by Megan Chance
She was all fragrant intrigue, a huge contradiction— quiet and subdued, but with such startling power, a power that had radiated from his sketch, that had flowed from her into his hands. He wanted to savor the discovery of it, to think about that intoxicating conviction in her eyes. It had been so provocative, so alluring. It made him wonder for the first time what she would be like in bed. He imagined it; the smooth satin of her flesh, the soft trembling of her body, the harsh, moist little gasps brushing his cheek. He thought about the way that hair of hers would look tumbled about her shoulders, wondered how it would feel against his skin.
The image drove him nearly insane; he could not forget it, could not erase it. He thought of her and he felt the quick and savage thrust of desire, and it was different from what he'd felt for Clarisse or any of the others. It was more than just carnal lust, and he knew it had everything to do with that look in Imogene Carter's eyes. The look that turned the little brown moth into a beautiful butterfly. The look that had changed his intentions, took his original reasons for wanting her gone and sent them floating away, as elusive as the smoke wisping through the bed hangings. Gosney's threats, his own inability to paint—those things seemed so unimportant now, so ludicrously trivial.
They didn't matter—not in light of what he felt tonight. Because what he felt tonight was the elation of inspiration—the same inspiration that the threat of her presence had taken away just a few weeks ago. The ideas were crowding in his mind now, swirling though his head in the prismatic dance of opiate, pure and fuzzy and beautiful. Hundreds of them, spinning so fast and furiously he barely had time to think of one before another that was even more potent and compelling burst into his brain.
He looked at his hand, lying motionless on his chest, and it seemed to glow with brilliance. Long ago, at Barbizon, Jean-Claude Millet had told Jonas there was fire in his blood, and tonight he believed it. Tonight he wondered if there was anything he couldn't do. Everything fell into place. Abruptly he saw the courtesan he'd been trying to paint in all its vivid detail—his masterpiece, the pièce de résistance he'd intended to be the greatest, most sublime offering at the National Academy exhibition. He had wanted to show contradiction and desire, had wanted the woman to be disturbing, to show the power women had—that elusive power that controlled men whether they wanted to admit it or not. The courtesan's nakedness, her disdain, her strength would reflect all that—ah, God, it would be the greatest thing he had ever done.
Because this morning he'd realized what it needed, the thing he'd been seeking for weeks, the edge that eluded him. He had never been able to see the courtesan's face in his mind, but now suddenly it was there; the guarded eyes, the colorless beauty, the flat monochrome of her skin. Genie Carter.
God, he was so damned brilliant it amazed him. The exultation of earlier still burned in his blood, the fierce joy of inspiration grew until it filled his soul. He laughed at the pure wondrousness of it.
"Hmmm?" Rico stirred slightly beside him, and Jonas opened his eyes to see Childs leaning over him, his expression drowsy, his long blond hair falling forward like a lion's mane.
"Genie Carter," Jonas said, struggling to one elbow. He heard his voice; it was breathless, too fast, but he couldn't slow down. "She's the courtesan, Rico. Christ, can you see it? That face—it's the perfect face. Like a butterfly."
"Like a butterfly?" Rico leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes, smiling. "You've lost me, mon ami. Her face is like a butterfly?"
"She's stunning, don't you see?" Jonas shook his friend's arm until Childs opened his eyes again. "I've got to paint her."
"Oh? I thought your little odalisque was nude."
"Yes, of course."
"And Miss Imogene is going to take her clothes off for you? Ah, you are clever then."
Rico's voice was languid, so slow that Jonas had already forgotten the beginning of the sentence before Childs reached the end. It didn't matter anyway; the only important thing was the nude—and all Jonas could think about was that it might be better if she were draped in some diaphanous material, something that lent an opalescence to her skin, the luce di dentro. Yes, perfect. A scarf or something. Rico must have something.
Jonas lunged off the bed, hardly noticing when Rico protested. He went to the trunk in the middle of the room, tossing out clothes—waistcoats and fine linen shirts and stockings—damn, there must be something. He spun around, staring at the room, at the heavy bed hangings and the mulberry-colored drapes and the pillows.
"What are you looking for?"
"A scarf," Jonas said. "A robe—" He spotted a length of mosquito netting draped over a table in the corner of the room. The finely woven cloth shimmered in the dim candlelight. He strode to it, pulling it loose with one quick tug, upsetting bottles and brushes and a few saucers holding color. He held it up, holding it so the candlelight diffused through it. Ah, yes. Like the cocoon of a butterfly—thin and cottony. It added another layer of meaning to the painting that he liked, and he smiled and looked over his shoulder at Childs, who was watching him with a laborious frown.
Rico took another tug on the pipe. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment and then exhaled with a sigh. "You want Miss Carter to wear that?"
"Yes."
"1 see." Childs smiled. "I was right, wasn't I? You do want the little innocent."
The words blurred together in Jonas's mind. Theliddleinnocent, and they were as compelling as she was. Yes, he wanted her. Wanted her in a hundred different ways. Wanted her so badly it was all he could do to keep from hiring a carriage and racing to Gosney's house to get her.
But then he thought of the painting waiting in his studio, and it was even more compelling, the vision burning in his blood too tantalizing to deny or postpone. His fingers itched to get started. He threw the mosquito netting over his shoulder and started for the door.
From the bed, Rico laughed, and then he started humming, a slow chorus, a familiar and compulsive melody, "'I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair
Jonas turned from the door with a smile. A dream, yes. Genie Carter was that. She was a lovely dream, and the night was shimmering with color and vibrance, and even Childs, languid as he was, looked shining and beautiful as he lounged against the pillow, the candlelight glinting on his hair.
"Come with me," Jonas urged. "The night's still young."
"Ah, yes." Childs struggled from the bed and made his way slowly toward Jonas. "The night's young enough. It's only you and I who get older. Where are we going? Down to the Bowery? Maybe we can find Clarisse, eh? She's probably over being angry with you."
"No, not there," Jonas said, yanking open the door and pulling Rico after him into the hall. "We've more important things to do."
"Oh? What's that?"
"We're going to paint, my friend," Jonas said, pushing open the door to his studio, feeling a surge of excitement and revelation so pure his whole body tingled with it. "We're going to paint a masterpiece."
It had been two days since she'd been back to the studio. Two days since she'd received the note from a messenger she'd never seen before, a single line scrawled on a piece of paper torn from a sketch pad, the handwriting bold and black and nearly indecipherable. No class until further notice. JW. That was all. No explanations and no apologies, and when Thomas had gone to the studio to inquire, there had been no answer to his knock.
It reminded Imogene of Peter's story about last spring. She wondered if Whitaker had been sitting in his studio, listening to her godfather's summons, lost in his own visions. The thought was disconcerting and uncomfortable, and she found herself feeling that she should go to him, to look in on him if nothing else, to make sure he was all right. But she dismissed the notion. She didn't know Whitaker well enough to intrude, and more than that, she wasn't sure how he would respond if she did visit him—or even what she would feel upon seeing him again.
Imogene glanced at the sketch hanging above her washstand. The paper still looked crumpled and worn,
even though she'd worked painstakingly to smooth the wrinkles, hoping to bring out whatever secrets were hidden in the folds, hoping it would explain everything. She'd thought the drawing would explain why he paid her so much attention, what he truly wanted. But instead the sketch only raised more questions than it answered.
The portrait Imogene had rescued from the floor was of a woman she didn't recognize, a woman whose resemblance to herself lay only in the gown and the hairstyle. The rest ... the rest was someone Imogene had never seen before, someone she didn't know.
The woman in that picture looked delicate and beautiful. She was half turned toward the artist, and there was something sublime in her profile, something peaceful and confident in her expression, poise and grace in her pose. She was exquisite and arresting, almost . . . sensual. She was everything Imogene was not. And Imogene couldn't help but look at it and wonder who it was he'd drawn, or why he'd thrown it to the ground in anger, as if there were something ugly in it, something profane. At the time, Imogene had thought maybe it was because she was such a poor subject, or that he saw nothing in her worth drawing. But the sketch was so beautiful that now she wondered if his temper had anything to do with her at all.
She sighed and turned away, going to the window to stare out at the park below. She wished she were the woman in the picture—a woman of mystery and grace, a woman who could interest him, challenge him. The longing frightened her. Jonas Whitaker was not the man for her; it was useless to feel desire or yearning. It was useless to want him. But she did, and she knew that was the most dangerous feeling of all.
She leaned her head against the window, feeling the cold glass upon her skin, along with sinking despair. She wasn't the kind of woman Whitaker would be attracted to, she never could be, and the thought filled her with a sense of loss that was impossible to bear.
As impossible to bear as the notion that she might not see him again.
"Imogene?"
Katherine's voice came from the hallway. Imogene's godmother had been solicitous and kind over the last two days, but for once Imogene didn't want kindness. She didn't want the busywork of embroidery and tea. She wanted to think through her confusion—for once she wanted the solitude that had been her life in Nashville.
But Katherine meant well, Imogene knew, and so she sighed and turned from the window. "Come in."
The door squeaked open, and Katherine peeked around the edge. "Oh, Imogene, you are here," she said. There was a breathless relief in her voice. "Haven't you heard me calling?"
Imogene frowned. "No. I didn't hear anything."
"Well . . ." Katherine stepped inside, holding out a piece of paper. "This just came for you. I think it's important."
Imogene stared at the note in Katherine's hand, feeling an odd dread at the sight of it. Odd because she knew it was about Jonas Whitaker, though she had no reason at all to think it. It wasn't torn from a sketch pad like the last message she'd received. This was a heavy, cream-colored stock that bespoke elegance and money, as different from the other as it could be. So
different Imogene told herself it was absurd to think it had anything to do with Whitaker. But her breath caught anyway as she hurried toward her godmother, and her hands trembled when she took the note from Katherine's hand.
Katherine frowned, her deep brown eyes dark with concern. "Imogene, is everything all right? Is this— were you expecting this?"
Imogene shook her head. The paper felt thick and textured against her fingers. She unfolded it slowly, noting with part of her mind that the thin copperplate handwriting was not one she recognized. Her chest tightened with apprehension. It was bad news, certainly. A quick, impersonal statement telling her he would no longer be teaching her. That, or maybe something even worse, something informing her of his untimely death or . . . or . . .
An echo of Peter's words lingered in her ears. "The madness is waiting for me, Rico. Should I give in to it?"
She shut her eyes briefly, willing away the thought before she undid the last crease and read the words. Like before, the message was simple: Jonas Whitaker requests the pleasure of your company immediately.
There was no signature.
Imogene felt a sudden, fierce joy, along with an uneasiness that made her mouth dry. "Someone brought this?"
"He's downstairs now," Katherine said. "He insisted on waiting." She patted Imogene's hand, a gentle, reassuring touch. "Dear, is everything all right?"
"He wants to see me."
"Who does?"
"Mr. Whitaker." The questions rang in Imogene's mind. He wanted to see her immediately, and she had no idea why, still could not begin to fathom what he wanted from her. She could not believe he meant to give her a lesson. It was late, already near dinnertime.
"Well, thank goodness," Katherine said. "So you'll be going to the studio in the morning, then?"
Wordlessly Imogene held out the note. Katherine read it quickly, the frown furrowing deeper between her eyes as she handed it back. "He can't be serious," she said. "Certainly he means for you to come tomorrow?"
"It says immediately."
"Yes, but—"
"Perhaps I should talk to the man who brought it."
Katherine motioned to the stairs. "He's in the hall," she said.
Imogene had to force herself to take the stairs with dignity and grace. Still she couldn't quite go slowly enough, though it seemed an eternity before she saw who waited in the foyer.
Frederic Childs. Imogene hesitated. He was quite possibly the last person she expected to see, and yet he stood as if he belonged there, lazily studying a framed woodcut, his long blond hair falling over the shoulders of his fine blue coat. Like Nicholas, she thought. Comfortable in any situation.
Immediately a smile curved his mobile mouth, his eyes sparkled. "Miss Imogene," he said, making a small bow. "I'm delighted to see you again."
"Mr. Childs." She didn't smile back. She gestured with the note. "You brought this?"
"Yes." he said, starting toward her. Then he stopped, and his gaze slid beyond her. "Pardon," he said with cool aplomb. "1 didn't realize there was another beautiful lady on the stairs."
Imogene half turned to see Katherine standing behind her. She'd forgotten her godmother was even there. Distractedly she introduced them.
Childs smiled again, that dazzling smile. "I've heard a great deal about you, Mrs. Gosney. You and your husband are quite well thought of in the art community."
"Oh, you're an artist?" Katherine threw a questioning glance at Imogene.
"He's a friend of Mr. Whitaker's," Imogene explained, hearing the edge of impatience in her voice. "Please, Mr. Childs. This message—"
"Ah, yes, the message." His smile stayed steady, the good humor in his voice didn't fade, but something came into his eyes, some expression she couldn't read. "I've come to escort you to the studio."
Katherine frowned. "It's nearly time for dinner. Surely he doesn't mean—"
"Oh, but he does."
"I know artists have strange hours, Mr. Childs," she continued reasonably. "But surely this can wait until tomorrow."
Childs shook his head. "Forgive me, Mrs. Gosney," he said, disagreeing with firm politeness. "But this can't wait." He looked back to Imogene, and his smile mellowed, his face softened. If possible, it made him even lovelier than before, added a gentleness that was more real than his smooth charm, more insidiously captivating. "Miss Imogene," he said softly. "Jonas would like to see you. Please come."
She wanted to. Oh, Lord, she wanted to, but it was dangerous to want to go to him so badly. Say no. She opened her mouth to say the words.
Then she looked at Childs, really looked at him, and the refusal died in her throat. She saw the urgency in his eyes, an urgency cloaked in smiles and nonchalance, and it made her think again of Whitaker alone in his studio, staring out the window while the others pounded on the door. Her reservation died, forgotten in the strength of compassion and concern. There was no question; of course she would go to him.
Imogene crumpled the paper in her hand. "Very well," she said. "I'll get my mantle."
Katherine's frown deepened. "I don't know—"
Childs glanced at her. "I promise to keep her safe, madame. You have my word she'll come to no harm."
Imogene heard her godmother's hesitation. "Perhaps in the daytime," Katherine said. "But at night ..." Her words trailed off uncertainly, her eyes studied Imogene for a moment before she sighed and nodded. "At least let me send you in our carriage. Henry can wait for you then."
"By all means." Childs spoke with smooth, unemotional courtesy, but Imogene thought she saw relief in his expression when he turned to her, as well as a slight impatience. "Shall we go then, Miss Imogene?"
She nodded, hurrying to the small armoire at the back of the stairs. She grabbed her mantle and glanced down at her gown, wishing for a brief moment that she had something fancier than the thick bayadere silk with its stripes of darker lavender velvet and its unadorned flounces. She banished the absurd thought quickly. Lord knew Whitaker wasn't summoning her for her looks. She doubted he would even notice what she wore.
She closed the frogged fastenings of her mantle and grabbed her bonnet by its ribbons as she hurried back down the hall.
Childs looked up and smiled. "Ah, there she is," he said. His blue eyes sparkled when he glanced back at Katherine. He took her hand and bowed over it. "It has been a delight talking to you, Mrs. Gosney."
"And you," Katherine answered. Her voice was slightly breathless, the way it always was when she was enjoying herself. "I shall talk to Thomas this evening about commissioning you."
"Madame, you are too kind. I await your word." He released Katherine's hand with a smile, and then he straightened, shaking back his hair with a quick, graceful movement before he turned to Imogene and held out his arm. "Chérie?"