by Megan Chance
Wearily he struggled to one elbow. The creaking of the bedstead stabbed into his head, and he covered his eyes with his hand, trying to remember exactly what had happened last night—and whether it caused the pounding pain behind his eyes. He hadn't had that much to drink, he was sure, but then again, maybe he had. He'd stopped noticing the wine the moment that little actress entered the room.
Not so little, he amended, remembering Clarisse's bounteous charms. He'd gone out looking for something to bring back his inspiration, and instead the only inspiration he'd found was in the generous breasts of a redhead with a passion for painters and a hungry curiosity about false hands.
He groaned again, sitting up and grabbing his polished wooden hand from the night table. Clarisse had not been able to take her eyes off it, he remembered, studying the curved, immobile fingers, the leather straps dangling from the worn padded wrist. Cynically he wondered what had been going on in that libidinous little mind of hers, and then he realized that he already knew. She was no different from the others. Since he'd lost his hand four years ago, he'd been amazed to discover just how many women found it . . . intriguing.
Intriguing, he thought derisively, keeping his eyes averted as he strapped the hand to his stump of a wrist, buckling the leather straps and jerking a soft kid glove over the rigid fingers with an ease born of practice. As if it were nothing more than an affectation.
The thought made his head pound harder.
He took a deep breath and got to his feet. He should cancel today. He was drained and exhausted, and he still felt edgy, still felt the thin vibration of anxiety he'd hoped a night with Clarisse would ease.
It hadn't. It was there, flourishing deep inside him, biding its time, waiting to spring.
Jonas grabbed a pair of stained and spattered trousers from the floor and pulled them on. The voices of his students grew louder, he heard their worry, and he knew they were wondering if they should wake him or not, or if it was going to be like last spring all over again. . . .
He banished the memory, viciously jerking a shirt from the bedpost and pulling it on without buttoning it. Yanking aside the tapestry, he hurried out into the blazing brightness of his studio.
"Christ." He covered his eyes, wincing as the light sent pain shooting into his skull. "It's too damn bright in here." He tried to adjust to the sunlight, to see the figures standing before him. "McBride, remind me to ask that bastard Tate for some curt—"
He stopped short. A woman stood between Peter McBride and Tobias Harrington, a woman Jonas had never seen before. She was short, and—except for the voluminous folds of her skirt—delicate looking, with light brown hair that was pulled back in a barely fashionable, too-loose knot and skin that looked impossibly pale against the unflattering light pink of her gown.
He opened his mouth to say Who the hell are you? but then she lifted her chin and looked at him with steady, unwavering eyes, and the expression brought her sharply into focus, the memory came racing back.
Imogene Carter.
Irritation surged through him, and he realized he hadn't really expected her to show up, had hoped their meeting two days before was enough to scare her away.
He gave her a cold smile. "Well, well," he said slowly. "Miss Carter. I'm pleased to see you're so prompt."
She didn't look away, though a faint flush moved over her cheeks when he began to slowly button his shirt over his bare chest.
"You said nine sharp," she said.
"So I did." Jonas nodded, enjoying her obvious embarrassment. "It's a pity you caught me by surprise. I was looking forward to introducing you to the others." He motioned to the three students standing uncomfortably beside her. "But I can see you gentlemen have already met our little neophyte."
Peter McBride stepped forward. His tall, lanky frame made the movement seem clumsy. "Well, yes, sir, we've—"
"Good. Then go ahead and set up."
They didn't move, just stood there looking sickeningly anxious—except for Miss Carter, who watched expectantly, as if she were waiting for some great revelation.
Annoyance tugged at him. She was so damned naive. Some art school somewhere should have beaten that dewy-eyed idealism out of her before she even thought of coming to him.
Daniel Page stepped forward, running a nervous hand through his coal-black hair. "Uh—sir—" he said hesitantly.
"What is it?"
"The lesson, sir. What—what're we to paint this morning?"
Jonas stared at him, uncomprehending for a moment. What're we to paint this morning? Damn, he had no idea. He glanced around the room, searching for something, trying to remember if he'd given any thought at all to this week's lessons, and knowing he hadn't. He'd been too busy cursing at the portrait of the courtesan, too busy trying to wring inspiration from a canvas that mocked him with its silence.
The reasons for that empty canvas brought anger rushing back again, strong and vibrant, and he glanced at Imogene Carter and wondered how much it would take to send her running today, wondered if he should give them a statuette from his collection to paint. Perhaps the ivory carving depicting the "Hovering Butterflies" position, or maybe the large-breasted, round-bel- lied South American fertility goddess. How would she react to those? The thought was compelling, but Jonas dismissed it. It was too easy, and he had to admit there was a part of him that looked forward to the game—a small, sadistic part that enjoyed exacting punishment for Gosney's gall, that wanted to see the embarrassed flush on her cheeks, to see her face fall at his first harsh criticism. No, he wanted more of a challenge, something less obvious. Something so subtle she couldn't run to Gosney with it.
His gaze lit on a vase of dying red dahlias just beside the door. Dimly he remembered that Marie had left them there the last time she modeled for him—a week or so ago—and now they were wilted and faded. They were innocuous enough, and in any case, there was nothing else. Jonas crossed the room in a few strides and grabbed the vase, slamming it down in the middle of the table. Petals fell to the marred surface.
"Those," he said tersely. "Paint those."
They didn't question him. They never questioned him. Jonas stood back, watching as Peter and Tobias and Daniel propped up their easels and began preparing their palettes, working with an economy of movement, a familiarity that seemed graceful and efficient.
It was then that he noticed Miss Carter was just standing there, frowning with concentration as she watched the others' activity.
"Miss Carter," Jonas said softly.
She turned to him with a hesitant smile. "I'm not sure how to start," she said. "I'm afraid I don't have an easel."
Ah, how precious. How perfect. Jonas heard the winces of the others as palpably as if they'd been words, and he smiled coldly and walked over to her, pausing only a foot away, close enough so that she took a step back. He saw a flicker of apprehension in her eyes.
"You don't have an easel," he said.
Her smile wavered. She shook her head. "No, sir, I don't."
"Do you have a canvas?"
She laughed slightly and looked down at the case in her hands. "We worked mostly on paper—"
"Do you have a canvas?" he repeated.
This time her smile died. She looked up at him, and her fingers tightened on the case, her eyes shuttered. "No, sir."
Jonas struggled for patience. "No easel. No canvas. Tell me, Miss Carter, what did you intend to do this morning? Watch?"
Silence. Her jaw tightened; she glanced at her hands.
Suspicion crept into Jonas's mind, a dismal certainty. She was even more inexperienced than he'd imagined. Jonas suddenly knew she'd never worked a canvas in her life, was suddenly certain the colors in her case would be completely wrong for oil work. He wondered briefly, gloomily, if she even knew how to draw.
"Have you ever primed a canvas, Miss Carter?"
She shook her head. "No, sir."
"You've never ground colors."
"No, sir."
"Have you ever mad
e an amber varnish?"
She licked her lips, and when she spoke her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear it. "Never, sir."
"Christ save me." Jonas turned abruptly on his heel.
At his quick movement, the other students jerked to life, hastily ducking their heads, studying the dahlias as if the flowers had suddenly burst to vibrant life before their eyes. Jonas ignored them, striding to the space beside Tobias Harrington. Quickly, with the efficient one-handed movement he'd developed over the years, he unfolded an easel and grabbed a primed canvas from a pile leaning against the wall, slamming it into place so violently the easel rocked.
"There," he said, motioning to it, not bothering to keep the derision from his voice. "Miss Carter, why don't you show me if you can do anything at all? Perhaps we could even see if your drawing skill has progressed past stick figures."
Her head jerked up, and Jonas waited, waited for her to burst into tears, to wilt before him. But she only took a deep breath and nodded—a short, quick nod— and into her expression came a determination he hadn't expected, a willfulness he didn't want. He knew suddenly that she wasn't going to run, that she was going to sit in front of that canvas and try to impress him with a drawing ability he had surpassed by the time he was ten.
He knew all that, and so when she squared her shoulders and walked toward him, he stood back and waited for her, trying to control the disappointment coursing through him, the surprise that there was any steel to her at all.
He wondered if Gosney had told her, if she knew how bound Jonas was to his promise to teach her. He decided not. There was too much resolve in the way she eased past him, in the way she seated herself on the stool and took the piece of charcoal he offered her. Too much acknowledgment of risk. She wanted to succeed, he realized suddenly, and he wondered why.
He stepped behind her, scowling at the pristine canvas. She had strength—he couldn't deny that. Though how much, and just what it was, he didn't yet know.
But he would find out. And he would find out soon.
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned forward, breathing over her shoulder, feeling a twinge of satisfaction when she stiffened and moved away. "So, Miss Carter," he said slowly, in a whisper that sent tendrils of her hair dancing around her ear. "Draw me a dahlia."
Jonas Whitaker did not like her, that much was obvious. Imogene settled back against the padded seats of the brougham and stared out the window, watching the passing brick town houses of Washington Square with a grim sense of futility. His dislike surprised her. She knew that sometimes people were disappointed when they first met her, people who knew Chloe or her father and expected the entire Carter family to be as charismatic. Imogene knew the looks, the way the joy of meeting her faded with her first soft hello, the way they turned back to her father or to Chloe to continue a conversation that did not include her, that could never include her.
She was used to watching them, used to wishing she could be what they wanted her to be, that she could entertain them with a word or a smile. Until Chloe died, Imogene had been the one who faded into the background, the one forgotten when the talk came around to the Carters. “Olive is so sweet, and you simply must meet Samuel—and Chloe—ah, darling Chloe. . . ."
It was true she was used to being ignored, used to being passed over, but she didn't think she'd ever been disliked before, at least not like this, not with such . . . intensity.
She told herself she was imagining it, that it couldn't be disdain she'd seen in his eyes, but the illusion was impossible to maintain. She had not mistaken his scorn, she knew. She'd seen it in his every gesture and look, heard it in every word he'd spoken to her.
She didn't know how she'd offended him or what to do about it. She couldn't quit—the thought of it nauseated her. She thought of her father's words to her before she left Nashville, his familiar disdain. "Nothing like getting away from those milk-and-watercolorists, eh, daughter? Whitaker's exactly what you need, I think. Something to put a little steel in your spine."
Even with the buffer of distance the words stung. Imogene put them out of her head, thought instead of yesterday, of the glowing pride she'd imagined would be on his face. She knew exactly what she would see instead if she stopped the lessons and came home now. Disappointment. Anger. There was too much at stake to fail. This was her one chance to redeem herself in her father's eyes, in her own.
Her one chance to make up for surviving Chloe.
Imogene swallowed and "turned away from the window, closing her eyes against the quick ache of memories: the sight of her sister twisting in pain and her father's misery, the touch of Nicholas's hand . . .
No, she could not go home to Nashville a failure, regardless of how Jonas Whitaker felt about her. He might dislike her, but he could not drive her away, not until she'd learned the things she had to learn from him.
Not until she'd lived up to her sister's promise.
The resolve gave her strength, and by the time the carriage cleared the north end of Washington Park and stopped in front of the gothic pillars of the Gosney house, she felt better, composed again. When Thomas met her at the door, she gave him a reassuring smile.
"Join me for some tea, won't you?" Thomas motioned toward his study. "I was just getting ready to have some when I heard the carriage. I've been waiting to hear how things went."
She felt her smile falter, braced herself for the lie that things had gone well. From the beginning, her godfather had protested this whole idea. He had gone along with it only because her father insisted, because she had promised him she wanted it. But Thomas truly worried about her, she knew, and if he thought Jonas Whitaker had treated her badly, he would stop the lessons in a moment and send her home. She swallowed and hung her mantle and hat on the peg by the door. She couldn't take the risk of telling Thomas about Whitaker. Not yet.
"Of course," she murmured, following her godfather through the huge double doors that led to his private sanctuary. She took a seat in one of the deep burgundy chairs that flanked the pink marble fireplace.
"So, what happened today?" Thomas asked, his voice deceptively light. She saw the concern in his deep blue eyes as he poured her a hot, fragrant cup of tea.
She searched for the right words; words that would ease Thomas's worry, words that would make the morning successful without being a complete lie. She took the cup and looked down into it, swirling the pale golden liquid until it released its flowery aroma in steam. "We painted dahlias."
"Dahlias?"
"Red ones."
"I see." Thomas sat, holding his own cup delicately between long, well-shaped fingers. "Red dahlias. How interesting."
Imogene nodded; she felt the fine edge of tension between her shoulder blades, in her face. "He's a fine teacher."
Thomas gave her a quick look, and Imogene had the sudden feeling that she'd said the wrong thing. He didn't answer her, and the silence grew between them, along with her tension, until Imogene wondered if she should think up an excuse to go to her room. But before she came up with one, Thomas broke the silence.
"Imogene," he said slowly, and then he took a deep breath, his fingers pressed so firmly against the fine china of his cup she wondered if it would break. She had the thought that he was going to say something that pained him, but he only repeated what he'd told her before. "Imogene, I—I just want you to know that I'm here for you, my dear. If you have any problems at all, if Whitaker does anything—"
"No, of course not. What could he do?" Imogene spoke quickly—too quickly. When she felt Thomas's eyes on her, studying her, Imogene played at a nonchalance she didn't feel. "He's done nothing. Nothing at all."
She forced self-possession through the words. Thomas had always been good at seeing through her, ever since she was very small and he had come visiting every few months, bringing her a special book, or a doll, because "A sick little girl needs reasons to get better, don't you think, dear heart?" Almost as if he knew that even her own parents never made time to visit
her sickroom, as if he knew he was her only friend.
She lowered her eyes and stared at the thin leaves floating to the bottom of her teacup and hoped he would believe her, hoped he wouldn't see how afraid she was of failing, how afraid she was of disappearing completely in her father's eyes the way she had in her mother's.
She looked up at her godfather, forced a smile. "It was fine today, Thomas, really it was. I'm sure I'll learn a great deal from Mr. Whitaker."
He frowned slightly. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure." She nodded and took a sip of tea, struggling not to choke as the hot liquid burned her tongue, scalded her throat. "You—you shouldn't worry so much about me."
"Oh, my dear." He leaned forward, putting a hand on her knee, and his eyes were soft and kind and as comforting as they'd been all those years ago, when he'd sat beside her sickbed, reading her a story. "If I don't, who will—eh? Who will?"
She tried not to feel sad at the words.
Chapter 3
“We’re drawing hands, Miss Carter, not lumps of clay."
"Look at the delicacy of Clarisse's fingers, Miss Carter. Do you see even a semblance of that in your sketch?"
"Miss Carter, you do understand the rudiments of proportion, don't you?"
His words were like small slaps, each one stinging a little more, until Imogene thought she'd go mad if she had to hear him say Miss Carter again in that sneering way of his. Miss Carter, Miss Carter, Miss Carter . . . Coming from him, her name seemed familiarly profane, like a curse that had been uttered so often it lost its meaning, though not its wickedness.
Imogene leaned closer to her easel, clutching the charcoal in her fingers more firmly. From the corner of her eye she saw Whitaker make the rounds again, and she set her jaw and squared her shoulders and forced herself to concentrate, wishing he could move past her even one time without jabbing her with his words.