to empty it of other thoughts, but lulling in its simplicity.

  It also saved him money.

  By the time he’d finished and cleaned up the studio, the streets outside were noisy with activity. He could almost feel Ariana near.

  He arranged the chaise-longue to make the best use of the light and exchanged the canvas he’d just prepared for the one that was dry and ready.

  When he glanced out of the window, he was not surprised to see her on the pavement, looking up at him. Before she even knocked he opened the door to her.

  ‘Jack!’ she cried, her face aglow with pleasure.

  As soon as he closed the door behind her, she rushed into his arms, raising her face for the kiss he now knew he’d been awaiting since dawn. She kissed hi
m eagerly, laughing beneath his lips, pulling off her gloves and her hat as she did so. Hairpins rained down as her thick hair fell loose. He unfastened the hook of her cloak and it slipped off her shoulders to the floor. Her hands were quickly beneath his shirt, raking the muscles of his back and heating him with urgent desire.

  His need for her was intense, not only for physical release but to be joined with her, to feel connected to her, as if they were one.

  She pulled off his shirt and placed her moist mouth on his chest. He raised her skirt and pressed her against his aching loins.

  As he opened his eyes he realised the windows that flooded the room with light also made it possible to see into the studio. With a groan of frustration for having to delay even a few seconds, he lifted her into his arms and carried her into the bedchamber.

  Plunged into relative darkness, Jack blinked until he adjusted to the windowless room. He placed her on the bed, and she swivelled around so her back faced him. ‘Undo my dress.’

  He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Wait. There may be consequences for what we do.’

  She spun around and made a sound of exasperation. ‘What consequences if no one else knows of it?’

  He took her chin in his fingers. ‘I meant…we could create a child.’

  Her mouth formed an O. She swept her fingers through his hair. ‘I know what to do,’ she murmured. ‘Do not fear. One cannot be around the theatre and not learn such things.’

  He relaxed.

  ‘Will you undo my dress?’ she asked again, moving her hair out of the way.

  ‘It will be my delight.’ He kissed the nape of her neck before undoing the hooks and untying the laces. He pulled the dress over her head and made short work of the laces of her corset. She pulled off her shift and both items were added to the pile of clothing on the floor. Naked but for stockings and shoes, she was an erotic sight. He scrambled to remove his trousers.

  She watched him, her eyes widening in pleasure as he stood before her, naked and aroused. ‘Jack, do you know how truly magnificent you are?’

  He crouched down to reach her feet, pulling off a shoe. ‘It is I who should be saying those words to you.’

  She sighed. ‘I am too outspoken. I know.’

  His hand slid up her leg to reach the garter of her stocking. ‘Too beautiful, perhaps. Nothing else.’

  She played with his hair while he rolled down first one stocking, then the other. When he stood she touched him, her fingers examining the male part of him, a sweet torture that drove rational thought out of his mind.

  He moved on top of her on the bed and began a torture of his own, tasting the elegant length of her neck, the luxury of her breasts, the hair that led him to her most feminine place. He felt a surge of masculine energy as she writhed beneath his touch and he rose above her.

  ‘I want you,’ she murmured to him, always speaking aloud thoughts he kept silent.

  She was more than ready for him. He slipped into her easily, but forced himself to move slowly, wanting to prolong this delicious sense of oneness, wanting to savour her for as long as he could.

  The sensations grew and soon there was no wanting at all, just rushing toward the pleasure. All that existed was Ariana, moving in perfect unison with him. Joined to him. He seized that feeling, clung to it, begged it to stay.

  His climax erupted and all thought, all feeling, was engulfed in the explosion of pleasure. He spilled his seed inside her and she convulsed around him. Stars burst behind his closed eyes and heaven seemed in easy reach. Their dual moment of pleasure lasted longer than he thought possible, longer than with any other woman.

  When it ended, he almost collapsed on her, but stopped himself before crushing her under his full weight. Instead he slipped to her side and lay on his back, his eyes still closed. He was trying to create in his mind an image of what they had experienced, trying to put shape and colour to it. It resembled illuminations he’d seen at Vauxhall Gardens last summer, wild and bright and joyful.

  He turned and held her close, kissing her long and languidly.

  ‘That was—’ she began.

  He covered her mouth with his fingers. ‘Allow me to be the outspoken one. That was…quite nice.’

  ‘Such hyperbole.’ She laughed. ‘I have almost no experience in these matters, but I believe I would describe it as wonderful.’

  ‘Almost no experience?’ His brows knitted. What woman spent years in the theatre without such experiences?

  ‘There was only one man, Jack.’ She stroked his face to ease his frown. ‘An older actor when I was barely nineteen, and it lasted not even a week.’

  The pain from that experience showed on her face. ‘He taught me a great deal—but nothing of love.’ Her voice sounded clipped. ‘Indeed, I feared I could no longer be tempted by a man until I met you.’

  She had resisted every gentleman in every Green Room? Even the one with the fine carriage he’d seen her with that first day at Somerset House?

  His disbelief must have shown on his face, because a wounded look flickered in her eyes. ‘My mother is known for her liaisons with gentlemen from the Green Room. I am not.’

  He touched her arm. ‘I do not doubt you. I’m merely astonished you could avoid such gentlemen.’ For years? It did seem unbelievable.

  She took a breath. ‘I manage them. Turn them down without dealing too severe a blow to their vanity. I am quite skilled at it. That is why I do not worry about Tranville.’

  Jack moved away and sat up. ‘Be wary of him, none the less. And his son. Was he at the theatre last night?’

  Her eyes shifted. ‘He was, but he did not speak to me.’ She pressed herself against his back. ‘Do not allow mention of him to ruin our time together.’

  The warmth and softness of her naked breasts against his skin threatened to arouse him again, to persuade him to abandon any thought of painting and simply make love all day.

  He took a breath and angled his head towards her. ‘We should work.’

  ‘One more kiss,’ she urged, coming close and pulling his head to her lips.

  Her kiss fired his senses again, but he pulled away. ‘We really must work. We’ll lose the light.’

  She sighed. ‘I suppose you are right.’

  She climbed off the bed and padded across the room, naked and graceful in her bare feet on the wooden floor, all sinuous lines and muted colour. She opened the bandbox and removed the white muslin gown they had decided upon, draping it over her shoulder. ‘You know, the prints at the Royal Academy showed the Egyptian women without shoes. I think I should forgo shoes, don’t you? Cleopatra’s feet would be bare.’

  Bare feet. Bare skin. He thought of the Cleopatra of his imagination, the one who wore the sheer costume, naked underneath, but regal and alluring.

  ‘I have another idea,’ he said. ‘Put on the other muslin gown.’

  ‘The other one?’ She looked surprised. ‘I thought we decided on this one.’

  ‘We did.’ He left the bed and quickly began dressing. He wanted to see if the sheer costume matched the image in his imagination. ‘I should like to see you in the sheer one again.’

  She regarded him as if he were crazed. ‘Very well, but I thought my stays showed through too much.’

  He kept his gaze even. ‘Do not wear your stays. Just the gown.’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Indulge me.’ He searched for an explanation. ‘The dress is transparent. Show me how it looks this way.’

  She appeared wary. ‘You wish me to pose without my undergarments?’

  It was akin to asking her to pose nude, something even prostitutes considered shameful.

  ‘Not pose. I just want to see.’

  A sensuous smile came over her face, the sort of smile his imaginary Cleopatra would make. Ariana removed the filmy muslin gown from the box and slipped it over her head. She turned to face him.

  He grabbed a fistful of the gold chains she’d brought from the theatre, and took her hand. ‘Come into the
studio.’

  She allowed him to lead her into the other room, so bright with sunlight that they both blinked. He tied one of the gold chains around her waist and draped the others about her neck. Walking around her, he watched how her skin showed through the fabric, how the transparency played with colour and light. The thought of painting her like this was a challenge that fired his blood, even if it was too scandalous to consider.

  She arched one brow. ‘Do you wish to paint me in this?’

  He stared at her a long time, very tempted to say yes. Instead he waved a hand. ‘No, change into the other gown. I just had the desire to see this one.’

  The next two weeks were glorious ones for Ariana. Her afternoons were often filled with rehearsals for Antony and Cleopatra, and the evenings still required she be at the theatre, where she helped out as needed. She did not even mind attending the Green Room after performances, because she always found a way to mention that Jack was painting her portrait. But the mornings were what made life glorious. Each was spent with Jack, making love in his bed, then sitting for the portrait.

  Sometimes when Jack was painting, his concentration was so intense they did not speak at all. At other times they shared the stories of their lives.

  Jack seemed to select very carefully which bits of his life he shared. He told about the time before his father’s death, but little of afterwards. He talked of Spain and Portugal, of the sights, sounds and smells there, but not of the battles in which he had fought.

  Ariana found herself chattering on as she remained posed as Cleopatra. She told him of growing up in a girls’ school, of her mother and her mother’s lovers, of how she ran off to join the theatre company.

  One blot on this idyll was the portrait itself. At first it fascinated her, how her image seemed to float to the surface as the days progressed, but there was something missing in the portrait. She was disappointed in it, and Jack well knew it.

  Another distressing element was that the portrait was almost completed. Indeed, she really did not need to sit for him any longer, but neither of them spoke of that.