The Education of Mrs. Brimley (20 page)

She reached behind her and pulled the loop that unfastened her corset. With the back thus widened, she eased the silk and whalebone concoction over her head.

“Lord, have mercy,” he gasped.

She clutched the empty corset to her chest. “Did I do something wrong?” A lump formed in her throat.
Have you finally noticed the shapeless, ugly body that my uncle insisted could hold no attraction for a man?

“Mrs. Brimley,” he said with a seriousness that shot straight through her, “if you were any more perfect, I should die on the spot. You lack only wings to be an angel.”

“Oh.” Relief and appreciation made her a bit light-headed. She suspected his flattery to be less than truthful, but his reassurance reinforced her earlier revelation that she was desirable. Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked rapidly to keep them at bay. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“In the third position,” Chambers’s voice cracked. He laid Emma’s garments on a nearby chair, then paused for a sip from his glass.

“In the third position, the woman is expected to lower herself to her hands and knees. The man kneels behind her and inserts himself into her opening. Then he pulls on her hips to rock her back and forth.”

“He cannot see her face?” She would want to see Chambers’s face when he made love to her. The thought did not shock her as it had earlier. Nicholas was worthy of love, of her love, though coupling would occur only in her imagination.

His gaze lifted to her face, unleashing a fresh surge of yearning in her heart. His eyes crinkled. “Not without an appropriately placed mirror.”

She glanced at the gilt-framed mirror on the wall. “I can see why you’d be familiar with this position.”

He laughed, then groaned. “Have pity on me, Mrs. Brimley. You have already reduced me to this lamentable state. Further discussion about intimate relations between a man and a woman may be my total undoing.”

Although she wasn’t sure why the slow removal of one’s garments would excite a man to such a state, she could not deny the proof before her. Chambers’s suggestion that mere discussions regarding intimate relations could be stimulating should not have surprised her. Hadn’t her own body reacted in the most alarming, though somehow pleasing, way to his words? She filed that thought away for further consideration. For now, she smiled. Chambers had given her a wonderful gift: freedom from her uncle’s criticisms. She felt lighter, attractive, and at the moment, generous.

“What can I do to assist you, sir?”

“I suppose your stipulation that I not touch you extends as well to an unwillingness to touch me?”

She almost laughed at the hopeful lift of his brows. His sad, soulful eyes reminiscent of a bloodhound denied a tasty treat implored her mercy. She was tempted to ask him to explain how a touch would restore his vitality, but something in the tilt of his lips reminded her of the birch branch. Her eyes widened. She shook her head from side to side.

“I thought as much.” He swiveled around on his stool and pulled back the drape from the canvas on his easel. “Perhaps it’s time we turned our conversation to other matters. If you’ll assume the pose of Artemis, we can utilize the light while we talk.”

Although relieved that her most private areas would remain concealed from Lord Chambers’s view, she experienced an unsettling stab of disappointment. She had found such pleasure in their engaging banter, she was hesitant to leave it behind.

She stepped into the pose, splaying her hands wide as she imagined herself as the goddess. Interesting that she had found even this posture so difficult on her earlier visit. Now she reveled in her newfound power and smiled inwardly at Nicholas’s hungry gaze.
Hungry for her!
The realization weakened her knees. She bobbled a bit on the dais.

“Don’t move,” Chambers implored, a brush held aloft in the air.

She nodded, her throat suddenly too dry for words. If she continued thinking about Chambers’s desires specifically for her, the resulting fidgeting would end their session too soon. She searched her brain for a safer topic to explore.

Alice had begged and pleaded with Emma earlier to find out more about her parents. Chambers seemed to hold the key.

“You’ve mentioned before that you knew Miss Darlington’s parents,” she said, pleased with her use of opportunity.

Chambers didn’t respond, focusing intently on the canvas he’d positioned on the easel.

“What can you tell me about them?”

“Alice’s mother was a beautiful young lady who fell in love with the wrong man.” He dabbed at the canvas with his brush. “She died in childbirth.”

“And the father?”

He frowned. “This is not a subject I care to discuss. Pray, choose another.”

“But the poor child deserves to know something about her mother. She’s so lonely.” And relentless in her pursuit for more information, Emma thought silently.

“Having a family does not prevent one from loneliness. You should know that.” He scowled.

“Me?” Shock loosened her jaw. “Why should I know such a thing?”

“Because you are running away, are you not?” He scowled, resting his brush on his knee. “You left the comfort of London for the wilds of Yorkshire. You are pretending to be a widow when you most certainly have not experienced the touch of a man.”

His attention returned to the canvas. “Sometimes, knowing one’s family induces loneliness.”

Only the crackle of the fire broke the silence.

Granted she had told him some of the details of her past, but she had been careful not to mention names. If he had discovered her family, others might as well. A shudder rippled through her. She’d need to run again before her uncle could find her. Her throat tightened. “You know of my family?”

“I was speaking of my own.”

He tossed his brush in a murky jar, then lifted the crystal glass for a deep swallow. Brandy glistened on his lips.

“Who are you, Mrs. Brimley? Why are you here?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, hedging for time.

“I think you do. I know you have secrets. Women do not masquerade as widows and flee their domiciles without secrets. Granted you have some sad excuses for relatives, and a difficult heritage, but you could have managed. Something chased you from London, did it not?”

She gnawed at her lip, thinking of how to change the topic of conversation. How did discussion of Alice’s parents swing scrutiny back to herself?

“No one knows the nature of your visits to Black Oak. I have kept my word. I will keep your secrets safe. But I need to know. Tell me. Who are you?”

It was true. The sisters held no suspicion that her visits were less than honorable. He hadn’t touched her, even to steal a kiss, after giving his word. Perhaps she could trust him in this, as well.

“My name is Emma Heatherston,” she admitted.

“Emma,” he said, testing the name on his lips. “It suits you.”

“I overheard a conversation not meant for my ears.” She rushed forward, not bothering to explore the pleasing sound of her name on his lips. “My uncle is planning to sell me to another man to rid himself of the burden I placed on his household. He has secured the buyer. The arrangement awaits only delivery.”

“To sell you with benefit of marriage, I assume?” His scowl suggested another possibility.

“I determined not to stay and find out.” Indeed, that part of the conversation had occurred before she stumbled upon the two men speaking in the library. She had the foresight to draw up short and not announce her presence.

“My uncle is not a kind man. He cared little for my mother or for me. Once my mother died, he resolved to rid himself of me as well.” She didn’t add that she feared he was responsible for her mother’s death. It was enough that she suspected.

“So you removed yourself from his household.” Chambers nodded in approval. “Will he look for you?”

“He would not pass on an opportunity for profit.” She lowered her gaze to meet Chambers’s. “And I will not be tied in servitude to a man not of my choosing.”

“An interesting choice of words, Mrs. Brimley.” He cocked his brow. “Would you be willing to be tied in servitude to a man
of
your choosing?” He rubbed his brush on a cloth.

He had that same look as when he had invited her “to ride.” She narrowed her eyes. “I fear you are twisting words beyond my scope of understanding.”

“I have displeased you.” He smiled an apology. “Let us attempt a less personal topic. I believe you asked me to teach you about painting?”

She sighed. “That’s another subject I’m to teach the girls for which I’m not experienced.”

“Then we shall remedy that.” He dipped his brush in a small puddle of paint and lifted it to the canvas. “Let us discuss the theories of color.”

He bent behind the sizeable canvas, hiding his scowl from Emma’s gaze. What fool in his right mind would plot to sell a woman like Emma to settle a few debts? The man must be mad!

“There exist two types of colors, primary and mixed.” He carefully modulated his tone to conceal his thoughts.
And two types of men, those that can be trusted and those that should be tossed into the Thames with no questions
asked. Emma’s uncle would enjoy the company on his way to the murky bottom.

“Only God and certain talented London and Paris colormen firms can reproduce the primary colors of red, blue, and yellow.”
Yellow. Her uncle most likely had a yellow streak down his back. Only a coward would use a woman’s skirts to settle a debt. Red, the color of blood and the color that will run freely if I catch up to that miserable maggot of an uncle. Blue . . .

He noticed that in his anger he had pressed too hard on the brush, distorting the shadow beneath Emma’s graceful neck; he reached for a palette knife to scrape away the excess paint.

Careful, he cautioned himself, the uncle can be dealt with later. No sense in letting him affect the painting. He studied the painted neck, checking to see if the correction was adequate, then shifted his position on the stool so as to see the real thing.

Her neck was one of the first things he had noticed about her, that and her dogged determination and refusal to be frightened out of his studio. Of course, an appreciation of the delicate planes of her cheekbones, her glowing skin, and the expressive depth of her eyes soon followed. He smiled, and what man couldn’t appreciate her need of an education. But that neck should be worshipped with tender kisses and . . .

An uncomfortable shift in his groin brought him back to the painting.

“All the other colors can be created by mixing in some measure those three.” He resumed his lecture. “For example, I can mix a light red and blue to paint fields of lavender. Or I can mix a deeper red with a light yellow and create the blush you see on a perfect English rose.” Or on Emma’s cheeks. He shifted to see her face and followed her gaze to the pile of clothes on the divan. Topping the pile lay her pink foundation.

“Or a corset,” he added with a smile. Emma’s cheeks followed suit.

 
LATER THAT EVENING, EMMA SAT ALONE IN THE EMPTY kitchen with a warm cup of tea and her poetry journal. She glanced at the line she had just written:
Love’s soft whisper entered the innermost Chamber.

Perdition! All her poems these days seemed to contain that single word, and once again she had inadvertently capitalized “chamber.” Using the freshly carved quill, she tried to subtly correct the error. Was it any wonder that the man who dominated her thoughts and dreams found his way into her poems? Ink pooled on the journal page, rendering the line unreadable. With a sigh, she blotted the page and set the journal aside to dry. Another page ruined by her daydreams.

Still she couldn’t be angry. Something magical had transpired between them today. A ruined journal page was but a passing gray cloud on a brilliant sunny day.

She felt safe and secure even though another knew of her true identity. Upon reflection, she had to admit Nicholas had given her far more than she had ever imagined. With his clever words and long smoldering glances, he had brought her to life, much like the landscape beyond the kitchen walls. She smiled. Maybe that explained those internal explosions whenever he came near: she herself was bursting into bloom.

This time she laughed out loud, wondering what kind of flower she would blossom into.

A perfect English rose.
His voice, low and full of promise, whispered in her ear. She gasped and glanced frantically about. But only cleared work surfaces and empty corners met her gaze. She sniffed, disappointed to find only the redolent scent of candlewax, warmed brick, and gathered apples in the air. Clutching the ends of her woolen shawl, she pulled it tight around her. A soft warmth slowed the heightened beat of her heart. It was just her active imagination. She smiled. Even though she was alone in the kitchen, Nicholas Chambers stayed close in her thoughts.

 
THREE WEEKS LATER, THOMAS STOPPED BY CHAMBERS’S studio late on an early March evening. He rapped sharply on the doorframe. “May I enter, sir? I thought I might tidy up a bit before retiring.”

“Of course, Thomas, come in.” Chambers continued his work on Artemis’s Revenge. “I’m just finishing up myself.”

“I must say, sir, that is an extraordinarily large canvas. Much larger than your previous endeavors.”

“That appears to be the trend at the Royal Academy exhibitions. Last year, some of the full portraits were life-size, a tremendous opportunity for detail.” Thomas’s eyebrows rose a notch, which Chambers construed as expressing surprise.

“It’s true. The landscape painters are planning equally large canvases to compete for wall space.”

“May I presume that all proceeds well with your painting?” Thomas picked up a tray of plates and teacups used earlier and moved it nearer to the door.

“All proceeds very well, thank you.” Nicholas smiled. “Mrs. Brimley has proven to be a most adept and inspirational model.” Thoughts of their modeling sessions filled him with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. “I’m almost hesitant to finish this for loss of her company.”