Enticing Benedict Cole

Chapter Three

‘The full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn’d

Her violet eyes.’

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

The studio door slammed and a gust of wind blew through the window. Crossing the room, Benedict heaved down the sash. Miss Cameo Ashe had not yet appeared on the street. She’d still be going down the stairs with that quick light step he’d noticed, in her fine kid boots.

Her boots had exposed her. She’d been dressed in that alluringly simple grey dress, which had all the marks of simplicity that only came from quality, carved ivory buttons all the way down the front, a pristine lace collar and cuffs. Her figure was slender, willowy, her tiny waist emphasised by her corset, yet not in the over-exaggerated way he hated, for she was perfectly proportioned. Nestled at the tender point of her throat above her collar was her cameo necklace tied with a black-velvet ribbon, a large stone, black and white, the carving in relief exquisite. But her elegant, obviously expensive boots were the biggest clue. And her ankles, which he’d been unable to ignore as she sat on the armchair, were equally elegant, with the delicate lines of a purebred filly.

She was no orphan girl turned out on the street. Certainly there was a strength to her he’d noticed immediately, a determination that suggested an ability to survive, but there was also a vulnerability he found himself unable to define.

The story she had told him. His mouth lifted at the corners. It had so many holes, that story, yet she struggled on, trying to convince him she was a girl who had no choice but to be an artist’s model. How did she expect him to believe her when her voice held no hint of the streets? True, she explained that by saying she’d been taken in by a genteel lady, but it hadn’t added up.

At his easel he idly picked up a paintbrush, running it through his fingers. Explanations played in his mind. Nothing she told him made sense. Yet she intrigued him, captivated him. He hadn’t been able to believe it when she had lifted off her bonnet and eased the pins from her long black hair. As each silken strand was liberated, his heart had drummed faster and faster.

He’d found her. He’d begun to think it wasn’t possible, that he might never discover a model for the painting of his dreams. Yet there she was, standing in front of him, slender yet strong. And her eyes. Shaded beneath her bonnet, they had looked grey or blue outside the door when he had first met her. In the light of the studio he’d discerned they were the rare shade of purple he had searched for.

He’d already painted the background of the portrait in painstaking detail. It had been frustrating beyond belief to have an empty space at the centre of the canvas, waiting for the model to appear in order to complete the work.

His grasp tightened on the paintbrush as he visualised her. It would be all too easy to respond to her as a man rather than a painter. Not only did the quickening of his body tell him of his instant attraction to her physically, but also the curious vulnerability he saw in her eyes had touched him. She was no hardened model.

He laid down the brush and ran his fingers though his hair. ‘Trouble,’ he said aloud. ‘That’s what you are, Miss Ashe. Trouble.’

A knock came at the door. Was she back again to elaborate on her story? He hoped she wasn’t planning to cancel the arrangement. With a frown, he realised just how much he didn’t want that.

It wasn’t his mysterious new model standing there.

A familiar husky female voice greeted him. ‘Hello.’

‘Maisie. You’d better come in.’

She entered the studio with the sensual walk that so enticed her many admirers. It was a shame such a movement evaded capture on canvas, he often thought, though its sensuality had long ceased to tempt him. The appeal of Cameo Ashe’s awkward self-consciousness, on the other hand...

Loosening the thick cream-coloured shawl she wore, Maisie dropped it lazily on the chair by the fire to reveal her blue dress, cut low at her full breasts. Her thick, corn-coloured hair curled. He’d painted her as Demeter, the Greek goddess of the grain, with her arms full of wheat. The ripe epitome of plenty was young Maisie. But as an artist he knew hers were the type of looks that faded quickly.

Miss Ashe’s face flashed into his mind. Hers was a beauty that would stay the years, for it was in her bones and in her bearing. Puzzlement hit him again. Just who was she? And what had led her to him?

‘I came as soon as I heard you’d been looking for someone for your new work,’ Maisie said. ‘Why didn’t you come straight to me? Didn’t you want me to model for you?’ Her arms looped around his neck, giving him a full view of her luscious flesh. ‘No one else is as good as me.’

He unlooped her clinging arms. ‘You’re not right for this painting, Maisie.’

She pouted. ‘I want to come back.’

With a smile she traced a teasing line from his chest down towards his trousers.

‘You walked out on me, remember?’ Benedict reminded her. More accurately, her affections had wandered, he recalled drily as he removed her hand, to another man who’d shown her more attention. Clearly that hadn’t worked out.

Maisie moved her shoulders with a flounce. ‘Only because you’re always painting, painting, painting. It drove me mad. I wanted you to take me out once in a while.’

‘Painting isn’t just what I do.’ He’d tried to explain it to her many times before. ‘It’s who I am. I paint the way I breathe.’

‘But it’s so boring sitting here all day!’

‘Well, you’ve been spared that. I’ve found the model for my next work.’

From the flare of jealousy in her eyes he judged she didn’t like that news. ‘Who is she? Annie? Jenny?’

‘It isn’t anyone you know. It’s someone quite new.’

Maisie thrust out her chest like an indignant chicken. ‘Why’s she muscling in on our patch?’

That was indeed the question, Benedict brooded. Just why did Miss Ashe want to be his model?

‘Never mind.’ He picked up Maisie’s shawl and gave it to her. ‘I have to work.’

‘What a surprise,’ she snapped crossly.

At the door she turned and let the shawl fall away from the front of her dress. ‘You know where to find me, Benedict.’

The door closed behind her and Benedict let out a sigh of relief.

Models. He’d not let himself fall into a relationship with one again. When an artist painted a woman posed before him, he created an idealised version of her and, sometimes, that ideal enticed him into bed. But he wouldn’t be tricked that way again. He needed to concentrate, stay focused. He smiled inwardly. It was easier to paint without live models, but he was no landscape artist. Views weren’t enough for him.

Yet Miss Cameo Ashe, with her mysterious mix of spirit and beauty, stayed in his mind. He picked up his pencil and began to draw.

* * *

Cameo lit another candle. The flame flickered, sending shadows dancing on the walls of her blue-and-white bedroom, newly papered in a flowered print, for her mama liked to keep up with the times. Just recently she had installed a water closet down the hall, exactly the same as Queen Victoria’s.

It was the window seat in her bedroom Cameo loved most. The blue chintz curtains were open tonight, letting in the cool air. Through the windowpane a full moon outshone the fog, silvering the dark grey trunk and slender boughs of the ash tree outside. Sometimes, she heard the call of a nightingale in the square as she sketched through the night. Trying again and again, always aiming to improve. Attempting to make her hand recreate what was in her mind, in her heart. It was so hard, working alone. There was no one to share it all with, the triumphs and the failures. No one who understood that hidden, passionate part of her. No one who sensed the heat of her flame. Now, at last, even though it was a secret, she had a chance. To watch and to learn from a real artist.

From Benedict Cole.

She clasped her pencil. As his model she would spend hours in his studio, watching him as he worked like the apprentices of old and yet he had no idea of her true identity. There was so much she’d be able to learn, incognito.

So you’re at my mercy.

The sense of danger returned as his words reverberated in her brain. He suspected her, but she had to take the risk.

Taking up a fresh sheet of paper, she stretched. She’d sketched for hours perched on the gilt chair in front of her dressing table with her blue-and-white china jug and basin, silver hairbrushes and bottles of scent pushed impatiently aside.

A muffled voice came from outside the door. ‘Cameo? Are you still awake?’

‘Come in.’

‘What are you doing up?’ George entered in his black-tailed dinner jacket, his bow tie loosened. ‘I saw your candle. You ought to have been asleep hours ago.’

‘So should you. Where have you been? At your club, I suppose?’

‘Got it in one.’ With a yawn he stretched his legs out on the window seat and propped a chintz cushion behind his brown hair. ‘What a night. I’ve been playing cards. I say, I ran into Warley. He’s coming to the ball. Frightfully keen on you, isn’t he?’

Cameo grimaced. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘He lost a lot of money tonight, I believe.’ George craned his neck to look at her. ‘And what have you been doing? Painting?’

With her pencil she pointed to the pile of discarded paper. ‘Just drawing, trying to improve.’

He shook his head. ‘You’re a strange sister for a fellow to have, Cameo, with all this fuss about art. Why can’t you just be interested in gloves and bonnets like a girl ought to be?’

‘Like someone we both know, is that it?’

To her astonishment George coloured bright red. ‘Actually, there’s something I wanted to tell you.’ He grabbed another cushion and tossed it in the air, catching it neatly. ‘The thing is, I’ve decided to ask Maud Cartwright to marry me.’

‘Finally!’ Cameo wanted to leap up and hug her brother, but they never did such a thing in their family. ‘I thought you’d never ask her.’

‘Well, it takes me a while to come to a decision, but once I’ve made it I stick to it. That’s my way.’

‘Have you decided when?’

‘I thought I’d pop the question quite soon if I can get my courage up. Maybe at the ball.’ He tossed the cushion up again but she wasn’t fooled by his nonchalance. ‘Not sure she’ll have me.’

‘How could you possibly think Maud doesn’t want to marry you?’

‘I haven’t been entirely sure.’ He flushed redder and added, ‘Whether it’s more than friendship. We’ve all known each other so long.’

‘Since we were children and used to play in the square together.’

George grinned. ‘You were constantly in trouble for climbing trees.’

‘Nanny always shouted at me about the dirt and grass stains. You scaled trees as well, George, and you never got into trouble for it but Maud never wanted to climb. She always looked perfect in her pinafore and curls. Do you remember how she clapped when you got up on to the top branches?’ Cameo laughed softly. ‘Maud always loved you, I think. Oh, I’ll be so happy to have her as a sister.’

‘I expect it’s mutual.’

‘Everyone will be delighted.’ She mimicked their father’s gruff tone: ‘“You’ve made an excellent choice for your future wife, George.”’

They both laughed.

‘I’m so pleased for you,’ she said simply.

‘I’m rather pleased myself.’ He stood and tousled her hair on his way out the door.

How lucky George and Maud were to have each other, Cameo thought, as she stared out the window.

Benedict Cole’s mocking expression flashed into her mind. Until tomorrow, Miss Ashe.

There was no doubt he suspected her. Her temper red-hot, she’d grasped the opportunity to learn from him, but there was a deeper part of her that disliked being forced to deceive him, the same way she was deceiving her parents. It troubled her even though she didn’t want to admit it.

With a sigh she blew out the candle. Somehow, she had to keep his suspicions and her own doubts at bay. She wanted—no, she needed—to learn to paint.

Yet as she lay in bed, the sudden recollection of the artist’s sardonic gaze gave her stomach a sharp twist.

Cameo had to wonder if she would learn more than she’d bargained for from Benedict Cole.

Chapter Four

‘And stirr’d her lips

For some sweet answer...’

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

Cameo hitched up the skirt of her blue-poplin gown, avoiding the puddles in the alleyway. She’d dressed with care, avoiding her finer gowns. Benedict Cole mustn’t have any more clues as to her real identity.

In Soho, amidst the morning bustle, she made sure her family’s crested carriage stayed out of sight. Bert obligingly agreed to collect her later. For a moment she stood and watched as the shopkeepers rolled up their awnings and opened their shutters to reveal their goods on display in the windows, the apprentices washing down the windows and stoops. How she wished for time to sketch the lively scene. She wasn’t often out so early and she certainly had never seen the fresh fruit and vegetables being delivered in old carts pulled by heavy horses and one small cart pulled by a donkey.

Outside the bakery she stopped to pass some money to Becky, sitting with her matches forlornly laid out in front of her on the cobbles.

‘Thank you, miss. I never thought you’d remember.’

‘Of course I remembered, Becky. I promised.’

The girl sighed. ‘Lots wouldn’t, what if they promised or not.’

Becky would have the money Benedict Cole had promised her for being a model, Cameo decided, as she ascended the narrow staircase to the studio. It seemed deceitful to take payment from the artist when she knew she received a fair exchange, with the painting lessons he was unsuspectingly providing. It wasn’t as if she needed the pin money. It would be shoddy, as though she were cheating him.

On the attic landing Benedict opened the door wide. ‘Ah, Miss Ashe, you’re on time today.’

Cameo swept by him. As Lady Catherine Mary St Clair she would have made a spirited response. As Miss Ashe she must keep her temper.

‘I’ll endeavour to be punctual from now on, Mr Cole,’ she said with assumed meekness, as she removed her bonnet and cloak.

He seemed to hide a smile as he appropriated them from her and dropped them over the armchair by the fire. He hadn’t fallen for her obedient act.

Retreating to the window, she raised her arms, curving them above her. ‘Do you need me to take my hair down again?’

Her movement held his brooding glance. ‘I ought to paint you like that. No, leave your hair up for now. I wish to focus on your face. I need to get that right first.’

And she’d styled her hair in a simple knot to ensure she might easily put it up again. Vexed, she dropped her arms.

As she glanced out of the window at the rooftops and chimneys, towards the clouded sky, it struck her again how wonderful it was to have no curtains. What a contrast with the thick-cut velvet cloths of the drawing room in Mayfair that constantly felt as if they stifled her.

An acid voice broke her reverie. ‘If I might have your attention, Miss Ashe.’

Biting her lip to prevent a retort, she queried, ‘Where do you want me?’

He paused for a moment before he pushed out the shabby gold-brocade chaise longue. ‘Here. Sit down. Don’t go slouching into the side. Keep your spine straight and face me.’

How she would continue to obey his curt instructions without a quick rejoinder she simply didn’t know. Squarely she placed her feet in front of her and crossed them at the ankle, wishing for something to lean against. Still, the chaise longue was softer than his armchair and she would allow no fault to be found with her posture.

‘That will do.’

As he rested on his heels, her whole body stiffened under his scrutiny.

‘You need to remain still,’ he commanded her brusquely.

How could she be still with him staring at her? She dropped her shoulders and puffed out a slow breath.

‘Now, turn to the right. No, not like that, turn some more.

‘More.

‘Now raise your eyes. Raise your eyes! Not move your whole head.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean!’ Cameo exclaimed, exasperated.

In a single swift movement he vaulted beside her. He clasped her chin. ‘Raise your eyes, but hold your chin straight. Like so.’

Cameo jumped as he cupped her face. His fingers were strong, with a sensitivity that told of his artistic temperament.

He trailed his fingers lightly against her skin. ‘You won’t be able to jump like that when I’m drawing you.’

‘I didn’t jump! A draught must have come in from the window.’

‘I haven’t yet opened the window.’ Still scrutinising her, he backed away and pulled a stool into position behind the easel.

‘That’s it.’ He crossed his legs in front of him in an easy, practised manner. ‘Now you must hold still while I do my initial drawings. Can you do that?’

‘Yes.’ Why, from now on she vowed not to move an inch. She’d keep her attention on the reason why she’d come.

Painting lessons.

A chance to see a real artist at work.

A thrill ran through her whole body.

From where she sat with her head towards the interior of the studio she had a perfect view of exactly what Benedict Cole was doing. He wore no paint-splotched cover shirt today, just a loose white shirt with the neck open and a paisley waistcoat carelessly buttoned down to dark brown woollen trousers, his feet clad in well-polished boots.

Taking up a large sheet of paper, he propped it against the easel. Holding a stick of charcoal, he flexed his muscled arm and made strong, bold strokes, glancing back and forth at her all the while. Soon she became transfixed by the way he held her in his sights, put his head down to draw, then came intently up again in a single movement, like a breath. More than once he impatiently pushed back the black lock of hair that fell over his forehead, down towards two lines that creased between his eyebrows as he frowned in concentration.

You think you’re watching me, Mr Benedict Cole, when in fact I’m watching you. She smiled inwardly.

How fast he drew. Perhaps lack of speed was her first mistake with her own work. She was too tentative, too slow. She considered each line before she put it down. He sketched with an assurance she envied, rapidly completing one drawing, putting it aside and just as quickly picking up another piece of paper, skimming across the page with a strong sweep of his arm.

On and on he drew. How long she sat there she wasn’t sure, but surely one hour passed, then another. Her neck locked and ached. She hadn’t realised how difficult it was to hold one position without moving. The muscles of her tight neck wanted to roll, her stiff legs to stretch.

To keep her mind off it she continued her survey of the studio. There were things she hadn’t noticed yesterday. The canvases propped about the room appeared to be in various stages of progress. One seascape looked particularly good, but most of them were faced to the wall, their subjects hidden from her assessment. There were frames and odd pieces of wood, too, stacked to one side. It appeared chaotic at first glance, but she discerned an order beneath the chaos. He seemed to know exactly where to find what he needed with speed and ease. He reached for his tools on a cluttered painting table beside the easel without a sideways glance. There were strange objects on the table, too. A pile of stones, a bird’s feather and some oddly shaped shards of smooth glass.

Peeking to her left without moving her head, she spotted a huge bed with a carved wooden bedhead in the corner of the room. She hadn’t really noticed it yesterday. Why, she’d come not only to Benedict Cole’s studio, but also to his bedroom. Her cheeks felt hot.

He had left the bed unmade, she noted in amazement. The white sheets were rumpled and the pillow dented. The thought of him lying there sent an unexpected thrill through her body. Hastily, she focused on the carved bedhead above, with its intricate patterns of blackberries and leaves engraved into the glowing dark wood.

Next to the bed stood a washstand with a mirror, a thick white-china jug and bowl on its veined marble top, his brush and razor lying carelessly to the side. She pictured him shaving, the sharp blade sliding through the soap along the skin of his strong jaw. He’d use the same smooth strokes as when he drew, she imagined.

Would he be bare-chested? The question popped into her mind, startling her. Why, Lady Catherine Mary, she reproved herself in her old nanny’s voice. What a thing to think. But the intimate image of him shaving persisted, the muscles of his shoulders rippling beneath his olive skin as he leant over the water basin, his face dripping with water as he splashed off the soap.

Unable to hold still, she wriggled on her seat.

Benedict’s voice shot across the room. ‘Don’t move.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I told you that you’d have to hold still for long periods of time,’ he snapped, not raising his head.

‘I will be quite able to if you give me a moment to rest.’ The man was a tyrant. She had no intention of being bullied by him.

He tossed down the charcoal. ‘Yes, of course.’

With relief Cameo stretched her taut body. She knew Benedict Cole kept watching her as he leaned against the edge of the stool.

‘You’ve done well. Not every model can keep up with me.’

‘Thank you.’ Surprised at how much his praise pleased her, she stepped towards the easel.

‘Have you always painted?’

‘I can’t not paint.’

At last. He did understand. ‘I know just what you mean,’ she said impulsively, then bit her tongue. She momentarily forgot he must never suspect she, too, was an artist, or wanted to be. How wonderful it would be to reveal her true self and all her secret longings. But she had to pretend at home and here in the studio, too.

‘Watching you draw, I can see that it’s part of you,’ she said at last. ‘It seemed to come from somewhere within you.’

He studied her closely. Too closely. Had she revealed too much? ‘You’re observant. Yes, when I paint or draw it sometimes feels as if there is another hand guiding me. I’m doing what I’m meant to do. I’m driven to do it. There’s no alternative.’

‘May I see the sketches?’

‘I don’t show most of my models my first drawings. They’re not always flattering.’

‘I’d still like to look at them.’

‘If you insist,’ he said eventually, though she suspected he’d been about to refuse. ‘I started some of them yesterday.’

‘You drew me straight away?’

Collecting the sketch papers from the easel, he made no answer, just passed them to her before leaning back again, his arms crossed.

Cameo held up the first drawing, then the next and the next. They were simple head studies. Yet in each sketch was the mark of a true artist.

‘You—you’ve seen me.’ Her gasp escaped from her lips. ‘I mean, you’ve really, really seen me.’

He uncrossed his arms. ‘When an artist looks at his model he’s not just seeing the exterior. He must discern more.’

The smell of turpentine, soap and another more masculine scent she’d noticed the day before reached her as he moved closer and pointed to the drawings. ‘When I look at you it’s the line of your chin that reveals the determination of your character. But there’s something else. There’s wistfulness in your eyes, as though you’re longing for something.’

Instantly she dropped her lashes. ‘You saw this in my eyes?’

‘Yes. Your chin says one thing, but your eyes say another. It’s as if part of you is waiting to come to life. I perceived it immediately.’