Raphael strode back to the press of bodies at the door. “The show’s over.”
“We want lessons,” a particularly strident voice said at the front of the crowd. It was the lady George had called Minerva. “We want the chance to draw something exciting.”
“Lessons from the Beast of Barden Hall?” he said laconically, not bothering to give her a second look, though out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stiffen.
“No one here cares about that. They are interested in meeting people through activity, not in gossiping about what someone may or may not have done. Whatever else you are, you are a bloody good painter.”
“Hear, hear!” someone else said at the end of the hall. Raphael met the caller’s eyes. Bertie. He’d anticipated anger from him, not that his friend would stand in line to enter.
God damn it. His plans were being upended at every turn, and back in the room, in the corner, Eyes-of-a-thousand-candles was, at that very moment, busy drawing a naked woman when, instead, he should have been drawing her naked face.
“Fine!” he snapped. “Come back at one o’clock and we will have a second sitting.”
A murmur of appreciation swelled, but he didn’t wait to acknowledge it. Instead, he withdrew into the room and began to work his way around the very committed painters.
They all had questions. Every single one of them, whether they were utterly talentless, or strikingly competent with the brush. They all wanted to try. Raphael could tell some would become bored by the end of the day and not return. Some would persevere but return to their primary interests by the end of the week. Indeed, some of them had wandered off subject and were busy embellishing Fantasia’s beautiful nude body with flowing dresses, or delicate ammonites at the edges of the canvas.
His breath became shallower as he neared the back of the room where the lady sat. As he drew nearer, thoughts of her consumed him. He could feel her eyes on his back.
Who in the hell was she? He’d discovered little about her moniker, apart from the fact that the Wolf of Weatherop Wold had apparently died two years before and had done something so awful that none in the Wolds would entertain the Weatherop family. He didn’t feel sorry for them, but neither did he feel the need to shun the daughter for the sins of the man.
All he wanted was her face. He was his father’s son, after all.
Finally, he folded the last artist’s fingers correctly around the brush and directed the man’s hand toward the canvas.
He turned and edged into the corner, and quickly stepped back when the lady whipped her hand away from the canvas and sat demurely, wrists crossed, palms in her lap.
Dryness invaded his throat. He eased into a rumbling cough and forced himself to look only at the canvas. Again, she surprised him. She had painted Fantasia’s face, capturing her bored, slightly mocking expression and the enigmatic twist to her lips in intimate detail.
Unwillingly, his eyes flicked to the painter’s lips, but to his frustration, she kept her head low, the half face that he had seen from afar now covered by the curve of her netted veil.
“Do you like what you see?” the lady murmured.
“Of course.”
The fruit on her hat bobbed as she briefly looked up, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of rosy, parted lips.
Raphael blankly stared at the canvas, memorizing not the image of Fantasia in front of him, but rather the glorious pink of the parted lips that he had just seen. “What is your name?”
Her laugh tinkled. “I am the Whelp of Weatherop—”
“Wold. Yes, I heard. Though that’s not technically possible. I don’t care for silly ton names. I want to know yours.”
Only the twitching of her hands in her lap belied her indecision. Raphael waited, certain that he would have victory.
“I’ll leave you to find out,” she said finally.
“Why?” Why was she being so evasive?
She shrugged. “Because you need a challenge.”
“And you?” Raphael almost purred. “What do you need?”
She tilted her head again, this time her lips curved in amusement. “I’ll leave you to find out,” she repeated, a tinge of rose coloring her cheeks as she spoke.
By gods. She was hoping to dangle him on a string! It was as his father had bemoaned. They all tried it, though always when he’d cast them off, bored with their moans and gripes, their need to be with him.
Though never before the dance had even begun.
Chapter Five
Ophelia didn’t know how she managed to extricate herself from the room. She couldn’t seem to take in enough life-giving air. She hadn’t lifted her head until Raphael edged away from her as if she’d become a burning hot specimen not to be touched.
Had she gone too far? No. Especially not for a man who had brought a nude model into the club just to try and lure her in.
At least, she thought he had done that for her. At the start, she’d seen his eyes flick around the crowd and alight on her for a second longer than necessary.
For the first time in a long time, Ophelia felt alive.
She collected Mrs. Grundy from the room where all the older chaperones had been chatting and called for a carriage before Raphael could make it down the stairs and catch her again.
In the cab, she finally unfurled the paper she had snatched from the canvas before Raphael had turned. She’d hidden it between her skirts and legs as he’d spoken, sure that he would notice her suspicious movements.
The charcoal covered paper unfurled backwards along her leg, revealing Raphael’s smoothly sinful face in its full glory.
“Ooh that’s a good likeness,” Mrs. Grundy said cheerfully. “I only saw him for a moment in the hall, but you’ve definitely captured the Beast to perfection, Ophelia.”
Ophelia hastily turned the paper over. “He gave it to us as an assignment.”
“Oh. Not the nude lady, then?” Mrs. Grundy said.
“Yes. And that.” Ophelia narrowed her gaze at Mrs. Grundy. The woman was a friend of her aunt’s. As far as Ophelia had ever known, the lady had spent most of her time asleep or in blissed unconcern about the world around her. She would have been a gift of a chaperone for a debutante intent on getting some worldly bronze. Which was why Ophelia had brought her along to the Club.
“About time you started to have fun, Ophelia. I was beginning to despair you were going to turn out like Amelia. I don’t know how many times I fell asleep at all those balls in the hope you might find a man that you liked.”
Ophelia crumpled the paper in her hand in shock. She had been doing what? “I’m not sure it was the case that I was trying to find a man that I liked. Rather more that I was waiting for a man to find me.”
“Hah.” Mrs. Grundy blew her nose on yet another pristine white handkerchief and pushed the used fabric back into a pocket. “Never happens that way for anyone. Take that Athena lady, for example. She’s had any number of men ask for her hand and she’s done nothing about it. She seems to be searching for something.”
“She has a crush on Mr. Russell.”
Mrs. Grundy sniffed despite having just blown her nose. “Everyone knows about that. He can’t shake her off. He’s completely unsuitable for her, though. The entire club can see it.”
Carefully, Ophelia rolled up her picture, placed it on the seat next to her, and folded her arms. With a small scraping sound, the picture unrolled almost immediately. Ophelia sighed and gave up. “Since when did you become an authority on the club?”
Mrs. Grundy smiled. “Since we started going. Some of the other chaperones and companions are old hands. They say Mr. Baker has the magic touch. He knows exactly who is going to be paired with whom. I wish your aunt Amelia had known of the club fifteen years ago. I feel sure she would have met somebody.”
Ophelia knew that Mrs. Grundy and her aunt had made their come out together. She’d never been clear why the stout Mrs. Grundy had snagged a respectable match, whilst her aunt, though wealthy in her own right, had st
ayed resolutely on the shelf.
“According to one lady I’ve met, Mr. Baker says that some of the people at the club need to work through their issues before they can meet their life partner. Sounds very sensible.”
Ophelia unfolded her arms. “I wonder who he’s picked out for me, then.”
“He didn’t tell you?” Mrs. Grundy leaned forward and said in an almost whisper, “What did he say about Lord Barden?”
Ophelia squirmed slightly. “He didn’t say anything. He merely agreed to my demands.”
Mrs. Grundy’s mouth dropped open. “You made demands?” In mock horror, she looked around the carriage. “What have you done with the real Ophelia Weatherop?”
Ophelia looked away. Perhaps she had been a little hasty with her actions. “I wonder whether I’m working through issues or— Oh.” Of course, she was.
Mrs. Grundy patted her hand. “That’s the thing about love, it’s hard to tell. And if you don’t make some demands”—she shrugged—“you never risk your heart.”
Ophelia looked down at the demon-angel she’d captured on paper. A whelp and a wishful thinker ran through her head. “I’m not in love. I barely know the man. I’m just looking for a little excitement.” She clapped her hand to her mouth and, with the other, crumpled the paper hard against the seat into a small ball. “Please Mrs. Grundy, forget that I said that. Please don’t tell my aunt.”
“Wouldn’t think of it. Amelia wouldn’t understand, anyway. She’s been alone too long.” Mrs. Grundy leaned closer. “We’re all looking for a bit of excitement, love. Some of us deserve it more than most.” She nodded at Ophelia and eyed the crumpled ball in her lap. “So, what are you going to do next?”
Next? Was Ophelia really going to continue on this crazy course, especially when she knew that even after the chase, she wouldn’t risk the tumble? Because after that came the rejection. And then the boredom again…
She had to prolong the chase. Ophelia was becoming addicted to the burning frisson of awareness, the impression of something about to happen each time Lord Barden’s hot hand brushed hers.
A small smile spread across Ophelia’s face as she decided. “We’ll give him a little something to think about.”
“The man you want to marry.”
Ophelia was still stuck thinking about Lord Barden’s hands. “Yes.”
Mrs. Grundy slid her a sly look.
Ophelia’s brain caught up with her ears. “No! I mean, no!” Oh dear. Methinks even I do protest too much.
Ophelia’s next move employed an artfully draped scarf and cutting the netting off her fruit laden hat. For the first time since she had entered the marriage mart, a spring loaded her step. She missed the Wednesday art class, and returned to the club on Friday, early enough to arrange herself in the corner.
Considerably fewer people attended the class this time. Athena and Minerva arrived, as well as three of the older gentlemen. Athena gave her a blank look, Minerva a more assessing one. Then, unexpectedly, she winked.
Ophelia played nervously with the chiffon scarf as Lord Barden’s familiar form entered the room. He carried an enormous rug-covered object which he deposited with ease on a pedestal at the front by the windows. She nearly missed his quick glance around that rested briefly on her before returning to his task. Seemingly finally satisfied, with a showman’s twist, Raphael twitched the rug from the object and stood back.
The removal of the cover revealed a beast. A three-foot-tall, many legged antelope with a leopard’s head and elephant’s trunk all fashioned in porcelain.
She couldn’t stop staring at it. The painted eyes seemed to follow the observer around the room, noting that though you were looking at it, it too was looking at you.
“How fascinating!” Athena tittered at the front. “What a fabulous object to paint.”
Ophelia wanted to throw her paint brush like a spear over the easels. Hadn’t Athena grasped the significance of the object?
Slowly she looked up at Lord Barden and met his hard, dark gaze. Her heart thudded. He hadn’t brought the object in for them all to paint. He’d brought the beast in for her to notice. For her.
Her eyes flicked back to the many-parted animal, flicking through the significance in her head. A leopard can’t change its spots. Crushed with an elephant’s feet. She lifted her eyes again to meet Lord Barden’s gaze, which had never left hers. He seemed to hold her gaze as if needing to see her eyes forever.
Which had been her precise plan. But the knowledge that this had been her intention didn’t stop the blush that started somewhere behind her ears and travelled straight to her already warm cheeks.
Quickly, she dipped her face back down into her scarf, and kept her eyes on the canvas. It was the eyes that seized her. The eyes of the Beast that looked out as one looked in. I am watching you, and you are watching me.
So that is what she started to paint.
The act of capturing the beast on canvas was yet another allegory, she realized as she pushed the paint almost angrily onto the canvas, painting an image of painted eyes—a dim shade of an already beautiful object. Almost like using the word Beast or Whelp without really knowing its origin, without knowing its story, yet repeating the word all the same.
How could this man be a beast when he thought at depths that most of the ton couldn’t reach? He was a man of subtlety, of many parts. If she had been a man with women throwing themselves at her, then surely she would have treated them the same, enjoyed the dalliance and then thrown them back to the pond so that they could swim on. Why was it his fault that none of them were suitable? Why was it his fault if one of the women had reputedly been the Prince Regent’s Mistress, even though Ophelia was sure the affair had never happened?
She couldn’t stop her upward glance to meet his dark gaze. He nodded as if understanding her sudden realization of yet another piece of the painting, but he continued talking. “After this session, I’m going…”
Now I’m going. It flooded back to her. The ton watching Lord Barden as he’d almost pulled Carina into the ballroom with white-stressed knuckles, and pulled her out again, without dancing. Lord Concard’s ball had been a show, she realized. A show of false togetherness.
But why?
Lord Barden swept his eyes away from hers, around the room, yet she was sure he spoke to her alone. “All of art is a practice in pulling out a meaning, something that you want to convey about the object or the sitter. Merely painting what is in front of you alone does not mark you out.”
“Surely, you need some skill in painting, to start with. I know what I like to look at,” Athena’s voice was sickly sweet, the voice of an infatuated pupil.
“Yes, perhaps.” Lord Barden shrugged. “But, generally, an artist will be trying to subtly show character, or comment on a life passing. Take, for example, the porcelain object in front of you. Outwardly strong, yet push it too far and this lovely thing will shatter and be no more.”
Lord Barden’s hard eyes met Ophelia’s for a third time. Was he warning her? Telling her that if she taunted him too much that he would leave her alone?
Ophelia’s eyes skittered away first. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? The chase but not the follow through? A chance to spread her wings a little, to pass the time?
She turned her attention back to the porcelain eyes, unwittingly picking them out on the canvas in brown and black, with flecks of brilliant white attempting to convey the subtlety of its gaze. The rumble of conversation carried on around her as she worked herself deeper into the picture, the brilliant white turning from small flecks to a more rounded form.
“I’m surprised,” Lord Barden’s soft voice growled disturbingly close to her. He clacked open a chair and sat down next to her, staring at her canvas. “You were listening.” Without pause, he said, “Tell me your name.”
Ophelia shook her head and risked a sideways glance, but he stared at the canvas.
“Please give me your brush.”
Ophelia held the bru
sh between finger and thumb, sure if she touched him again she would risk showing the whirl of emotion that his proximity had whipped into being.
He took it from her and dipped the brush in a shade of blue that she’d originally squeezed onto her palette, then swirled the loaded brush in the brilliant white. With ten strokes, he swirled the paint onto the canvas through the white highlights she’d created in the leopard’s eyes.
Then he turned to look at her, dropped the brush back on the easel, and absently wiped his hands on his breeches. She didn’t—couldn’t—stop him as he pulled down the chiffon scarf that had covered her mouth and nose, and tipped her chin up to the light, causing her large hat to tilt precariously backwards.
His breath feathered her exposed cheek. She gazed at him as helplessly as an antelope caught by a leopard on the savannah.
“No,” he murmured, leaning forward. “This is not over. More paint is needed on the canvas before this is finished.”
Then he kissed her, his mouth falling upon her parted lips, hard and commanding. Ophelia could barely breathe. She was sure that most of her body had caught fire. She held herself rigid, aware that her body would betray her the moment she moved.
Raphael withdrew as quickly as he had advanced, baring no expression that acknowledged what he had done.
She couldn’t stop the question that fell from her lips, “Why was your affair with Carina a charade?”
His shadow fell over her as he walked away.
Ophelia returned to herself. Why had she asked that? She stared at the canvas. With the quick strokes of his brush, Lord Barden had painted a woman into the reflection of the surroundings that Ophelia had inserted in the leopard’s eyes. A woman standing in front of a crowd of others, not hiding at the back behind her easel. She was at once apart, yet central.
And she looked exactly like Ophelia.
Beautiful Beast (The Marriage Maker Book 36) Page 4