“Oh my!” she exclaimed breathlessly.
“I think you will look like a queen wearing them.” He draped an opulent offering of lustrous pearls across her shoulders. “These look pink against your beautiful skin.”
“I can’t wear these! They are far too extravagant, Josiah, and I’m not sure it’s appropriate to—”
“Nonsense. Have you ever seen an oyster? They are the most humble and rotten looking things on earth, and you don’t hear them fussing about extravagance or what’s appropriate.”
“I am not an oyster!”
“Just wear them for me, woman.”
She eyed him warily. “Like the red dress? Just to wear for the painting?”
“Precisely. No scandalous gifts of jewelry. You can just put them back in the box afterward … if you prefer.”
She nodded, some of the excitement returning to her face now that a compromise had been struck. “Wherever did you get all of them?”
He shrugged. “Souvenirs from India.”
“Souvenirs? Queen Victoria doesn’t have a single strand to rival even one of these, Josiah!”
He smiled. “What does she need of more pearls? Whereas my Eleanor”—he leaned over to kiss the warm little indent behind her left ear—“should wear these and nothing else.”
“I will not pose without my clothes!” She squeaked her prim protest, but leaned back against him, urging him to brave more of her skin as she tipped her head to one side. “You are … a rogue to suggest it!”
“Then I shall find an ivory satin dress to suit the occasion.” He sighed, as if conceding a great battle. “Something simple to set you off like a jewel, Eleanor, and I will paint you like a modest goddess if you wish.” His tongue teased the lines of her neck until she shivered against him and he added another rope of pearls to the decadent strands already around her throat.
She bit her tongue to keep from laughing. “I will buy my own clothes, Mr. Hastings.” It was too sweet a victory that he would agree to work again, even if she suspected that once again she’d been maneuvered into doing exactly what he wanted. The cold pearls had warmed against her skin, their weight hypnotic as the silky soft orbs moved across her shoulders to drape down the sensitive line of her spine. “And I am no goddess. But I think … we should put these away, Mr. Hastings. They are too opulent for a woman born on Orchard Street.”
“They are not rich enough, Miss Beckett.” He spoke against the shell of her ear, sending another shimmer of desire down her back to pool between her legs. “Not opulent enough to match you.”
Eleanor guided his hands down over her breasts, the pearls adding to the game, and she closed her eyes at the soft slide of her surrender. “Then you must paint me in pearls and teach me what opulence is.”
Josiah smiled and began to unhook the buttons of her dress. “Let the lessons begin.”
Chapter
22
Eleanor adjusted her bonnet as she watched the London streets pass. Josiah had urged her to use the carriage for a day of errands and she’d made the most of it, giving in to pick up some new dresses and necessaries. The ivory satin evening gown was safely ensconced in a box on the seat across from her, and Eleanor was doing her best not to look at it since the very thought of the “pearl” dress made her skin tingle. It felt wicked to indulge herself again and spend money without fear, but the lingering anxiety from her recent poverty was finally starting to let go.
Even so, there was one bit of her past that she didn’t wish to banish.
Finished with her own requirements, Eleanor had asked the driver to head back toward more familiar streets so that she could seek out Maggie. She had few enough friends in the world, and wanted to assure herself that dear Margaret was well. But the runner she sent into Madame Claremont’s confirmed that Maggie wasn’t in the shop that day, so she’d started to lament her plans. She’d even had the carriage wait along the route Margaret would take from the shop to the boarding house. But her friend never came. At last, Eleanor had given up on an impromptu reunion and tapped on the roof for the driver to head back to Josiah’s.
But as the carriage pulled away down a narrow side street, Eleanor caught sight of a familiar bonnet on the sidewalk. She signaled the driver to stop and launched out of the carriage to catch her friend in the crowd. “Margaret?”
“Ellie! Is that you?” Maggie turned, openly astonished and pleased to see Eleanor, before giving her a quick hug.
Eleanor smiled and then took a step back, some of the joy at the reunion fading as she realized that the state of Maggie’s dress bordered on scandalous. Despite the cold bite in the air, the cut of her bodice and blouse invited the eyes to appreciate her bountiful cleavage, and the bright blue and yellow of her skirts made her seem like a bright bluebird surrounded by dark winter pigeons. “Margaret. I was looking for you at the dress shop.”
“Oh, dear! I’d have paid to see that dust-up!” Maggie laughed.
“I wisely sent a boy in to ask for you.” Eleanor smiled. “I’m not brave enough to face her again. But, are you … not in her employ?”
“Madame Claremont turned me out after you left.”
“Oh, Margaret! I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t be. It was inevitable with her temper, but she was in quite a lather over it all when you kicked her off. The other girls were spiteful to you, I know, but they were secretly happy to see you get away. And when your Mr. Hastings left me that purse, I wasn’t sorry to go either!”
Her first instinct was to correct Maggie’s assumption about her Mr. Hastings, but she bit off the words, her stomach churning. “He left you with some money that day?”
“A generous sum, to be sure. Didn’t he tell you?”
Eleanor shook her head.
Maggie laughed. “I think he did it just to goad ol’ Claremont for bickering over that red dress! Don’t worry, Ellie. It didn’t come with a wink.”
“Of course not. Mr. Hastings is not that kind of man.”
Maggie’s smirk did nothing to comfort Eleanor. “As you say, as you say!”
“Are you … all right now? Have you found other employment?” Eleanor asked, determined to steer the conversation onto more solid ground.
Maggie laughed. “I’m my own mistress and no complaints!” She touched Eleanor’s coat sleeve. “And you? It was a brief meeting, but I envy you your patron. Is he generous, Eleanor? Are you happy, then? I know the sporting life isn’t exactly what you had in mind, but a man like that could make it pleasant enough, yes?”
She gasped in shock. “Mr. Hastings is—not my patron. I don’t …”
Maggie eyed the carriage behind her, her expression chilling at the perceived slight. “Of course you don’t. You’re a good girl. So, it’s another shop you’re at, then? Or did you get a position as a governess for a family in Town?”
Eleanor’s face blazed with misery. “No. Mr. Hastings hired me, but not—I mean, I am not his …” The blush deepened, her conscience screaming at the twists of an impossible situation. I am not his mistress. I am simply the woman he paid to look at and who now eagerly beds him in a blissful dance of ruin that she never wants to end. Oh, God. How tangled is a life that I cannot describe it to anyone without disgracing myself? “I model for him. He is a painter.”
“Model?” she asked, her tone a bit too neutral. “Well, that’s different, then.”
Eleanor couldn’t meet her friend’s unflinching gaze. “It … is.”
“Well, I’m glad for you. You’ve kept your feet on the ground, as they say, and not become a light-skirt like some others.” Maggie crossed her arms. “You’re a lucky girl.”
“Yes. I truly am.” Eleanor swallowed nervously. “Mr. Hastings is—or rather, was a very generous employer.”
Maggie looked at the carriage behind them and the waiting driver. “So it seems.”
“I—hope you’ll let me—would you like to get something to eat? We can get out of the weather for a bit and—”
“I’
m pressed for time today, miss.” Maggie took a step back, all bravado as she defensively retreated from Eleanor’s charity. “And I’ll be warm enough after a toddy or two.”
“Margaret, I didn’t mean … You were always so kind and I would never insinuate that you—”
“My feelings aren’t bruised, Ellie. I’m no delicate flower, and I don’t want you to worry about me. Another day and we’ll sit over marzipan and teacups and talk about the weather. ’Course, if your man needs another model, you feel free to tell him I’m as cheerful as a magpie, yes? I still have his card and I’m not at all shy.”
Eleanor nodded, inwardly sickened at the idea of any other woman sitting for him as she did. Irrational jealousy made her even more miserable at the strained meeting with her friend. “Yes. Another day, then.”
Maggie sauntered off, her hips swaying provocatively as she walked and causing several men to stare appreciatively. Eleanor could only watch her go and wish that somehow she’d been less like Mrs. Dunleigh and more like Mrs. Clay in their encounter.
Josiah dabbed another smattering of paint on the canvas. It was all he could do to pray that Eleanor wouldn’t get back too quickly and catch him with his nose less than three inches from the surface of his work.
His head was pounding from the strain on his eyes, but once again, he was driven by the idea of capturing his beloved muse in oils. Eleanor in some white organza shift and pearls was an ethereal vision, and Josiah was determined to paint her as an earthbound angel.
Especially since he knew with each passing hour that his angel was bound to fly off. Even without the pressing deadline of the meeting with the Jackal, he would have to face losing her sooner rather than later. Eleanor’s nature would not allow her to remain much longer. No matter how liberated the sexual fire was between them, she was still a respectable creature of the world.
How much longer will she allow me to love her as I do?
If only I could marry her. …
The fantasy spun out again, and for longer than usual, it held steady in his mind’s eye. Eleanor could help him bear the unbearable. The comfort of her presence might make life worth living, even if he couldn’t paint again.
Hell, I’ve money enough to hire an army of servants to free her from my personal care and—
His stomach turned at the idea of being a pitiable object requiring care, and even if his dear wife weren’t directly involved, it made it worse to think of Eleanor seeing him that way. Josiah pressed his hand against his eyes, using the heat of his fingertips to try to press away the grim fog.
It was only a matter of time before he would be forced to confess his illness to her.
Perhaps it was better if his last vision of her involved an honest reaction to his malady. Then he wouldn’t have to be tortured for the rest of his life wondering if he’d made the right decision.
Or you could man up and end it before it comes to that, Hastings.
His hand dropped and he looked again at the canvas and the first hints of the portrait there. Breaking her heart out of some backhanded effort to spare himself the agony of enduring her disgust or pity seemed cowardly, and Josiah firmly dismissed the idea.
I’ll tell her when it’s appropriate, and that will be that. If she leaves me before I get the chance, then that will be even better, but I’m not shoving that woman out the door until I have to, damn it! I’ve hired Creed and I’ve put new locks on the gate. Escher’s been warned not to allow any visitors he doesn’t know well and his wife’s been careful to source all her ingredients so we don’t run afoul of any more poisoners. It’s not as if the Jackal is going to draw more attention to himself before the meeting and spoil his chance to get his hands on whatever mysterious trinket he’s angling for.
Josiah stepped back to use a rag to clean his hands and surveyed his tools. Escher had left a tray with the day’s paper for him, but Josiah hadn’t been able to force himself to pick it up. Losing the ability to read had been a stinging blow to his ego and unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. Yesterday, Michael had sent another note, and after several long, unsuccessful minutes of watching the handwriting on the page slip and slide just out of his field of vision, Josiah had conceded defeat.
Even worse, he’d cut himself shaving no less than three times and was going to add that ignoble request to the list of Escher’s growing duties before too long.
It’s all happening so quickly now. There’s not much time left. But time perhaps for one last grand gesture—a fast private showing of the portrait to prove to her that no matter what else she may come to think of me, I was a man of my word.
The sound of Eleanor’s footsteps through the studio’s open doorway interrupted his thoughts, and Josiah forced himself to smile as she came into the room. “How was your outing?” he asked.
A lump formed in her throat; the image of Maggie standing on the sidewalk in her garishly bright clothes adrift in the world had nearly broken her heart. There but for the grace of God, go I.
“Eleanor?” He caught her hand. “What happened?”
“I saw Margaret from Madame Claremont’s on the street. She was the shop girl that you were kind to the day you rescued me. She is … living by her wits, Josiah. She is … the mirror of the life I might have been forced to have. Worse, I couldn’t help but ask what makes me any better? I’ve sold myself to—”
“No.” He cut her off softly. “No, I won’t have it, Eleanor. You were neither bought nor sold, and I won’t have you casting yourself in that light. What’s between us has nothing to do with commerce, damn it!” He pulled her to him, his grip on her shoulders firm and commanding. “Look at me, Eleanor. Look at me and tell me that you feel nothing for me and that all of this has been some kind of show.”
She shook her head slowly. “I can’t.”
“Tell me that you are misused or unhappy. Tell me that I compelled you to ruin and that you don’t long for my touch, even now. Can you do that?”
“I can’t.” The warmth of his fingers seared her flesh and awakened an answering heat inside of her.
“Then pity your friend, Eleanor, and be generous to her, if you wish. But don’t ever think for a single moment that there is an echo of you in her. You’d have drowned yourself in the Thames, God forbid, before you’d have fallen into the life she’s chosen. I know you well enough to know that for certain.”
Her eyes filled with tears. It was a wretched truth.
“And here is another thing for certain, my dear Eleanor.” He bent over to kiss the crest of her cheekbone and then trailed the magic of his lips against her skin over to her ear, where he whispered, “I could not live in a world that didn’t have one impossible beauty named Beckett. I’ll march down to Hades to rescue you if I have to, woman. But this isn’t ruin, Eleanor.”
A moan escaped her lips at the fires he evoked inside of her and the petulant hunger that stirred to demand more of his kisses.
If it isn’t ruin, then what is it?
Chapter
23
“Give me a moment to wrestle with my nerves, Mr. Hastings.” Eleanor didn’t budge from her perch on the carriage seat. “My courage is failing me, sir.”
“Nonsense!” he chided her gently. “Just remember that this is your doing. You were the one who seemed disappointed I wasn’t showing it.” They had arrived together at friends of Josiah’s for an impromptu evening gathering to unveil her portrait. Salon parties were notoriously varied in attendance and lively social affairs. It was out of season and Josiah knew it would be a small event. He’d given his host carte blanche on the invitations with only one name added by Josiah on a whim.
Wisdom aside, if Keller shows, I’ll kick him in the shins myself.
But he doubted chemistry magnates bothered with art showings and didn’t expect any satisfaction. Instead, the evening would be about the two of them. Josiah wanted to please her by giving her a taste for the finer things and to allow himself the selfish indulgence of a public outing and the fantas
y that all was right in his world. It was a dream that wouldn’t last, but Josiah was too stubborn to let it go. He held out his hand to help her down from the carriage, smiling at the picture she presented of feminine allure and terror.
“You’re right.” She smiled but didn’t quite manage to unclench her hands from themselves in her lap. “You’re sure this is just a … friendly gathering.”
“Completely! Mr. Wall bought my first painting and is known for his lively and varied salon guests. No one will raise an eyebrow in this company! I’ve seen ballerinas sitting next to bishops and animal tamers trading philosophical arguments with reformists. Trust me, your elegant manners will stand you in good stead in a drawing room or a palace. There is nothing to fear.”
She took his hand, alighting from the carriage step gracefully to stand beside him. In a gesture that warmed him to his core, she’d yielded to his wishes and worn the infamous red velvet, aware of the theatrical presentation they would make and the stir it would cause. “Easy for you to say, Josiah. I’ve never heard you express a single fear of your own.”
“That’s because you banish them all, my dear Miss Beckett.” He leaned over, using the guise of readjusting her coat’s mantle to whisper against the sensitive white curve of her ear, “You’re a goddess, Eleanor.”
“Mr. Hastings! What a shocking thing to say!”
His arm pulled her against him, tucking her up against the warm wall of his chest. “Not at all. And since your followers are about to increase, I’d say that was a prophetic thing to say, woman.”
She pushed away from him as they reached the door, blushing but clearly pleased at the flattery.
“Ah! Here is the man of the hour!” Mr. Wall greeted them, enthusiastically pumping Josiah’s arm until it ached. Gus was as round as he was tall, and a comical figure, considering his complete lack of reserve—in all things. “Every name you gave me is here with bells on. You’ve sold it already, Hastings!”
Passion Wears Pearls Page 24