by Nancy Butler
“No, Jemima!” he cried, trying to block her entry into this most sanctified room in his home. But she managed to elude his outstretched hands and went directly to the Frans Hals on the easel.
“It’s remarkable,” she said. “Look how you’ve captured the gleam in her eye. Oh, and look at this—” She had flitted over to a Titian Madonna which sat on a tarpaulin and crouched down before it.
“How in blazes did you get in here?” he said, his hands fisted at his side.
That she had come here to accost him and had been instantly distracted by his paintings was gratifying to his artistic pride, but it somehow tweaked his male vanity. He wanted to pick her up bodily and toss her into the hall. Better yet, throw her out the window. It was three flights to the street—that should slow her down a bit. But he dared not touch her. That would spell the beginning of his downfall.
“I bribed your butler,” she said simply, looking up over her shoulder. Her gaze shifted back to the Titian. “How did you get her gown to be so very blue and so very green at the same time?”
I made it the color of your eyes, he wanted to answer. Instead he turned away from her and drew a drape over the portrait of the merry Dutch lady.
“I’m not going to even acknowledge that you’re here,” he said, refusing to look at her. “Though I doubt the ton will be so obliging. But if you choose to become a byword, who am I to…”
She was moving again. Before he could stop her, she went to the wooden rack at the rear of the studio and began to slide a painting from its storage slot. He strode over to the rack and grappled with her, trying to pry the unframed canvas from her hands. His fingers touched her skin and he drew back as if he’d been burned.
She traced her hands above the painting, which showed two children huddled in the shadows of a dark alley. In spite of the decay and detritus around them, their expressions were as hopeful and as poignantly wise as that of the Titian Madonna on the tarp.
“How?” she cried softly, grasping the painting between her hands. “How could you paint this?”
Bryce shrugged. “I am drawn to low things. I thought you knew that.”
“No,” she said. “I meant how did you capture them, their spirit and their pain?”
She drew several more paintings from the rack—a lone harlot in a blue-lit avenue, her scarlet lips a stark contrast to the pale, consumptive cast of her skeletal face…a group of men idling in a grog shop doorway, their clothing tattered and their eyes glazed with gin, each of them regarding the other with companionable affection. More children, some with their careworn mothers…more whores with the weight of shame and the cocky pride of endurance in their faces.
When Jemima rose to her feet, her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and when she turned that gaze on him, Bryce thought that perhaps he should throw himself from the window.
“Studio tour’s over, Jemima,” he said brusquely, still trying to rally from the blow of seeing her again. “I won’t ask for the ten bob I usually charge nosy females.”
“I knew about those paintings,” she said, sketching a motion toward the covered easel. “Prinny was in his cups last night and started bragging to Troy. He told him he’d found the best artist in Christendom to copy paintings for him. He said he sends you off to the homes of those in the ton who won’t part with their masterpieces, and that you make studies in watercolor and complete them back here in London.”
“Like any good forger,” he said, still not letting himself look at her. Her scent, however, a delicate blend of tuberose and gardenia, had managed to reach him in spite of the more pungent studio odors.
“No,” she countered. “This isn’t forgery…not when you’re selling your work to the Prince Regent. I would call you a copyist,” she added primly, “for lack of a more illustrious name.”
He scowled broadly. “And so now that you know I’m not engaged in any criminal activity, but rather in mere commerce, I gather you’ve come to tender your apologies for again misjudging me.”
“Devil take you, Bryce!” she cried. “You sound like…like what I imagine your father sounded like when he was reading you and Kip a lecture. Oh, don’t you see… I wouldn’t care if you were forging masterpieces. I’d have honed my painting skills, just so that I could work with you…be with you.”
Her voice drifted to a reverent whisper as she knelt beside the painting of the street Arabs. “But even if I studied for a thousand years, I would never be able to paint like this. It’s such a gift, Bryce. And it’s a crime to keep them hidden away here.” She tipped her head up. “I know people who could sponsor you, the directors of the Royal Academy…”
That’s it, he thought, the very last straw. She thought he’d allow her to pander for him.
He walked to the door, pointed to the hall with an imperious finger, and uttered, “I don’t need a patroness, Lady Jemima. And as you’ve so often pointed out to me, I already have a muse. Now, if you would kindly take yourself away from here, I need to get back to work.”
She sighed as she rose to her feet and walked up to him. “You’re going away,” she said. “Prinny was complaining to Troy about it. And I saw your trunks in the downstairs hall.”
“Yes,” he said, keeping his eyes trained on the doorpost opposite him.
“To Barbados? To your father?”
“I can’t imagine that my destination is of any concern to you.” He stopped himself in mid-sneer. “But, yes, that is where I’m going.”
She clutched her reticule so tightly that the tendons in both hands stood out in relief beneath her lace mitts. “Let me come with you,” she said in a barely audible whisper.
Bryce’s eyes showed a brief flicker of brightness but then clouded over instantly. He hitched his shoulders. “I can’t stop you if you want to go haring across the ocean. What, does Troy fancy a sojourn in the tropics?”
“I don’t want to go with Troy,” she said crossly. “He’s turned into a monster, for one thing.”
“A monster?” he echoed. “How is this? I’ve seen how he looks after you now, how he caters to you.”
“Have you?” she mused. “I wonder how you’ve seen those things. But I blame you that he’s become like this. You left him that note, you see. And now he is riddled with guilt and barely leaves me alone for an instant. I can’t so much as return a book to the subscription library without him dancing attendance on me. He coddles me unmercifully—a pillow for my head, a footstool for my feet. It’s toddies and warm milk and nourishing broths. I feel like an invalid, Bryce. This is not the way I want to live my life… I am not a hothouse blossom. But he is determined to make things up to me, and it’s all your fault.”
Bryce nearly grinned. Poor Jem. Troy had switched his single-minded obsession from pursuing idle entertainment to ruthlessly ensuring the well-being of his sister.
“Hmm? First he was too neglectful and now he is too attentive. I perceive that you are a difficult woman to please, Jemima.”
“I’m not difficult.” she cried in frustration. “You of all people know how easy I am to please.”
He steeled himself and looked down at her. Once his heart had stopped flailing in his chest, he said, “I can’t say that I ever really gave it much thought.”
She hung her head in defeat; the bright spirit had been siphoned right out of her in the space of an instant.
I can’t do this much longer, he reflected grimly. Every time I strike at her, another gaping wound tears open inside me.
He stepped back into the room, to allow her to pass into the hall. But she just stood there. He watched her shoulders quiver and damned himself thrice over for his own bloody pigheadedness.
“I realize now,” she said in a ragged voice, “that I never once told you how I felt about you. I made you believe I was girded against your flattery and immune to your charm. Even when I lay in your arms, I never let down my guard. And so I can’t blame you if you are callous to me, or even cruel. You think your words cannot pierce my maidenly armor.” She paused. “
But they can…they do.”
“You’d better go, Jemima,” he said quietly. “There is no profit in baring your soul to me.”
She turned her head even farther away from him and rubbed surreptitiously at her nose. “Yes,” she said, putting her chin up as she faced him. “I expect you’ve saved us both from an awkward scene.”
She went from the room in a rush; he heard her slippers tap-tapping on the wooden stairs. This time he couldn’t prevent himself from hastening to the window. He’d allow himself at least the token. It was some relief to lean his face against the cool glass, while he waited for his heart to walk out of his home.
* * *
Jemima barely saw the stairs beneath her feet; her vision was still clouded with unshed tears. She stumbled onto the landing of the first floor and nearly collided with two porters who were carrying a painting through the open door of what appeared to be a bedroom.
She apologized quickly and was about to make her way down the next flight of stairs, when the porters swung toward her and she was able to see the front of the canvas. It was a portrait of a woman reclining in a field of wildflowers. The breeze whispered tendrils of chestnut hair away from her brow as the sunlight played over her upraised face. The woman was beautiful, full of life and vitality, in spite of her relaxed pose.
Jemima caught sight of her own face in the rectangular mirror that hung beside the bedroom door and wondered how the plain, unremarkable person who gazed back at her could have inspired this glorious painting. And when the answer came to her, her face broke into a tremulous smile of joy. And though she did not note it, the woman whose face was now reflected back to her was anything but plain.
“Excuse us, ma’am,” one of the porters grumbled.
“Put it down,” she said to the man, imploring him with her eyes. “Please. Just for a moment.”
They set the painting against the doorpost and retired into the shadows at the end of the hall. Jemima crouched down before it and touched the gilt frame in wonder. She didn’t hear the rapid footsteps coming down the stairs, but she knew it the instant he came to stand behind her.
“I’m not surprised you’d rather take her with you,” she said. “She is much more beautiful than I am.”
He leaned forward and rested his hands on her shoulders. “I painted what I saw, Jemima. Only what I saw.”
She turned to look up at him, placing her hand over his. And then she frowned. “You painted this,” she whispered in bewilderment. “And yet you could send me away?”
He shook his head as he knelt down behind her and pulled her back against his chest. His arms crossed over her waist, holding her tight and strong. “I… I was coming down to stop you. To chase you through the streets, if necessary. Because I don’t want the blasted painting, Jemima. I want you.”
“You’ve an odd way of showing it, then.” She was trying to hold on to her caution. Though it was difficult with the feel of him so warm against her back.
“I am an idiot,” he said against her hair. “A blind fool.”
“Who would have sailed away from England without a word to me.”
He sighed so deeply she felt it rumble in her own chest. “Perhaps. I thought you would get over this…over me, if I left you alone. I never expected you to come here, to seek me out.” His voice teased her. “It’s not the sort of thing Lady Jemima Vale would do.”
“It is now,” she stated intently. “I seem to have strayed off the…what was it?…the narrow path of my convictions.”
“Ah, Jem.” He leaned forward and stroked his mouth over the delicate rise of her collarbone. Jemima’s spine melted like hot wax and she sank back into him. When he canted her head back with his chin and set his mouth on hers, she moaned and sighed. And then she chuckled deep in her throat.
Bryce chided her gently. “I thought I’d warned you that laughing was not allowed during a seduction. You’ve got to pay more attention, my heart, if you expect to make any progress.”
“I forgot,” she said with false contriteness. “Besides that wasn’t a proper laugh. But your porters are goggling at us from the end of the hall. I thought you might like to know.”
“Hmm? Not very good for my reputation. I do have standards to keep up.”
With that he plucked her off her feet and carried her into his bedroom. “Get on with it,” he called to the porters just before he kicked the door shut. He tumbled Jemima onto the bed, then stood looking at her with fond irritation. She was laughing outright now, trying to stifle her giggles with one hand.
“I think you’ve caught a bad case of melodrama from Lovelace,” she said. “A pity you don’t have a nice theatrical mustache, like Percival Lancaster in The Rake’s Reform.”
He lay down beside her and raised her hand to his lips. “I could grow one if you like. I’d look a proper villain then.”
She leaned up on one elbow and traced her fingers over the elegantly molded line of his mouth. “No,” she crooned in the same reverent tone she had used to praise his paintings. “You’re perfect the way you are.”
With an impatient sigh he tugged off her lace mits and drew her hands again to his face. He wanted to feel her touch on his skin with no barriers between them.
“This might be a good time to tell me—” he began. And then he groaned as she danced her fingers over his earlobe. “Tell me…what you feel for me. Not that I am without some vague notion…”
She leaned over him until they were nearly mouth to mouth. “You make me feel young, Beech,” she whispered. “And alive, and…so…complete. No one’s ever seen me the way you do. I’m not speaking of looks or beauty. You see inside me. It frightened me at first, that you could do that. And then I felt as though I could not live without it. Without you knowing me… That was the dream I spoke of in Sir Walter’s meadow—that some man would see me, in spite of Troy’s long shadow.”
He lay there with a thoughtful expression on his face, his eyes drifting over the painted clouds that adorned the sky blue ceiling. “Not exactly what I expected, Jem. But nice…very, very nice.”
“Well,” she said. “What about you? Can’t drum up a few platitudes?”
When he did not answer at once, she shifted away from him. “Here’s a fine how’d you do. I come to your house like any brazen hussy, to throw myself at you quite shamelessly. And you can’t even—”
“Hush, pet,” he said, laying a finger on her mouth. “It’s not easy to find the right words.”
Her frown deepened. “This is your last chance—I’ve offered myself to you three times now…”
“Three is a nice, righteous number, Jem,” he said softly. “I learned that in divinity school.”
“You also learned how to kiss like a fallen angel while you were there,” she said crossly.
He rolled over and caught her beneath him, trapping her with his long legs and lean body. “Are you complaining?” His mouth hovered dangerously over hers, his eyes turned to molten pewter. “I thought you liked my kisses. Except for that wretched day in the library, when I forced myself on you.”
She touched his cheek. “I prayed you’d never stopped kissing me that day. I still dream of those kisses.”
“You do?” His brows knit. “Well, I was a benighted fool to stop then, wasn’t I?” Lowering his mouth, he drifted it over her lips. “I won’t make that mistake again,” he murmured.
Jemima was quite satisfied with the quality and duration of his kiss this time, even if her toes were curled into hard little knots and her belly felt as if a sawmill blade were whirring out of control.
When he was done ravishing her mouth, Bryce leaned over and drew a book from his night table. “Here,” he said, still a bit shaky. “Perhaps this will explain it better than my feeble attempt at words. This lies beside me while I sleep.”
She took it from him. It was her sketchbook, which she’d inadvertently left behind at the Prospect.
“You’d gotten rather good,” he said as he opened it to the drawings she’
d made in the garden. “But I also treasured the not-so-good ones. Every smudge and erasure. Because…you made them.”
“Oh, Bryce.” She sighed. “I think you must love me…to be so daft over my horrid drawings.”
He removed the book from her hands and clasped them between his own.
“I don’t know if what I feel for you is love,” he said haltingly. “I’ve shied away from that emotion since Lady Anne. I can tell you this—there is not one minute of each day that I don’t think of you, or miss your voice or your smile. Or your touch. I reach for you in my darkest dreams, Jemima, like a man who has lost the light.”
She bowed her head over their entwined hands. “I can’t ask for more than that.”
“You should,” he said, tipping her face up. “You deserve to be loved.” He gazed at her, his eyes unguarded. “And whatever name you want to give to this feeling, it’s all I have to offer you. I have no wealth, no stature, no expectations, only a heart that longs to be taken into your keeping.” He drew her to his chest and cradled her there, a balm to his troubled spirit. “If you will have such a tarnished creature. I dare not turn you away again, Jemima. It would surely kill me this time.”
She tucked her head under his chin and smiled deliriously.
“So you’ll marry me?” he asked in a matter-of-fact voice, unaware that Jemima could hear the anxious tumult of his heart beneath his shirt. “And sail with me to Barbados in three days’ time? I expect your illustrious brother can procure a special license—my days of trafficking with the clergy are behind me, I’m afraid. That way we can be wed before we go. I… I don’t fancy a sea voyage in separate cabins.”
He’s babbling, she thought with a shivery thrill. The cool, collected, utterly composed Beecham Bryce, he of the honeyed tongue and unshakable poise, was babbling.
She drew back from his chest and nodded. “But only on two conditions.”
He eyed her with skeptical humor and muttered, “Here is where I pay the piper.”
“I can live with the fact that you are an exceptional artist—I see now it’s my fate to be always in the company of genius. But you must promise me that you will never, ever, take up writing poetry.”