The Portrait

by Megan Chance

  But in spite of the fact that she knew all that, Imogene had watched the way those same men were with Chloe, had seen their broad smiles and genuine laughter—and she had wished just once that someone would flirt with her the same way.

  Well, she'd got her wish in spades. First with her sister's fiance, and then with Jonas Whitaker. And she'd embarrassed herself both times. Today she should have done nothing more than give Whitaker a knowing smile, should have treated his flirtation as something casual, should have responded as if he'd said nothing more important than "I hope you're feeling well today."

  She should not have felt desire.

  Lord, what a fool she'd been. His flirtation meant nothing. It was ludicrous—and dangerous—to assume it meant more. Men like Jonas Whitaker did not look twice at women like her, and she told herself it wasn't what she wanted from him anyway. She told herself she wanted an education in art, to understand his brilliance. Anything more was absurd.

  She told herself all those things, but still she couldn't get Whitaker out of her mind. His attention had been flattering. It had been . . . more . . . than that. Bewildering. Beguiling. As compelling as his brilliance.

  Imogene squeezed her eyes shut. Thank God he had turned on her the way he had. His anger had saved her, had erased her embarrassment, had reminded her of her real purpose—

  ". . . Dear, what do you think?"

  Katherine's voice shattered Imogene's thoughts. She looked up blankly.

  "What do I think?" she repeated. "About what?"

  "About studying someplace else. Perhaps the Spingler Institute. I understand they excel in teaching young women the basics of art."

  Imogene stiffened. She glanced at Thomas, who was watching her carefully, his expression warm and concerned, and then she forced herself to speak flatly, to hide the fact that Katherine's words made her feel sick inside, hot and cold. "You want me to leave Jonas Whitaker?" she asked carefully.

  "I'm only worried about your reputation," Katherine said, leaning forward. "If the word were to get out that Whitaker's using life models—well, you would be ruined, Imogene. Surely you realize that."

  Thomas shook his head. "It's not quite that extreme, Katherine."

  "It could be." Katherine threw a glance at her husband. "I'm sure Samuel didn't understand just how controversial Jonas Whitaker is."

  "I think he understood perfectly," Thomas said dryly. He looked at Imogene. "But it's up to you, my dear. If you'd rather study somewhere else, we'll arrange it. I'll explain things to your father."

  Imogene looked down at her plate, trying to focus her thoughts, to ease the panic she felt at Thomas's suggestion. Not because of her father—though he would never understand—but because the thought of leaving Whitaker's tutelage made her feel desperate. She couldn't leave him now, not now that she'd realized what he could teach her.

  Katherine pushed back her chair, her rosewater scent wafted through the room. "I'll leave the two of you to discuss it," she said in her smooth, cultured voice. "Would you like tea, dear?"

  Imogene shook her head. She waited until Katherine left the room before she turned to Thomas. Thomas, who would understand the way he always understood. She opened her mouth to tell him that she didn't want to go, but before she could say a word, he sighed.

  "Katherine is worried about you, my dear," he said.

  She frowned. "I know."

  "She doesn't truly understand about artists." Thomas leaned forward, pressing his elbows into the ivory tablecloth, his expression intense. "But she makes a good point, one I hadn't thought of. Of course it's not so bad for young men to be studying from life, though it's still a bit scandalous. But a woman—an unmarried woman, Imogene—"

  "He's brilliant, Thomas," she said, and though she saw her godfather's surprise at her interruption, she didn't stop. "I never really understood what that meant before now. I can't walk away from that. He can teach me so many things."

  Thomas looked troubled. He folded his hands on the tablecloth, looked down at his fingers. "But at what price, my dear?"

  She studied him carefully. "You mean his madness," she said.

  She had startled him, she realized. Thomas sat back in his chair. "Who told you he was mad?"

  "Peter McBride."

  "One of his students?" Thomas asked heavily.

  "Yes," she said, and then when she saw the skepticism in his face, "You don't believe it."

  "I don't know." Thomas shrugged. "It depends on what you mean by mad. Do I think Whitaker would hurt someone? No. Do I think he's dangerous? No. No, I don't. I think he torments only himself. But if you're asking if I think he's touched . . ." He sighed. "I think he's a genius, my dear. And I think it takes a bit of madness to have that kind of talent. Maybe more than a bit." He looked up at her. His blue eyes seemed to pierce through her. "Does it frighten you?"

  Slowly Imogene shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "No. It doesn't frighten me at all. Two days ago he made me prime a canvas. Over and over again until I got it right. That was why I was late coming home. He wouldn't let me go until I'd at least done one."

  Thomas scowled. "I'm not sure I understand."

  She regarded him steadily. "I can prime a canvas now, Thomas. It took me two days, but I can do it."

  "Forgive me, but—"

  "Yesterday was the first day the model was there." Imogene rushed on, trying to make him understand, and the words came tumbling out, too fast to control. "And he made me look at her—really look at her. He made me see things I've never seen before. He made me understand . . ." She took a deep, ragged breath. "Thomas, he asked me if I would do what Michelangelo did—if I would go into the morgues to study. He asked me if I would do that for art."

  Thomas was watching her thoughtfully. "And what did you say?"

  She laughed shortly, shrugging. "I don't think I knew what to say. It didn't matter. Thomas, don't you see? What matters is the way he made me see. He may be mad, but I think you're right, his brilliance is . . . it's . . ." Her words trailed off in a sigh. "I want to learn from him, Thomas."

  That was all. It was so simple, and so very, very difficult to explain.

  Thomas was looking at her curiously, and for the first time in years, she couldn't read his expression, didn't know at all what he was thinking. She looked down at her plate, at the whiteness of the veal and the creamed peas, and felt tension knot her shoulders as she waited for his answer.

  She heard his sigh. She looked up to see him rubbing his chin with his hand, looking at her with a thoughtfulness and care that made Imogene feel unexpectedly guilty. Guilty because he was worried about her, and she knew if she told him what had transpired between herself and Whitaker today, he wouldn't even be giving her the courtesy of a discussion. But then she thought of yesterday, of Michelangelo, and her guilt disappeared.

  "Thomas," she began, hearing the edge of desperation in her voice.

  He held up a hand to forestall her. "I understand," he said slowly. "Or at least I think I do. But I'm not entirely sure you're safe, Imogene. I still worry. If you change your mind ..."

  Relief washed over her. She shook her head and smiled. "I won't. And I'm safe enough, believe me."

  Thomas eyed her thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair. "I hope you're right, my dear," he said in a slow, heavy voice. "I only hope you're right."

  "Ah, darlin', yes—ah!" Clarisse's words caught in a moan; she arched against him, digging her nails into his back, tossing her head so the bright red strands of her hair played among the multicolored spatters on the floor. Her breasts jiggled against his chest, her legs tightened about his hips, urging him deeper, deeper while she moaned in rhythm to his thrusts.

  She felt good, hot and wet, and Jonas plunged into her over and over again, looking away from her writhing body and focusing on the canvas looming above them. The unfinished courtesan watched with an unforgiving smile, and he grabbed Clarisse's hip with his good hand, feeling the cheap, dirty pleasure course through him, thinking flee
tingly of painting the courtesan with spread legs, because between spread legs he could forget so many things.

  Like Imogene Carter's haunting face, the too-soft words. "I want to know what it's like to be you ..."

  Christ.

  His climax burst over him before he even realized it, the sharp, piercing gratification stealing his breath and his thoughts, the pure hedonism of feeling restoring his mood. This was what he'd needed since this afternoon; he'd spent the evening wanting it, barely able to control himself while he waited for Clarisse to make her way back to the studio.

  Jonas took a deep breath and rolled off her, lying back against the floor. The cold boards felt good against his back, the chill in the air soothed his skin. He closed his eyes and felt the heavy touch of sleep.

  "It's cold in here."

  Clarisse's whine startled him out of his half doze. Jonas opened his eyes to look at her. She sat up, tossing back her hair. The movement made her breasts bounce enticingly.

  "Can't you build a fire? And where's Rico, anyway? You said he was bringin' over that lovely brandy."

  "I don't know." He watched the way she moved, the way her hips shifted when she got to her feet, the firm roundness of her buttocks, and he felt himself stirring to hardness again. "Come here."

  She tossed a smile over her shoulder. "Oh, you're just insatiable, darlin', ain't you?"

  "It seems so." He patted the floor beside him. "Don't make me come after you."

  "And why not? It's the least you can do, after makin' me lie on that cold floor. Why, I—"

  The knock on the door startled them both. Jonas sat up, frowning. It was close to midnight, he was sure. Midnight on a particularly dark night; heavy rain clouds hid the moon and the wind rocked bare branches against the sky. Inside, the dim and wavering light of a candle barely held its own against the looming shadows of the room.

  "Rico?" he called. "Childs, is that you?"

  "No. It's—it's Thomas." The voice was hard to hear and hesitant. "Whitaker, open up, won't you?"

  Gosney. What the hell was he doing here? Unless . . . Jonas scrambled to his feet, grabbing the trousers he'd left crumpled on the floor. He threw Clarisse her gown.

  "Get dressed," he commanded tersely, pulling on his pants. He barely waited for her to fasten the gown before he opened the door.

  Thomas Gosney stood in the hallway, the smoking lamps making his bundled shadow seem huge against the plaster walls, the top hat stories high. Gosney looked up, and then past Jonas, and when he saw Clarisse his shoulders slumped.

  "Forgive me," he said. "It's too late to be calling, I realize. I was at the club, and I'm afraid I rather lost track of time."

  Jonas stared at him, feeling a touch of dread. Gosney looked disturbed. The memory of today came crashing back to Jonas, the way he'd pressed Imogene Carter into the comer, tried to kiss her. It was why Gosney was here, he knew, and Jonas cursed himself inwardly, wishing he hadn't lost his temper, wishing he'd been as subtle as he'd first planned. Because he knew already that she'd told Gosney, and now it was all over, all of it. The thought sank into Jonas, filled him with a sweeping depression, a black despair. Funny, he had expected to feel relief. . . .

  He stepped back, motioning Gosney inside. "Please. Come in."

  Gosney hesitated. "I had hoped you'd be at the club."

  "Not tonight."

  "I don't want to interrupt."

  "It's no interruption." Jonas jerked his head at Clarisse and was amazed—and oddly grateful—when she obediently hurried into the bedroom. He turned back to Gosney. "Can I get you something? Wine?"

  "No, no." Thomas shook his head and stepped inside, taking off his hat and holding it in his hands. He made no move to unbutton his coat, didn't look for a chair. "1 won't stay long."

  Jonas shut the door. He caught Gosney's stare as he did so, saw the way his patron's gaze lit on his arm, on the leather straps at his wrist, before Gosney politely averted his eyes, and Jonas realized he'd forgotten to put on his shirt, that his infirmity was there for anyone to see. Shame uncurled in his stomach. Hastily he went to grab his shirt from the floor. He pulled it over his useless hand, shrugged into it.

  Gosney said nothing. He simply stood there watching, waiting, and Jonas buttoned the lower fastenings of his shirt and turned to face his patron, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back against the table in an attempt to regain his composure, to brace himself for the things Gosney was undoubtedly going to say.

  "1 assume you're here about your goddaughter," he said. There was no point in prolonging things, after all, and he was feeling the sudden and intense urge to get to Clarisse.

  Gosney looked surprised for a moment, and then he nodded. "Yes."

  "If it makes you feel better, know that I'm sorry for it."

  Gosney made a dismissive motion. "Oh, there's nothing to be sorry for. I did insist that you take her on. I just didn't realize—"

  "It's not your fault, or hers." Jonas cut him off impatiently, not understanding why Gosney hadn't lost his temper, why he wasn't calling him all the things he deserved to be called. "Don't be such a damned martyr. I shouldn't have done it."

  Gosney shook his head. "I didn't expect you to do anything else," he said. "Imogene wanted to study art. I assumed that meant nudes as well. There's no need to protect her from it."

  Jonas stared at him in confusion. Nudes? What the hell was he talking about? "I don't understand," he said.

  "The nude," Thomas explained patiently. "She told me you had them paint a woman the last few days. What did you think 1 meant?"

  It took a moment for the realization to hit Jonas, a moment to understand that Imogene Carter hadn't told Gosney what happened today, that she hadn't run home and confessed that Jonas had all but attacked her. She hadn't revealed his rage or how he touched her and caressed her, how he trapped her in the corner and pressed his body against hers.

  She hadn't told.

  The knowledge made Jonas uneasy. He wasn't sure how to feel about it or what to do. Wasn't sure how to answer Gosney, so he said nothing.

  Thomas continued. "Katherine is worried about her, however, and I thought I should come and talk to you, to make sure you're, well, to be honest, to make sure Imogene isn't being pushed too fast. She hasn't had a great deal of schooling, you understand, and I thought —it might be a bit much, you know—a nude after only a few days. . . ." He trailed off as if the subject made him uncomfortable.

  "I see." Jonas said. "She's offended then."

  Gosney shook his head. "No. Not at all. In fact, she says she wants to stay on."

  Jonas stared in surprise. Nothing Gosney could have said would have shocked him more. "She wants to— what?"

  "She wants to stay on."

  "She told you this when?"

  "Tonight, at dinner." Gosney sighed. "To be perfectly frank, Whitaker, I offered her entry to the Spingler Institute instead. Even though I understand the nudes are necessary, I can't help worrying about her reputation. And Imogene is so frail still, I fear she'll never truly have the strength of a normal young woman."

  Jonas was too dazed to answer.

  Thomas fingered the rim of his hat nervously. "But she refused me. She said she preferred to study under you, and though I don't truly understand her reasons, I defer to her desire in this. But—" He looked up, his eyes burning in the darkness."—I must ask you to treat her with delicacy. You must teach your students the way you will, of course—you know what suits them best—but if I hear a single word, even a hint of misconduct ..."

  He left the sentence unfinished, but Jonas heard the unspoken threat, remembered the words Gosney had coerced him with a mere month or so ago. "I made you, Whitaker. Don't forget it. A word from me and your paintings won't sell for a halfpenny."

  But this time, Jonas didn't feel the choke of resentment. This time, he felt no anger at all. He felt—he didn't know what. Puzzled, relieved, disappointed. Those feelings were all there, and they all focused around Imogene Carter, ar
ound the "frail" young woman who had stared up at him with wide brown eyes and said "I want to know what it's like to be you."

  And through it all was the keen edge of panic, the needling of fear. She had not told Gosney about today. She had not said anything and Jonas didn't understand why, didn't know why she wasn't' running away, why she hadn't sought to punish him with Gosney's interference.

  It scared the hell out of him that she hadn't. Jonas felt at her mercy now, and it made him dislike her more, made him want to be rid of her so badly he could taste it. None of this made sense. She didn't make sense. He'd behaved reprehensibly. She should have run long ago, and he didn't understand why she hadn't, didn't understand her motivations at all. What did she want from him? Talent he couldn't give her. Techniques could be learned from anyone. And sex. . . . Jonas remembered her frightened eyes, the way she jerked from his touch. No, sex was not what Miss Imogene Carter was after.

  What then? What?

  "Well?" Gosney still stood there, his gloved fingers closing tightly on the brim of his hat. "Do we understand each other?"

  Jonas forced a tight smile, bowed his head. "Of course."

  Gosney swallowed. "Good." He put his hat on his head, held out his hand. "I'll leave you then. Once again, I apologize for the lateness of the hour."

  Jonas shook his hand. "It doesn't matter."

  "I'll be calling on you next week. I have an idea I'd like you to try. I think it will interest you. An allegory, really. Greek myths and all that. Cupid and Psyche." He went to the door and opened it. "That new technique of yours—the flat colors—I think it will lend itself to this well."

  "I look forward to it," Jonas said.

  Gosney nodded. "Next week then. Good night."

  "Good night."

  The door shut. The hall creaked. Jonas stood there, watching the door, his thoughts churning in his head. He tried to order them, tried to get them to behave, but they were too scattered, too fragmented. He felt the buzzing in his blood; it raced through his heart in time to the words crashing in his mind: "I want to know what it's like ... I want to know what it's like ..." Louder and louder until he put his hands against his ears, felt the hard press of the hateful wooden fingers against his skull.