The Master & the Muses (22 page)

“I've missed you so much,” he breathed against my neck, his fingers slowly drawing my robe from my shoulders. His warm lips touched my flesh as he eased the gown over my arms and let it pool at my feet.

“You are so soft…so beautiful.”

He nuzzled my ear, drawing my hair aside to place tender kisses across the back of my neck. Languid curls of dark desire began to form deep inside me. I turned in his arms, my hands working
fast to undo the buttons of his shirt, peeling it back to smooth my fingers over his warm skin. I pressed my lips to his flesh, finding where his pulse beat fiercely at the base of his neck. Impatient to have him inside me, I struggled with his trousers as his hands moved over me.

“My sweet Sara,” he said, lifting me into his arms and carrying me the short distance to the bed. He laid me down and I watched him make haste to finish undressing, his beautiful body emerging and setting fire to my blood. He lay down beside me and I drew him close, delighting in having my husband home again, in my bed where he belonged. “I've missed seeing how you used to look at me. I didn't realize how much,” I said softly, slipping an unruly curl over his ear.

He kissed me slowly, fanning the need inside of me so long denied. I surrendered to the mastery of his hands and parted my legs, welcoming him, breathing in deeply as he filled me until our bodies fused as one.

He held my eyes with his stormy gaze, leaning above me on his elbows and rocking his hips, moving in a sensuous rhythm and building me up again. Tears pricked the backs of my eyes as I clamped my legs around him, gripping his back, feeling his muscles bunch beneath my fingers.

“Come—with me—Sara,” he said, his words broken by his fervent thrusts. I rose to meet him in perfect rhythm. Thomas had been right—people did lose sight of the beauty created by the union of a man and a woman. My world began to spiral out of control as another climax shattered me apart. I clung to Edward's body, drenched with the heat of arousal as he followed with a primal groan, reclaiming all that was his—all that was
ours.

Breathless, he rolled to his back and stared a moment at the mirror I'd insisted he hang above the bed. He drew me under his arm, his hand skimming tenderly over my heated flesh. There was no need for words. As I drifted to sleep, I felt him lean over and kiss my temple.

“Sleep well, my love—” he leaned over to kiss me “—we've only just begun to catch up.”

The muffled clip-clop of horses coming up the hard dirt drive woke me. My body was sore from being awakened in the middle of the night for another round of lovemaking that drove us into a near frenzy and disheveled the bed linens until they hung off the corner of the mattress. Careful not to wake Edward, I scooted off the bed and wrapped a sheet around me. It was early yet, the sky barely showing signs of daybreak. I pushed my hair back from my face and looked to the entrance below, seeing Thomas handing his bags to the coachman. No longer did I feel disconnected, heart and body, as before. Both were now devoted entirely to Edward, and I knew he was mutually devoted to me.

Thomas opened the carriage door and I saw a woman, dressed in fine clothes.
Grace.
I wondered if she would ever admit how deeply she felt for him.

“Sara?” my husband called out sleepily.

“Over here,” I replied, smiling as he swaggered hurriedly toward me in the frigid room. He peeled the sheet from around me and moved in behind me, wrapping us both snugly inside.

“Why are you up? You ought to still be in bed on such a chilly morning.” He bent to kiss my cheek.

“He's leaving,” I said, pressing my hand against the cold glass. Edward rested his chin on the top of my head and, covering my hand with his, drew it back beneath the sheeting and enveloped me in his tight embrace.

“Let's go back to bed, my love,” he whispered in my ear. “I have much I want to share with you that I learned while in India.” He nuzzled my ear and I turned into his arms, finding there all the adventure I'd ever need.

Cremorne Gardens, 1858

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL SUMMER EVENING AT THE
Cremorne. Most of my usual clients were at the opera, indulging their wives in a night out, showing them off to London society. It is common knowledge, of course, that most of them keep at least one mistress. And, I think for some, their wives approve if only to keep from having to perform themselves. I suppose you could say I may have held more marriages together than been reason for their end. Tonight, however, I was free to spend an evening of leisure, enjoying the music, the lights and the festive gaiety of the gardens. Here I could lose myself. I could forget the small room above the pub where I had lived for the past ten years since escaping from hell.

To look at me now you would not see, unless you were very astute, the horror of what I've been through. I was just twelve when I was ripped from my family's bosom, kidnapped by a brothel madam's thugs while at market with my mother. There are times I can still hear her screaming my name, the burlap sack over my head unable to drown out the sound. I was told that I
was to be sold to the highest bidder in a private auction. I was not to make a scene, for no one would come for me. It would be easy to end the life of someone whose whereabouts no one knew.

So it was that I was placed on a block with several other girls of about the same age, in the middle of a large, dark building. I could see nothing beyond the lamps framing the platform. I could hear the sound of an auctioneer, the intermittent baritone voices of men calling out their bids. I never knew the face of the man I was sold to, but he kept me in a small room, with no windows. He fed and clothed me, gave me books to read, and when he needed me—“for medicinal purposes” as he called it—a bag was placed over my head. I had no concept whether it was night or day. Too frightened by the threats to my life and my family, I didn't think about how long I'd been held captive. I began to focus on my opportunity to escape. It came one day after my captor made a routine visit. He'd improperly shut the door, not minding to listen for the latch to drop before he left. Whether it was intentional or a mistake, I took full advantage and slipped out unnoticed.

I was one of the lucky few. It was not until some months after I'd gotten away that I began to hear of others like me. I passed by mothers and fathers wandering the streets, searching for their daughters, desperate for answers. I could only shake my head, not wanting to reveal what I knew for fear of being found by the unsavory characters who'd once nabbed me. I did think of my family, wondering if they remembered me, but I was not their little girl anymore. I was changed and not for the better. As such, I blended into the fray, a ghost on the streets, surviving how I could.

Call me callous, and perhaps my heart is as leathery as an animal's hide, but I am here, some ten years later, alive and breathing, and that is all that matters.

I waved to Deidre, who was on the dance floor with a handsome gent I'd not seen at the gardens before. Deidre and I had met here as I had most of the small circles of women who
worked the gardens. We were a close-knit group, watching out for one another. I tapped my foot, enjoying the music and watching the dancers. A shiver crept over my shoulders and I glanced up, looking as you do when you feel you are being watched. Seated on the opposite side of the dancing platform was a young man dressed in clothing depicting an era gone by. The frock coat he wore was made of rich-looking deep green silk brocade with fine beadwork on the collar and cuff. I noted a flutter of white lace protruding from the cuffs and the large white cravat at his neck. His hands rested comfortably on the walking cane he had perched between his legs.

I'd not seen him before and surely he was a gent I would remember. He had the face of a poet, that look about him indicating he was an observer of life and people. His hair was a thick mass of unruly waves, indicative of one who cared little about what was in fashion but who knew what suited him.

I watched him silently scanning the crowd, his piercing, dark blue-green eyes roving across the crowd, perhaps searching for the character of his next poem. Intrigued, I stared at him, safe in the anonymity of the crowd, until finally he turned and met my gaze.

My breath caught. Surprise was not something that I experienced much anymore. It was as if he could see right through me. I felt naked before him.

“Grace?”

A man's voice brought me out of my stupor and I blinked, seeing the smiling face of Jack Adams, one of the stage actors in the Cremorne theatrical troupe.

“You look faraway. Didn't you hear me?”

I smiled, blinking again, feeling strange, as though I'd just looked into the eyes of providence.

“I asked if you would honor me with the next dance,” he said, offering a short bow.

I smiled. “Of course, dear. Forgive me.”

I took his hand and he swept me into his arms, gliding me across the dance floor. I was aware of the music and of the
swirling throng of dancers, but my mind could not forget the mesmerizing look in the stranger's eyes. I searched for him as we glided around to where I'd first seen him, but the bench was empty. My eyes skirted the fringe of onlookers, knowing he would have stood out, but he wasn't there, either.

“Are you well, Grace? You look pale, as if you've seen a ghost.” My partner smiled. “Do you need to sit for a spell? Shall I get you a refreshment?”

I nodded. “Perhaps that would help.”

He held my arm, guiding me to one of the tables at the edge of the platform. All around me, patrons sat laughing over a pint, indulging in an ice cream.

I pressed my hands to my cheeks, checking for a fever. There was none, yet I could not overcome the strange effect the man had had on me.

“Here we are, Grace. There's little that a pint won't resolve, don't you agree?” Jack guzzled his drink, his eyes scanning the women timidly standing near the platform, hoping to be asked to dance.

“Go on with you, Jack,” I said, slapping his arm. “I just need to rest a bit. I'm likely just overcome by the stench from the river. I should be used to it by now.” I leaned toward him, nodding in the direction of a lonely young girl. “There, the pretty one with the dark tresses. I saw her looking at you.”

“Truthfully?” His eyes darted toward the woman and back to me.

“Yes, go! Skedaddle before another beats you to it. She's a beauty, she is.”

“If you're sure,” he said, his face turned to keep an eye on the woman.

“Yes, go,” I reiterated. He tossed me a smile and sprang from his chair.

“Hopefully she'll say yes,” I muttered. I didn't want to see Jack's kind heart squashed.

I watched over the rim of my glass, quietly breathing a sigh of
relief when the girl smiled and nodded. Jack glanced back at me and raised his eyebrows, offering me an enthusiastic grin. I raised my glass and wished him well. Feeling better, I scanned the crowd again for my handsome specter. I was about to give up when I spotted him walking along the boardwalk, beside the river.

Curiosity—a fault for some, a virtue for others—pushed me from my seat. I wove through the crowded bay of tables.

When I emerged from the throng, panic struck my heart as it appeared I'd lost him again. I began to wonder, given his unusual dress and elusive manner, if I had not indeed seen a specter, a ghost—a wandering lost soul. Although I did not entirely believe in such things, I knew those who swore to having encountered restless spirits, spirits who had something undone left on earth. But given my body's reaction when our eyes had met, I felt quite certain that this man was flesh and blood.

I squinted into the shadows of the path that led to the boat dock and saw there a man with a cane. “You're a fool, Grace,” I said to myself as I lifted my skirts and hurried after him. As I got farther and farther away from the crowd, I became more concerned for my safety. I picked up a handful of pebbles and began to throw them at the stranger's back, one at a time. When he did not stop or turn around, I mentally scolded myself for following him farther. The branches of the trees lining the path seemed to reach out for me and I had to duck in the darkness, keeping my eye on the object of my ridiculous quest. There were very few people now on the path. The man paused, a short distance in front of me. It would have been easy, and probably wise, to slip into the shadows and walk away. But drawn to him for reasons I could not understand, I rolled the last pebble in my palm and debated my options.

He took a step forward and I drew back my arm, sending the pebble on its way—letting
it
decide my fate. In the dark silence, I heard it hit his hat with a dull
thunk.

He came to an abrupt halt and slowly turned.

I could barely see his face in the darkness, but I remember the
steellike intensity of his eyes. “You've not been afraid for a long time, Grace,” I told myself quietly. “Now's not the time to start.” I walked toward him with an acute awareness of my body. I had never before seen anyone appraise me as he did. Oh, I'd seen lust in a man's eye many a time, but this…this was more intense. It was as if he was studying me from head to toe. I came to a stop a foot or two before him, hesitant to get any closer. I cleared my throat. “Why were you staring at me earlier?”

A smirk played on his delectable mouth.

“I assure you, mademoiselle, I do not make a habit of staring at women.” He raised his eyebrows in his defense.

“Are you calling me a liar, sir?”

His smile widened as if enjoying my challenge.

“I would not presume such a thing, mademoiselle.”

“My name is Grace, though surely I should not give it so freely to a man who lurks about, ogles women.”

He chuckled quietly and then offered me a regal bow.

“Very well, guilty as charged. Thomas Rodin, mademoiselle.”

“You can stop calling me
mademoiselle,
sir. Clearly I am about as French as you are.”

He placed his hand over his heart.

“You wound my pride, madem—
Miss Grace.
But a lovely lady such as you will surely find it in her heart to forgive an old-fashioned gesture.”

I narrowed my eyes on him. “And why is it, Mr. Rodin, that you would practice the ‘old-fashioned art' of ogling on me? Surely you are aware of the number of women here at the gardens without escorts?”

He looked away and offered a wry smile. “Yes, I am aware.”

“So, you were looking to see what suits your fancy?”

He studied me for a moment. “Not exactly, no. Not for the same reason you believe, at any rate.”

“Let me come to the point, sir, for the night wanes. Are you in need of company for the evening?”

He looked surprised.

“Are you propositioning me, Grace?”

I fisted my hand on my hip. “Have we not been through this already, Mr. Rodin? Do you, or do you not, wish to wet your whistle this evening?”

He cleared his throat.

“Um, no, I do not need my whistle wetted,” he replied. “Though I must admit it sounds intriguing.”

“You prefer to watch, is that it?” I guessed. “Well, I'm afraid that won't be possible tonight. You see I have no clients—”

“Um…no, I think perhaps you have the wrong impression.”

“The wrong impression?” I smiled. “Why else would a handsome gent like yourself come to the gardens alone?”

“I am flattered, truly. However, I came as a matter of professional curiosity, Miss Grace.”

“Farmer. Grace Farmer. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Rodin.”

He reached for my hand and I stepped away. An old habit, I suppose.

“I mean you no harm,” he said with sincerity in his voice.

I offered my hand, then, and he took it, pressing it gently with his lips.

“Perhaps we can start again on better footing,” he suggested. “I am an artist and poet by trade.”

I slapped my thigh. “I knew as much! The moment I saw you, dressed as prissy as you are, I pegged you for a poet.”

He raised his brow. “Prissy?” He coughed. “I would have thought a woman of your…shall we say, profession, would not be so quick to judge by appearance alone.”

“I call them as I see them, Mr. Rodin, as I've a strong suspicion you do. Go ahead then and give it your best. Tell me what you think of me.”

His smile was genuine. “Only that I find your hair magnificent and your mouth a saucy delight.” He fished inside the breast pocket of his coat. “I'd like very much for you to model for me. I have a project in particular that would suit you perfectly.”

Even as handsome as he was and very probably an artist as he claimed, I was wary. “Me? A model? For what, Mr. Rodin? If this is simply a ploy to get me alone—”

“My intentions, Grace, are entirely honorable.”

Something in his tone, the way he said my name as if he had known me for years, caused me to stop and listen. “Are any of your paintings in the royal gallery?” I asked. Once or twice, a wealthy client had taken me there on a Sunday afternoon.

“You're familiar with the Royal Academy?”

“Well, not intimately, no. But I
do
know that any respectable artist's work would surely be hung there.” I eyed him, watching his expression darken. The muscle of his jaw ticked.

“You are quite right. Many of my peers have works at the gallery and I have one or two, I believe, still hanging there. It is my hope, in fact, that this very project may be accepted into the exhibition next spring.”

“Where is your studio, Mr. Rodin?” I asked. He was an odd fellow, but I found myself liking him, I couldn't say why.

“Ah, yes,” he said, as if remembering the card he'd taken from his pocket earlier. “Here is the address. Come by tomorrow. Would nine o'clock fit into your schedule?”

I smiled, taking the card from his hand, delighting in the odd combination of his words and dress. Given his build, the lines of his face and the thickness of his hair, I would put him at no more than two and thirty years, if that. Yet his manner indicated a man of greater maturity, stuck in the age of chivalry and knighthood. Either that or I was falling for the grandest performance on earth.