The Portrait

by Megan Chance

  Imogene nodded and clutched the arm he offered— in her haste grabbing a little too hard. He raised a brow at her, and she smiled weakly and forced her fingers to loosen, feeling the hard warmth of him through her gloves and his heavy coat, smelling his rich, spicy cologne. When the front door shut behind them and they were standing on the stoop, the cool, damp autumn air brushing against her skin, threading through his hair, Childs turned to her with a smile.

  "Don't be so afraid, chérie," he whispered. "You look as if you've just handed your soul to the devil for safekeeping. I assure you I am not so dangerous."

  She looked at him in surprise. "I'm not afraid," she said. "Should I be?"

  He blinked, and Imogene realized that he had expected some witty or clever remark. She glanced away again, feeling embarrassed and foolish, wishing once again that she was the practiced flirt her sister had been, that she knew anything at all about captivating a man. She half expected Childs would abandon her there on the step and take back his offer of escort, but he only chuckled and led her toward the waiting carriage.

  "I don't know," he said. "Perhaps you should."

  His words only added to the strangeness of everything she was feeling, the anticipation edged with worry. But Childs's steadying hand on her arm as they entered the brougham was reassuring and soothing, and Imogene found herself trusting him despite the fact that she hardly knew him.

  "You are kind to do this, chérie," he said, looking at her somberly. His voice was quiet and even, but there was an undercurrent in the words, the same undercurrent she'd heard when he asked her to come, and she thought of Peter's story, felt the keen stab of worry.

  "What's wrong with Whitaker?" she blurted.

  "Wrong?" Childs looked at the window, resting his elbow on the narrow sill and his chin in his hand. She could see nothing but the curtain of his hair and part of his profile. "Things are never 'wrong' with Jonas. They are only more or less normal." There was an edge of something in his voice—grief maybe, or perhaps nothing more than simple sarcasm.

  Imogene frowned. "I don't understand."

  He gave a small laugh and looked back at her, a bitter smile on his lips. "No, I don't imagine you do," he said, and this time he didn't look away, but stared at her thoughtfully. Imogene flushed beneath his scrutiny, feeling as if he were searching for something, as if he expected to find something in her face, and when he spoke again she wasn't sure if he'd found it or not. "Ah, but you're such an innocent," he murmured—the words so quiet it was as if he were talking to himself. "Why has he chosen you, I wonder?"

  His question startled her, Imogene felt the soft seduction of fear. "Chosen me?" Her voice sounded harsh and too sharp. "What do you mean?"

  His gaze stayed on her for another moment, and then he smiled—a light, self-mocking smile—and turned away. "It's nothing," he said, shrugging. "I have known Jonas a long time. Too long, perhaps. There are things you don't know about him—"

  "I know he's mad," she said, wanting suddenly to show him she was not as naive as he thought.

  He only laughed. "Mad?" he asked. "Who told you this?"

  "Peter McBride."

  "Ah, Peter. Well-intentioned, well-heeled Peter." Childs looked at her, his gaze piercing. "What else has he told you?"

  Imogene licked her lips, feeling as if she'd said something stupid, as if she'd misunderstood something, though she didn't know what it was. "He told me about last spring."

  Childs leaned his head back on the padded wall of the brougham, saying nothing, letting the silence fill the carriage until Imogene's head pounded with it.

  The carriage slowed. Imogene looked out the window to see the familiar buildings lining West Tenth Street, and concern tightened her chest so it was suddenly hard to breathe. She leaned forward, half turning to look at Childs, and found herself touching his arm to get his attention. "Please," she said, hearing the urgency in her voice. "Please tell me—is he like that today?"

  Childs's expression was so somber and questioning it took her aback. "If I told you he was," he said slowly, "would you run away?"

  The words were familiar. She heard Jonas Whitaker's deep timbre in her mind, the haunting rhythms of his voice. "What is it you want from me, Miss Imogene Carter? Why don't you run away . . . ?"

  She didn't take her eyes from Childs. She shook her head. "No," she said. "No. I wouldn't run away."

  The brougham lurched to a stop. She heard the wheels splash through mud, the groaning squeak of carriage springs. Frederic Childs sat up and leaned forward, reaching for the handle on the door. He opened it and stepped down, holding out his hand to help her. Imogene put her gloved fingers in his palm.

  "Well?" she asked hesitantly. "Is he . . . ?"

  Childs glanced at the building, at the top story, where the fading sunlight glinted off the windows of Jonas Whitaker's studio. Imogene felt his hand tighten around hers.

  "I think you'll find him changed."

  It was all he said as he led her to the stairs.

  Chapter 11

  She had expected silence, or if not that, then at least respectful quiet. But the studios on the first floor hummed with activity. Artists scurried through the open lower gallery, hanging paintings and propping easels, laughing and teasing and toasting each other with glasses of deep red wine.

  The commotion reassured Imogene. She told herself it would be silent if something was wrong with Whitaker, that the air would be heavy with fear and worry instead of fragrant with cigar smoke and the rich, gamey scent of roasting fowl.

  But she had no idea if that was true.

  She glanced up at Childs as he led her toward the stairs. "Is it always like this?" she asked quietly.

  He shrugged. "There's a showing tonight."

  Which told her nothing, Imogene realized. She tried to banish her nagging sense of worry as she climbed the stairs to the third floor. But it wouldn't go away; in fact, it only grew worse when they reached the top, because unlike the rooms downstairs, the studio doors up here were tightly shut, the hallway quiet.

  Deadly quiet, she thought. Except for their footsteps and the rustle of her skirts, there was no other sound at all.

  The stillness didn't seem to faze Childs. His step didn't falter as he guided her to the last door on the left; he didn't hesitate before he rapped sharply on the panel and pushed the door open.

  "Jonas!" he called, ushering her inside and shutting the door behind them. "Jonas, we're here."

  There was no answer. The studio was as still as the hallway had been. The only movement was the flickering lamp on the table and the growing shadows of sunset. Imogene frowned, glancing about her. The studio looked different, more crowded than before. She'd never seen so many brushes soaking in jars, and dishes of color were scattered everywhere. Propped against the wall were three sketches—wildly painted, uncontrolled swathes of bright color and bold forms—all similar, as if he'd tried repeatedly to capture the same image. When she looked around, she saw at least six others leaning against books and statuettes and upended pans, each frenzied, each like the rest.

  She thought of the black paintings Peter had told her about. These were nothing like that. These were light and airy. There was no darkness in them, no bleak landscapes, and she was startled at the extent of her relief. She had not realized how completely she'd expected to find him as he'd been last spring, yet it was clear—at least from the paintings—that he was not.

  "Lord," she breathed. "He's been painting."

  Childs threw her an amused glance. "How observant you are, chérie," he said. "Yes, he's been painting like a demon. Now, if I could only figure out where the hell he—"

  "Ah, you're here!"

  The voice seemed to come from nowhere. Imogene jerked around to see Jonas Whitaker shoving aside the tapestry covering the far doorway. The sight of him startled her even more than his voice had. Whitaker was smiling as he stepped into the room. Smiling. A lightning-quick smile, one so foreign and strange it looked out of place on his l
ips, somehow bizarre. Imogene stared at him in stunned amazement, waiting for his smile to twist, to become the familiar thin sarcasm. But as he crossed the room to them, she realized that his smile was real. She thought again of Childs's words. "I think you'll find him changed." Yes, he was that, but except for his smile she didn't know why she thought it, didn't understand why she felt such a magnitude of difference. There was something about the way he walked ... a curious energy in his motion. It pulsed from him, restless and fast and involving, and she couldn't take her eyes from him.

  Not even when he came to a stop in front of her, his gaze caressing her as if he couldn't look at her enough, his green eyes glimmering and passionate and so intense they nearly burned. They paralyzed her. She felt that tense excitement again, the elation that had possessed her the last time she'd seen his eyes like this, the day he'd leaned over her shoulder and talked of Michelangelo.

  Whitaker stepped closer. He took her hand—so quickly she didn't have time to pull away or protest— and tightened his grip as if he were afraid she would do just that. She felt the soft caress of his thumb against her fingers. There was a subtle energy in his touch, a quivering excitement, and when he looked at her she saw it in his eyes too, that same exhilaration. It

  was strangely heady. She felt trapped by it, mesmerized.

  "Tell me, Genie," he said, drawing out her name the way he always did, so it sounded like a touch. "Are you ready to see the world with us tonight?"

  His words, his touch, were overwhelming. The world ... He made it sound exotic, enticing, compelling. Like everything she'd ever dreamed of, everything she'd ever wanted.

  He leaned closer. "'Stop this day and night with me,' " he quoted, and his voice took on the deep, rich tones of a song. " 'And you shall possess the origin of all poems.' "

  His words sounded familiar, but she couldn't place them, and it wasn't the words that mattered anyway, but the way he said them, the way his fingers stroked rhythms on her skin. She couldn't look away, didn't want to look away, and when she felt again the soft shivers of desire, she told herself he was only playing with her.

  But this time she didn't care. She wanted to lose herself in his eyes, to hear him talk and feel his touch. Without conscious thought she leaned toward him, wanting to feel that magic again, waiting for it, needing it.

  But then that look disappeared from Whitaker's eyes —or ... it wasn't that it disappeared, not really. It was more as if he'd cloaked it, banked it the way one banked a fire, covering the hot, dangerous coals with deceptively cool ashes, and when he finally released her hand, saying "So you'll come," Imogene felt a surge of disappointment. She stepped back, trying to compose herself, watching as he moved quickly across the studio, grabbing a shiny black beaver hat from a table littered with tubes of paint and brushes. He settled it on his head and motioned to the door. "Hurry now, or we'll be late."

  He was confusing, bewildering. Imogene felt as if some important part of a puzzle were missing, but the spell he'd woven around her was still too strong, and she couldn't think of what the missing piece was, couldn't seem to gather her thoughts at all. She threw a puzzled glance at Childs, who was watching Whitaker with detached amusement. "But where are we—"

  "No questions," Whitaker interrupted lightly. "It's a surprise, Miss Carter. Don't you like surprises?"

  "But I—"

  "Come along, chérie," Childs said easily. "Trust me. You'll be in no danger."

  No danger. Imogene looked at Childs, at his blond hair gleaming in the last rays of light streaming through the window, at his perfect features, and then she glanced at Whitaker. No danger. He looked like a panther, with his green eyes and that long, dark hair falling over his shoulders, contrasting subtly and tactily with the gleaming top hat. She realized suddenly that he had dressed for this evening as well, but unlike Frederic Childs's blue superfine and richly embroidered waistcoat, Jonas Whitaker's clothes were starkly black. A black frock coat and tight black trousers and a broad black tie that covered his collar. The only relief was the white shirt he wore, the only concession to decoration the gold buttons on his black waistcoat.

  Yes, he looked very much like a panther. Sleek and black and captivating.

  No danger.

  Oh, what a lie that was. What a terrible lie. She thought of how she'd lost herself only moments before, how he made her forget who she was, forget everything. She was in the worst kind of danger, she knew it, and yet when he looked at her with those glittering, compelling eyes and crooked his finger at her, she found herself going to him, following him and Childs without a word out the doorway and down the hall, through the bustle on the first floor. And when he waved away her godfather's brougham—and Henry— in favor of a cab that waited just outside, she didn't say a word, merely got inside and settled her skirts and felt the press of him beside her and the warmth of Childs's leg across from hers.

  But when Whitaker rapped on the ceiling and the carriage sped off, wheels spinning wetly through the New York streets, Imogene felt the danger again, a danger that shivered in the close, too-warm air, that hovered around Jonas Whitaker. She clenched her fists in her lap and looked out the window and felt a breathless excitement more terrifying than anything she'd felt before. Because though she felt the danger, it was warm and welcoming and tempting. More tempting than it had ever been with Nicholas. Impossible to resist.

  She only hoped she could survive it this time.

  He couldn't stop watching her, even though she didn't look at him, even though her shoulders looked rigid and her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. It didn't matter; she would relax once they got to Anne Webster's. Once they got to the salon it would all begin—the thought brought exhilaration shivering up his spine, sent the cold heat of adrenaline coursing through him.

  He had dreamed of this, had thought of nothing else. He had struggled with the portrait the last two days, inspired but unable to truly capture the mystery he wanted. The essential core of her eluded him. It eluded him as he tried new forms and played with color. It eluded him as he tried to sketch the shadows of her face. Even though he could see her before him, the image shifted and changed, and this morning he had looked out the window and seen the gray streaks of rain and known—suddenly and completely—what was missing.

  She was an innocent, untried and naive, still closed to the world. Why had he not remembered that before? He couldn't see the beauty of her soul because he hadn't found it yet. It was still buried beneath convention, wrapped in silks and wools and velvets. She was truly the butterfly of his vision, suffocated by society's strictures as well as its clothes, and he wanted suddenly to take those clothes off, to tear away the cocoon and bring her shining and newborn into the world, to liberate her.

  He knew he would see her then, truly see her. Once she was released, he would find the soul that he ached so to capture on canvas. He would free her, and in turn, she would be his courtesan, his masterpiece. She would be his gift to the world. It was why he'd sent Rico to find her. He was too impatient to wait, and Anne Webster's Thursday night salon was the perfect place to start.

  Ah, he could hardly wait to get there. He felt restless and on fire; his blood was pulsing in his veins, tingling in his fingertips. He glanced at her again, but she kept her gaze fastened on the window of the carriage, on the lights that grew brighter and brighter as the darkness of twilight began to fall. He tried to see what she was seeing, and found himself mesmerized by the way the light reflected on the window and the dark red of her bonnet, by the way it glanced off the satin to send a vibrant glow of color into her face. It made her look ruddy and alive, and he took it as a sign. Alive, yes. She would be twice as alive by the end of the night. Like the genie in Aladdin's lamp, she was a prisoner— a captive waiting to be freed with a gentle touch.

  He smiled at the thought, and imagined he saw the swish of smoke surrounding her, smelled the soft rich scent of Arabian spice.

  "Something amusing?" Childs asked.

  Jonas glan
ced at him. Rico leaned into the corner of the carriage, looking every inch the cynical and jaded artist. It made Jonas laugh. "How dour you look," he said. "Dour and sour. You'll make Genie think we're going to a funeral."

  She turned from the window. "Where are we going?"

  He gave her a smile. "The world awaits us, Genie. Make your three wishes. Or should I make mine?"

  He saw the puzzled look in her eyes.

  "Three wishes?" she asked.

  Jonas leaned forward. The red glow cast by her bonnet seemed to intensify, the dawn-pink of her skin was captivating. He wanted suddenly to take her just as she was; for a minute the urge was so strong he trembled with it. He wanted to seduce her, he wanted her to seduce him. And then he realized she was seducing him, though he didn't think she knew it. "I know what my first wish would be," he whispered.

  She sat back, swallowing hard, and turned away so abruptly all he was left with was the back of her head, her impenetrable bonnet. He heard Rico's snort of laughter, and Jonas grinned and sat back again, ignoring Childs to watch the lights pass by. They were like fireworks, welcoming and celebratory, and for just a moment he forgot her and Rico, for just a moment he was caught up in the idea that the lights were for him, that they were a message from God. "Change the world ..." The words matched the rhythm of the passing lights, the sharp burst of yellow that slowly melted away through the window. "Show us what art can be. Mankind awaits your brilliance—"

  The carriage lurched to a stop.

  "Looks like we're here," Childs said, sitting up straighter. He glanced out the window. "Ah, yes. Waverly Place."

  Waverly Place. The words filled Jonas with anticipation and impatience. Without waiting for the driver, he wrenched open the door. The clean scent of rain- cleared air met his nostrils, along with the smell of mud and the faint hot odor of the gaslights lining the street. He stepped out, looking at the well-kept brown- stones and brick town houses that lined the road, their steps guarded by pillared balustrades and wrought- iron gates. It was still early, and people were walking along the flagstones, their voices carrying easily on the cold air, echoing up and up until they filled the clear, dark sky with sound.