Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (54 page)

He stroked the piece of wood for the frame of Cameo's portrait. He was using ash, of course, an added homage to the girl in the Tennyson poem upon which the painting was based, with her hair blacker than ash buds. The Venus of the woods, the poet Gilpin called the ash tree. With its elegant beauty and its slender grey trunk, it reminded him of Cameo as he'd first seen her in her grey dress.

Flexing his aching muscles, he stretched his stiff shoulders. His tired limbs wouldn't obey him for too much longer. He'd been locked away in the studio for days now. He barely recalled the last time he went outside for air, and not until swaying with hunger did he remember to eat.

The ash cut well as he carved the frame. He handled it with respect for its beauty, for nothing was more beautiful than an ash tree burst into leaf. It was believed by many to be magical, used for charms and remedies, and his mother had been able to predict if the summer would be wet or dry by whether the ash came into leaf before the oak. It was uncanny; she'd always been right.

He'd carve ash leaves and ash buds on the frame, too, as well as its flowers, to add another layer to the painting. He glanced over to where the portrait stood on the easel, drying. So close now to completion. He brooded over the work, more pleased than he dared to admit. The colours were the exact tints he sought, the lines were the cleanest he'd ever accomplished and the natural detail appeared true and painstakingly fine. He'd hoped to paint so well, suspected it, worked towards it, dreamed of it. But he hadn't been sure of achieving it, not until he'd stood and studied the almost-finished portrait. Then he'd known for certain. He'd found his muse. She'd entranced him right from the start, with her quickness, her spirit and her unique ability to focus as he worked. She was the perfect model for him, perhaps because she was an artist, too. His smile faded, thinking of the sketch she'd burnt. It had shown real promise. He still wasn't sure why she had cast it into the fire.

The light shadowed. He lit the lamp, wondered where she was that night. When she'd told him she couldn't come to pose for a few days, he hadn't asked her why, because he hadn't wanted to hear her answer. She had denied having a lover, but she must be with her protector, the man who kept her in such style in Mayfair. It slammed into him again then, the pain in his gut. He'd never felt so possessive of a model before, of any woman. He'd practically lived with Maisie Jones and she had been disloyal to him, probably more than once, but he had never felt this way.

He frowned. If Cameo had a protector, why had he, Benedict, been the only man to make love to her? He'd only become more certain of it. If he'd known she was untouched, he might not have made love to her that night. But how could a night like that be regretted? It had been unforgettable.

He wanted all of her, body and soul.

Again. For ever. In front of his easel. In his arms. In his bed.

His alone.

Benedict took up his chisel. When Cameo returned it would be time to ask some questions after all.

* * *

‘I thought I'd find you here.'

Cameo's skin prickled. Lord Warley slithered up beside her, silent as a serpent. Perfectly turned out as usual, he wore a black-tailed dinner coat with a maroon waistcoat. He smiled, seemingly pleased to have caught her unawares. She wasn't sure how long she'd been in the gallery, spellbound.

He broke the spell. ‘You've spoilt my surprise.' He waved around the gallery. ‘I planned to bring you here after dinner tonight. What do you think of them?'

What did she think of them? What did he imagine she thought of the most glorious collection of Old Masters she'd ever seen outside the Royal Academy? She stared at the pictures lining the scarlet walls of the long, elegant room with its stone floor. It reminded Cameo of the interior of a jewel box. Its walls like red velvet, the vibrant paintings—da Vinci, Titian, Raphael, Rembrandt—glowing in their golden frames as bright as coloured gems. ‘They're magnificent.'

He tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. ‘Of all that I inherited from my father, I think this collection pleased me most. For a number of reasons.' He smirked with satisfaction. ‘An excellent investment.'

Incredulous, she swayed her head, setting her pearl earrings swinging against her jaw. ‘How can you think of art merely as an investment? Surely you must appreciate it for its beauty.'

‘Make no mistake, I appreciate beauty.' He bent a bow. ‘I am not an art lover, but my family have been collecting art for centuries, my father in particular. He was quite the connoisseur. He travelled on a number of Grand Tours of Europe and brought home many of the paintings you see before you.'

‘He had excellent taste.'

‘Indeed.' He pointed to a wall of portraits. ‘And these are the family portraits. That's my father, the previous Lord Warley, but you knew him, of course.'

Cameo noted Lord Warley's resemblance to his dark-haired father. The previous earl's jaw appeared stronger, firmer than his son's. It reminded her of someone, but she couldn't think who.

‘And what do you think of Warley Park now you have spent some time here?'

Again she wondered what he expected her to say about such a magnificent estate. ‘Warley Park is beautiful.'

‘I wanted you to come here. I wanted you to see my home in all its glory.'

‘Well, now I have.'

‘This afternoon I spotted you coming out of the woods. So that's where you were hiding.' He lowered his voice. ‘I would have enjoyed hunting you down.'

Alone with Lord Warley in the woods—it didn't bear thinking about. She wouldn't dare venture into the solitude of the trees again.

She turned away from him and pretended to study a painting by Titian portraying a girl with the red hair so famously admired by the artist. She saw the feather-light paint strokes he made, the kind Benedict had told her about. She wondered how it might have been to model for Titian.

Nowhere near as wonderful as modelling for Benedict Cole.

Lord Warley nudged up behind her. She stifled her urge to run, like the rabbit she'd seen in the woods, as she felt his breath lifting the hairs on her neck.

Her petticoats whirled as she spun around.

‘I wonder if you have given any more thought to our discussion at Lady Russell's ball.'

Cameo backed up against the wall.

‘I refer to my desire to pay my addresses to you. Warley Park and all these paintings can be yours, Lady Catherine Mary.'

Why was he so intent on pursuing her? Surely he realised her lack of interest in him. ‘I thought you wished for more time for us to get to know each other,' she parried.

‘Why wait any longer? I have only become more certain of your charms.' He stretched his arm out straight beside her, his hand flat on the wall, blocking any movement. ‘Let me go to your father and ask his permission for your hand in marriage.'

Violently she shook her head. ‘No.'

‘Come, come. Don't be coy.' His tongue darted around his lips. ‘There's no other man who has your affections, is there?'

She jerked her head away, her hair catching on the gilt picture frame.

‘This is not the time for such a discussion, Lord Warley.' Pulling the strand of hair loose with a painful tug, she ducked beneath his arm and edged towards the door. ‘Hasn't the bell rung for dinner?'

In the dining room, her parents were already seated. Her mama gave her a reproachful look and her papa exclaimed, ‘Where did you get to, Cameo? Frightfully rude.'

A footman sped to help her into her chair. ‘I'm sorry, Papa.'

‘Allow me.' Lord Warley came in, waved the footman away and slid out her chair, taking the opportunity to slide his hands over her taffeta-clad hips. He assumed his own place at the head of the table, the butler standing to attention behind him.

In the light of the candelabra, the table groaned with blue-and-white china platters and tureens, ripe fruit piled high on silver stands, crystal glasses gleaming with ruby-red wine. The dining room itself, part of the few older sections of the house, was half-panelled in timber. Directly opposite her on a green wall was hung an enormous painting of a hound with a fox caught in its mouth. Disgusted, she twisted her head away, only to find her host's eyes fixed on her.

‘Do you appreciate that painting? It's one I purchased myself.'

Not surprised to learn it was his selection, she made no reply.

After a moment still staring at her, he pronounced, ‘I'm pleased to be able to dine alone tonight, just the four of us.
En famille
, might we almost say? And Lady Catherine Mary is looking particularly well.'

She didn't want Lord Warley to look at her that way. Only Benedict.

‘I'm delighted you could all come to stay,' Warley continued as the butler poured wine and the footmen served them roasted quail with tiny potatoes around it, like eggs in a nest. ‘Especially you, my lord.' He nodded to Cameo's father. ‘My father would have appreciated you considering yourself an honoured guest.'

The earl grunted. ‘Humph.'

Cameo threw him a sharp look. For a moment she wondered if her father was quite as impressed with Lord Warley as he always implied. But he was indestructibly loyal to his old friendship.

‘We're delighted, too,' Lady Buxton gushed, ‘aren't we, Cameo?'

She gave a slight movement of her head that might have meant anything.

‘I desired Lady Catherine Mary to see Warley Park,' Lord Warley said meaningfully, tapping his glass. ‘I've spent no time with her in London of late. I've made calls, but she's so often not at home.'

‘You must make sure you always receive old friends, Cameo,' the countess admonished. ‘I don't know what you've been doing recently.'

‘Spending time with her brother in Hyde Park, eh?' he queried lightly.

Cameo looked over to where Lord Warley sat expansively at the head of the table and caught a flicker of something cruel in his eyes.

She stared down at the quail's tiny, fragile bones on her plate. Sickened, she pushed the dish away.

* * *

‘Cole? May I come in? I saw your light on.'

The rap on the studio door diverted him.

Benedict threw down the chisel. ‘It's open.'

Trelawney entered, rubbing his hands together against the cold. Benedict realised he'd let the fire go down, as usual.

‘Thought I'd drag you out for a quick drink at the Lamb. Some dinner, too. You'll need it, if I know you.' Trelawney's gaze fell on the painting. ‘My goodness. So this is what you've been working on?'

There was always a difficult moment when Benedict first showed a painting, no matter how good he thought it, a moment when his stomach hit the floor.

Trelawney crossed the wooden floor to the easel and pulled an eyeglass from his waistcoat pocket, peering admiringly at the portrait. ‘My goodness. My goodness.'

He turned to Benedict. ‘You realise what you've done, don't you?'

Trelawney inspected it even more closely. He was surprisingly perceptive when it came to art assessment. ‘You've gone to a whole new level with your new model, Cole. It's magnificent. You've cracked it this time. Marvellous work.'

‘I've been like a man possessed,' he admitted.

‘I can see why. You have to get it into the Royal Academy, my boy.'

Benedict's head reared. ‘This year's show, do you mean? There's no time. It's too late. Entries have closed, haven't they?'

‘I can get around that,' the sculptor assured him. ‘I tell you, you have to get it in.'

‘I'm not sure.' He'd started it as a private project, an experiment. To drive him onward as a painter, to test his skills. Then Cameo had come to him. Now Benedict wasn't sure if he didn't want to keep the painting to himself.

‘Leave it all to me. I'm beginning to think you need someone to act for you. Perhaps I should offer my services, to be your agent, of a sort. I'd like to sell your work, if I may. This portrait alone is worth hundreds of pounds and someone should make sure you get it.' Trelawney chuckled as he tucked his eyeglass in his pocket. ‘I won't be making my fortune from my own work, alas. I have to say, I just don't seem to get a moment these days. So many soirées, too little time.'

Benedict smiled.

‘Seriously, dear boy.' Trelawney's face sobered as he clapped Benedict's shoulder. ‘This is ideal for the Academy. The selectors won't be able to resist it. Let me make the arrangements.'

‘Cameo should see it before it goes anywhere.'

‘But Miss Ashe will be delighted to view it
in situ
at the Academy,' Trelawney pronounced, pulling out the eyeglass once again. ‘How can she not? She'll be the talk of London. Just you wait and see.'

Chapter Fifteen

‘Go and see
The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that,
You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece.'

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener's Daughter'

C
ameo found Benedict asleep by the fireplace, his head resting against the armchair and his long legs sprawled out in front of him. She revelled in the moment to study him unawares, his strong jaw, with the slight stubble outlining it, the shadows beneath his eyes. He'd been working too hard.

The studio appeared to be in even more chaos than usual. An empty bottle of wine stood on the table next to a heel of bread and some cheese on a discarded plate. Papers with sketches all over them were scattered on the table and the floor and the fire was out, leaving only blackened embers in the grate.

She dropped a kiss on his lips. ‘Good morning,' she whispered into his ear.

Yawning, he opened his eyes. ‘Cameo?'

‘Who else?' She smiled mischievously. ‘I caught you napping, Mr Cole.'

‘Never.' With one strong wrench she fell into his lap, her bonnet pushed back, his mouth on hers. His hungry kiss told her without words that longing had not been hers alone. Her hands went to his hair, her fingers running through the dark thickness, yearning for him, seeking him. Her body refused to lie, she reflected with a guilty pang.

‘Now I've said good morning properly.' He drew away, leaving her giddy against his chest. ‘We mustn't forget the social niceties you're so fond of. Will that do?'

‘Yes,' she answered weakly, stumbling to her feet. Her knees buckled beneath her petticoats. She'd never have believed a man could make her swoon.

‘I missed you while you were gone.' He caressed a tendril of her hair as he, too, got to his feet.

‘And I missed you.' He'd never guess how much. Every hour without him at Warley Park had been a form of torture. She thought the visit there would never end with Lord Warley's eyes constantly on her as if he were plotting his next pounce, as if he were hunting game. Here in the studio she felt safe and secure.

Benedict jerked his head towards the easel, draped in a cloth. ‘I've enjoyed an advantage while you've been away. I've had you with me day and night. I haven't been able to stop.'

‘The portrait?'

‘Something else I'm making. You're a distraction.' His warm fingers glided along her curves, over her waist and hips. ‘I'll show you, but first I've got something important to tell you.'

‘I've got something to tell you, too.' While at Warley Park she'd worried that he might become so angry with her about her deception he might cast her out of the studio. But she had to risk it. There must be honesty between them now. She was going to tell him. She had vowed it. But she'd pose first and gather her courage. ‘Aren't you forgetting? I'm here to earn my shilling.'

‘There's no need for you to pose.'

Her heart thumped. ‘What do you mean?'

‘That's what I wanted to tell you.' Benedict smiled. She'd missed his smile so much. ‘It happened while you were gone. The moment I knew the work was complete. I knew I shouldn't add one more brushstroke.'

‘The painting's done?' she gasped.

‘I don't think I've ever worked so fast,' he explained. ‘You've had a powerful effect on me. I felt a kind of anguish in finishing it, in stopping painting you.'

She clutched her cameo necklace, feeling the quick contraction of her throat as she swallowed desperately. She threw a frantic look around the studio. ‘Where is it?'

‘What's wrong?' He frowned. ‘What's that frantic expression on your face?'

Cameo tried to relax the skin between her eyebrows and gave a hollow laugh. His artist's eye noticed everything. ‘It's just that if you've finished the painting you won't need me as a model.'

‘Not need you!' His voice became husky as he pulled her into his arms. ‘The only thing that has kept me going is the thought of how I might paint you next.'

Quick footsteps came from outside the door, followed by a brisk knock.

Benedict dropped a quick kiss on her lips before he released her. ‘Ah, that will be Trelawney.'

* * *

‘Good news, Cole! It's all set!' Nicholas Trelawney appeared, dapper in a checked waistcoat and red cravat. ‘Oh, hello, Miss Cameo! How delightful to see you again.'

‘Good morning.' Cameo gripped her necklace. If only he hadn't come in just then.

The sculptor beamed at her. ‘You must be so proud, my dear, of being
The Gardener's Daughter
. You're going to be famous!'

Cameo stared at Nicholas Trelawney in horror. Her cameo stone fell from her fingers. ‘I don't understand.'

‘They've taken it?' Benedict asked. There was a strange intensity in his tone.

‘Of course.' Trelawney consulted his pocket watch. ‘But hurry up. We've got to get over there this morning.'

Cameo put a restraining hand on Benedict's arm. ‘What's happening? Where are you going?'

He seemed oblivious to her now. ‘To the Royal Academy of Art, of course.'

Trelawney clapped. ‘It's going to be in their annual exhibition!'

‘What?' She barely stayed upright. Stumbling, she gripped the edge of the table. ‘But...but it hasn't opened yet.'

‘It soon will. We had to take the portrait over there yesterday, my dear. I organised it. I'm owed a few favours and the selectors have agreed to view it today. They'll hang this one in pride of place, I'm sure, well below the line.' Trelawney added in explanation, ‘The line is the mark of how good a painting is. Good ones below the line, lesser ones above it. This one will hang well below. It's a masterpiece.'

Cameo's pulse thumped. She knew about the line. How could she not? Absolutely everyone she knew attended the Academy show. It formed an essential part of the London Season. She always attended, as did her mama and even her papa.

Her question to Benedict would hardly come out of her dry mouth. ‘Do you mean you're planning to show the painting at the Academy?'

‘Of course.' He laughed. ‘Why do you think I painted it, if not to be exhibited? I started it as an experiment, I'll admit, and I didn't think to be ready in time. I never dreamed I'd be finished.'

‘But...but...' Cameo floundered. ‘I haven't seen it yet.'

Benedict sent her an amused smile. ‘My model's turned shy on me,' he told Trelawney.

‘My dear!' Trelawney came and clasped Cameo's hands in his. ‘Work as fine as this must be seen. You must be aware that being shown in the Royal Academy is a great privilege, not one every artist can hope to have conferred on him. Benedict has already had one work in the Academy and to have another will make his career. This might be the turning point. If all goes to plan, he'll become a member of the Academy.' He became suddenly businesslike as he rounded on Benedict. ‘Now, Cole. Let's get over there. I've got a cab waiting downstairs.'

‘You're going right now?' Cameo gasped.

Benedict nodded.

‘It's the best work you've done, Cole,' Trelawney said with glee. ‘I can't wait to see the reaction. We're going to be just in time.'

‘No!' Cameo cried. ‘Please, Benedict. I must talk to you!'

Half dragging him aside, she tried to position them out of Trelawney's earshot. ‘Please wait. I haven't seen the portrait.'

‘I'm sorry, my darling. I'll take you to see it at the Academy.' Pride rang in his voice.

She tried again. ‘I...I didn't think of the portrait being exhibited.' How stupid she'd been.

‘What a strange model you are.' He chuckled. ‘Most models desire to be admired. Don't you?'

‘No! I don't!'

He frowned. It was almost a glare. ‘You don't wish it shown. Why?'

Cameo bit her lip. It was impossible to unravel her web of lies with Trelawney in the studio. Where to begin? ‘Can't you keep my portrait here in the studio? For you, privately?'

‘I'd prefer to keep you here for my private enjoyment than a painting.' He lowered his voice, with a suggestive smile. Then he sobered. ‘I'm a professional, Cameo, not a dabbling amateur. I'm proud of this work. It's going to make my reputation, I'm sure of it. There's something about it. It will create a sensation.'

Cameo's heart thudded to her stomach. It would certainly create a sensation, but for all the wrong reasons.

‘Now, now, my dear,' Trelawney scolded, coming over and patting her benignly on the sleeve. ‘You'll soon get over your nerves. I'm sure many models feel as you do at first. Now come along, Benedict. Don't miss this chance. If you want this painting to be in the exhibition we'd better get it over there.'

‘I'm ready to take it now,' he said. His attention had moved away from her. He grabbed his coat and scarf.

‘Benedict—'

‘My dear...' Trelawney gave her another pat. ‘There's no point talking to him until the painting has been viewed by the selectors. You won't get a word of sense from him until then.'

‘But, Benedict, there's something I must tell you —'

He bent and whispered in her ear. His breath caressed her. ‘We can't talk now, Cameo. Come back tonight when we'll be alone. There's something I need to say to you, too.'

* * *

Cameo hurried down the dark alleyway, through the red doorway and up the stairs, her fingers gripping the banister tight.

The day had been endless. That morning, after she left Benedict, she went home to Mayfair as if in a nightmare. Almost crazed, she'd made up her mind to go to the Royal Academy and find him, stop him. She had put on her bonnet and gloves before she reconsidered. No. Her appearance would only raise more questions. There was a chance, slim at best, that the selectors wouldn't recognise her in the painting immediately. People in her social circle weren't going to see it until the exhibition officially opened. Her identity might not be revealed. She had time to ask Benedict to withdraw it, though her heart sank at the thought. She would wait and tell him when they were alone in the studio.

During the afternoon, to stay calm, she had taken her folding easel and her watercolours out into the grassy square where she used to play with Maud and climb trees with George and tried to paint some pale daffodils clustered inside the wrought-iron railings. The occupation only agitated her more. ‘
O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive...'
her nanny had intoned to her in the nursery. The web was more than tangled. She'd tied herself up in knots.

Packing up her paints, she had gone back into the house. Later, Briggs had carried a visiting card on a silver tray in to her in the drawing room. She picked it up and dropped it as if it stung her. Lord Warley.

‘Please tell Lord Warley I'm not at home.'

‘Very good, Lady Catherine Mary,' Briggs had replied, giving her a worried glance. He knew her well enough to know something was wrong. But she couldn't confide in anyone, until she'd seen Benedict and told him the truth.

After dinner with her mama she'd gone upstairs to her bedroom to wait until the coast was clear. There was no sign of George and her father must have been at his club. He hadn't appeared at dinner. When her mother retired to her bedroom with one of her headaches, she had raced down to the servant hall and begged Bert to take her to Soho. Something in her desperate expression must have convinced him even though he didn't like taking her to such a place at night. In Soho he parked the carriage right in front of Benedict's house, instead of around the corner.

Cameo gulped as she continued to hurry up the stairs to the studio. At the top landing the door was ajar, the studio dark, except for the firelight flickering in the grate. She could only dimly make out Benedict sitting beside it, a glass of whisky in his hand.

Wordlessly she tiptoed over and stood in front of him. She smelled the whisky fumes as he drained a large swig.

‘I was wondering when you would arrive.' His grip tightened on the glass. ‘Good evening, Miss Ashe. Or should I say, Lady Catherine Mary St Clair?'

With a smash Benedict hurled the whisky glass into the fire.