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Why, in a few hours this man had learned more about her than most people who had known her all her life. He had spotted what she tried to keep secret, contained within her body, all the passion and desire always threatening to brim over. And she thought she’d had his measure, watching him as he drew!
She forced out a laugh. ‘I have no such longing.’
‘Don’t lie to me,’ he rasped. ‘I’m an artist. I know what I see.’
Impatiently Benedict seized the sketches. ‘Let’s return to work.’ After a moment he cast down the charcoal. ‘It’s no good.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cameo asked indignantly. ‘I haven’t moved.’
His eyebrows knit together as he scowled at the paper in front of him. ‘It’s not that. I have the angle right, but I need—’
‘What is it?’
Impatiently he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Your determined chin, Miss Ashe. I’m afraid it leads to your neck.’
Her hands flew upwards. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I told you I won’t merely be painting your face. I’ll also be painting part of your body. I did make that clear.’
Cameo’s heart raced. Of course she understood what he’d said to her, but she hadn’t considered which parts of her body needed to be revealed.
‘I expected that, Mr Cole,’ she forced herself to reply with feigned unconcern. ‘What exactly is it you ask of me now?’
He pointed to her blue gown. ‘Unbutton the collar of your dress.’
A gulp of air rose up from her lungs. It was no more than she revealed in a dinner gown or a ball dress. In such evening attire her neck, even her shoulders and décolletage were bare. Yet her fingers became clumsy as she reached for the tiny buttons that held the collar tight, her heart beating so loudly he surely heard it.
She undid the top button. He made no sign to stop her. She undid the second. She ought to feel shy with her throat bare in front of him, yet she didn’t at all.
‘Is—is that enough?’
‘Almost.’
Cameo undid the third button.
His eyes darkened with an unidentifiable emotion. ‘Wait.’
With long strides Benedict crossed the room and reached for her.
Her body gave an instinctive jerk.
‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
No muscle moved in her body as he lifted her cameo necklace from where it had been lying on the soft fabric of her dress and dropped it down into her open collar. It fell against her skin towards the crevice between her breasts.
The cooler stone met her warm skin and she gave a sharp intake of breath, but the necklace wasn’t the cause of her sudden ragged breathing. His closeness, the heat from his body emanating through the thin cotton of his shirt, did that. He moved his hand away, but his powerful vision stayed transfixed upon her throat as if he were actually touching her skin.
His lips came down at the exact moment she raised hers to his. They moved together as one, his strong arms lifting her from the chaise longue as she stood on tiptoe to reach him while a greater force thrust them together. Nothing stopped her seeking the hardness of his lips in that moment, causing an explosion within her that dived to the depths of her stomach and flamed up again as a deep sigh opened her mouth. She let his cool tongue probe, meeting his hunger with hers, longing to taste him. She flung her hands around his neck as he wrenched her body even closer in his fierce embrace.
With a groan, Benedict heaved himself away from her and ran his hand through his hair. ‘Goodness.’
Cameo sank on to the chaise longue, clutching her bodice. Her heart felt like a bird beating its wings against the cage of her chest.
Benedict retreated behind the easel. ‘I warned you the relationship between artist and model can all too easily become intimate.’ Harsh lines bracketed the mouth that just moments before had so passionately searched hers. ‘That was...regrettable.’
She couldn’t reply. She could only gasp for breath.
His glance flew to his easel as though it were a powerful magnet. ‘This painting may be my greatest work. I can’t have anything interfere with my focus. I must complete this. It’s what I’m meant to do.’
Silence fell between them, except for the gasps that continued to escape her lips.
‘Some people don’t think artists have any rules.’ He spoke again, his voice husky. ‘But they do. They must. To be able to paint each day without fail there must be the kind of self-discipline that cannot be broken.’
Words evaded her as her body continued to shudder.
‘Do you understand? I cannot allow this between us. If you’re to remain my model—it must be as if what just happened never occurred.’
With shaking fingers Cameo touched her tender lips. ‘I see.’
‘I can assure you there will be no such lapse again.’
He coiled away from her and thrust his taut hands against the chimney piece. When he rounded on his heel, his expression appeared unfathomable.
‘I think we’ve had enough for today.’ He ran his fingers through his hair again. ‘We’ll continue tomorrow, Miss Ashe.’
Shocked to her core by her response to him, Cameo buttoned the bodice of her dress right to the top of her neck. In a trembling grip she grabbed her bonnet and cloak and rushed from the studio as fast as her shaking legs could take her.
Chapter Five
‘Ah, happy shade—and still went wavering down,
But, ere it touch’d a foot, that might have danced.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
A hand parted the fronds of the potted palm tree. ‘What are you two whispering about?’
‘George!’ Cameo dropped her fan. ‘You startled me.’
Her brother gave his easy smile. ‘You look quite panicked. Just what is it that you have to be so guilty about?’
Retrieving her fan, Cameo pretended to study the ballroom, with its huge white pillars, gilt-painted cornices and ferns in huge tubs. The chandeliers scattered their rainbow reflections on the shimmering polished floor, challenging the dazzle of the women’s bright jewels. ‘Nothing.’
‘Hmm. Why is it I don’t believe you, little sister?’ George turned to Maud, standing beside Cameo, who peeped up at him from beneath her lashes.
‘Hello there,’ he said with a smile that Maud returned adoringly with added dimples. ‘Now tell me what is it you’re both so intent on discussing here in the corner that keeps you from dancing?’
‘Oh, well...’ Maud fluttered.
‘Are you telling each other secrets?’
Cameo had considered telling Maud all about her visits to Benedict Cole’s studio. How she wanted to pour out to her friend everything that happened. But she didn’t want to put Maud in such a position. It would be unfair, even though she longed to tell her all about it.
‘I don’t think you could keep a secret from me, could you, Maud?’ George asked. ‘How would I get it out of you?’
Maud giggled.
‘Blast.’ George’s teasing expression changed. ‘Look who’s coming towards us. It’s your new beau, Cameo.’ He raised his voice and gave a nod. ‘Good evening, Warley.’
‘St Clair.’ The man who approached them gave a stiff bow in return and then bowed to Cameo. ‘I hoped you might do me the honour of giving me the next dance, Lady Catherine Mary.’
As she bent a reluctant curtsy in reply her skin crawled, as it always did when she came close to Lord Warley. Still, there was no way to refuse the son of her papa’s oldest friend a dance. She loved her father too much for that.
‘I’m sure she’d be delighted,’ George said with a straight face.
The orchestra struck up another Viennese waltz. Cameo tried to avoid instinctively pulling away as Lord Warley pressed her up against him.
His tongue wet his lips. ‘Delightful evening.’
‘Delightful.’ Cameo dodged his feet landing upon her toes in their white-kid slippers, which offered no protection. He made a sharp turn and she stumbled.
‘Watch your step.’
It had been his fault, not hers. She fumed as he spun her again, nearly bumping into the couple next to them. George gave her a grin as he expertly swept Maud past.
From over George’s shoulder, Maud sent her a look of sympathy. They had made a list of dance partners once, ranked from best to worst. Lord Warley with his groping hands was at the bottom of both their lists. George, of course, was at the top of Maud’s.
Oh, Maud had to say yes to her brother’s proposal tonight. Her friend looked so sweet in her ruffled white ball dress trimmed with pink roses, staring up at George’s smiling face.
From under her lashes, Cameo studied her own dance partner. Often she heard Lord Warley called handsome, but for Cameo his sloping chin spoilt his dark good looks. His eyes were brown, his black hair brushed from his forehead. He had similar colouring to Benedict Cole and was almost as tall.
Benedict Cole.
She was imagining him everywhere.
That kiss. All she thought of was that kiss, that explosive, passionate kiss. Her lips tingled at the memory. Surely such a kiss was something real and rare. Why then had the artist rejected her so coldly and dismissed her from the studio as if she were an inconvenience?
Lord Warley trod on her foot again. ‘So sorry.’
The pressure was so hard it seemed as if he had done it on purpose, to gain her attention.
She looked up sharply. There was no clue on his face.
‘You look very well tonight.’ He glanced down at her lacy white dress and her cameo necklace, tied with a blue-velvet ribbon to match her sash.
‘Thank you.’ She fought her sudden urge to pull up the lace of her low décolletage.
They swept past the pillared alcoves, half-curtained with heavy cream brocade and the scrutiny of the grand society ladies who sat behind the curtains. Her mama sat at one of the tables, no doubt being congratulated on the fine pair her daughter and Lord Warley made. Wickedly, Cameo imagined dancing by with Benedict Cole. What would they think if they found out she’d been kissed by the bohemian artist in his studio in Soho? What would they think if they’d seen the way she responded?
The passionate touch of Benedict’s lips seemed on hers again, the vision so powerful she wanted to close her eyes and just sink into those sensations.
Stop it, she instructed herself. Stop it.
The last strains of the waltz finally played out. With relief she escaped Lord Warley’s hold. ‘Thank you.’
‘Would you care for another dance?’
Pretending to consider, she opened her fan and gave it a dismissive flick. ‘How kind. But I think that I might appreciate a rest.’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ he said smoothly. ‘The terrace?’
Cameo fumed with frustration as he once again took her arm and steered her towards the French windows which opened on to the terrace. He’d cornered her. There was no way she could be rude to a friend of the family. Still, fresh air was preferable to having her feet stamped on in another dance.
Outside, the garden sparkled with candles. Cameo sank down on to one of the wrought-iron chairs laid out on the terrace.
Warley leaned over her, so close that she shrank back against the cold iron of the chair. On his breath was the faint whiff of claret.
‘Can I fetch you refreshment?’
‘I am thirsty. Thank you.’
Enjoying the momentary respite, she breathed in the scent of jasmine and roses. There was no one else on the terrace, though perhaps George and Maud were somewhere in the garden. Why, he might even be proposing at that very moment. How lucky they were, while she was here with Lord Warley. Under her skirts she stretched out her painful toes. He didn’t seem to have done any permanent damage.
Something near to despair filled her. These evenings were supposed to be enjoyable, but they exhausted her more than sitting for Benedict Cole. Modelling was hard work. But being forced to play a society role was hard work, too. Not the kind of work to complain about. How could she complain about having to go to a ball? It sounded spoilt. Never complain, never explain. That was what her mama advised.
Too soon Lord Warley returned with two glasses of iced punch.
‘Thank you.’ Cameo took a sip.
He sat down on the chair opposite and hoisted one leg over the other. ‘My pleasure.’
Silence fell. It wasn’t the same kind of silence as when Benedict Cole painted her; that silence didn’t bother her at all.
‘I’d love to try to capture those roses,’ she said at last, studying the white tea roses that were tumbling down the trellis closest to them.
‘Capture them?’
‘Paint them, I mean. What do you think of the latest style of painting? The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and the other new painters?’
‘Ridiculous.’ He shocked her with his vehemence. ‘They make far too much of themselves, like all artists. They should get decent occupations.’
‘Art’s a passion!’ Cameo protested.
‘Art’s a fuss about nothing. Who can’t slap a bit of paint on to some canvas, I ask you? Of course I go to the opening of the Royal Academy of Art at the start of the Season, one’s got to. And we’ve got some fine Old Masters in our long gallery at Warley Park. Not that I care for them that much. It’s all a waste of time.’
‘How can you say that?’ She sipped her punch to quench her anger. It didn’t help.
‘That’s right—you enjoy that kind of thing, don’t you?’ He emptied his punch glass. ‘You do a few watercolours, I seem to recall. I’m surprised your father allows it. Well, good for you young ladies to have something to do, isn’t it?’
Cameo drank more punch. ‘It’s more than just something to do for me.’
‘Perhaps when you come to Warley Park you’ll allow me to show you the Old Masters in our gallery. You haven’t forgotten you and your parents are coming to stay at my estate, have you?’
She had forgotten. She’d forced the engagement from her mind. A dance with Lord Warley was penance. A long visit would be intolerable. Yet there was no chance of talking her parents out of it and she had to be polite. ‘I’m sure it will be most pleasant.’
‘Your presence will make it so, Lady Catherine Mary.’
She didn’t remind him that all her friends and family called her Cameo. She’d never invited him to, yet she gave the pet name to Benedict Cole without thinking.
Lord Warley smiled. It was his smile that made her uneasy, she reflected. It never reached his eyes. In contrast, Benedict Cole’s eyes had searched her soul.
Would Benedict Cole ever leave her mind?
Lord Warley pulled off his gloves, revealing each of his fingers in turn. Without warning, he leant forward and imprisoned her hands. ‘How pleased I am to have this moment alone with you.’
‘Lord Warley!’ Desperately she tried to extract her fingers, but his grip was too tight.
He squeezed them tighter. ‘You must allow me to make my addresses. I’m sure your parents will not object.’
Cameo wrenched her hands away.
‘Your addresses?’ Her stomach sank. His intentions were more serious than she’d feared.
‘Indeed.’ Putting his fingers together in a steeple, he said, ‘Our families are well connected. You will recall, of course, that your father was good friends with my own, God rest his soul.’
The late Lord Warley, the current earl’s father, had died while she was still in the schoolroom, studying under a governess with Maud. He’d been dark-haired like his son. But his eyes had been different—kind, although sad. Cameo remembered that.
‘My father thought most highly of yours,’ she vouchsafed. If it wasn’t for the family friendship she wouldn’t be forced to associate so closely with him against all her instincts. It made it all very difficult.
‘When I inherited Warley Park—you must know that it’s one of the greatest houses in England—I took on a great responsibility. I shall enjoy showing you the estate on your visit. You will be an ornament to it.’ Once more he glanced towards her bare décolletage.
Cameo wished yet again for a shawl to cover her upper body. She didn’t want to be an ornament to anything, even Warley Park, that great country estate in Sussex. It was even larger than the one belonging to her family in Derbyshire, which George was to eventually inherit.
‘It will be wonderful to see the Old Masters at Warley Hall.’ That was true at least. ‘I’m sure I’ll like them. But you may not find you like me. For a start, I’m most attached to painting.’
His smile became supercilious. ‘You’ll soon outgrow your childish hobbies.’
‘I assure you I’ll never outgrow painting,’ she said through gritted teeth. Why was it that women’s passions were considered so insignificant, as though they could easily be put aside for polite society? Did no one understand the passion that drove her?
Benedict Cole’s face flashed again into her mind.
He was a man who understood painting.
And passion.
Down deep her stomach rippled.
‘You’re young.’ Lord Warley licked his lips. ‘There’s nothing you could be sure about at your age.’
He had only been a few years ahead of George at school. ‘I might be young, but I do know my own mind.’
‘I appreciate spirit in a girl.’
Before Cameo moved he was on his feet. Looming over her, he pressed her backwards, hard, into the wrought-iron chair, banging her head against the trellis.
No! He meant to kiss her. She couldn’t bear it. Not with the memory of Benedict’s lips still burned on to hers. In a surge of strength she pushed him away.
Leaping to her feet, she seized her necklace as if it were a talisman. ‘I’d like to go into the ballroom.’
‘Yes, of course. The moonlight, your beauty...forgive me.’
As he took her arm, his eyes did not meet hers. Sickened, Cameo realised he wasn’t sorry at all.
She’d been right to avoid being alone with him. All her suspicions about him had been right all along.
Backed up against the trellis, Lord Warley had trapped her like a bird in a cage. Right where he liked a woman to be.
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