Enticing Benedict Cole

‘The family I work for have travelled to the Continent. Will you tell me what you saw in Venice?’ Quickly she tried to cover her mistake.

‘How can I describe it in words, instead of paint? You must see it to understand the beauty of the city, with its canals and the palaces reflected in their waters, each a work of art in itself.’

‘I’d love to see it.’

He sent her his unexpected smile. ‘Perhaps you’ll go there one day.’

Her parents would never consider such a thing. Young ladies did not go on Grand Tours, at least, not the kind of tour Cameo dreamed to take, any more than they could be painters. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You never know what might happen,’ he said lightly.

A silence lengthened between them.

Finally, she was unable to take the tension. ‘Do you need me to pose any more?’

‘No, Miss Ashe. I’m making excellent progress, especially with all my preparatory work before you appeared. I think that’s enough for today.’

Feeling strangely light-headed, she buttoned on her coat and replaced her bonnet, sensing his usual awareness of her every movement. ‘You’ll still want me again?’

He made no reply but just folded his arms and nodded.

‘Until tomorrow, then.’

* * *

The door slammed.

Benedict waited a few moments, then pelted down the stairs, keeping a safe distance behind Miss Cameo Ashe.

There she was on the street ahead of him, that determined, slim figure, her bonnet bobbing as she hurried home.

But to where? He’d tormented himself speculating about her. Did his model live alone? Or with someone else? With a man? Those thoughts had kept him awake at night. Her claim today to be a governess helped ease his aching suspicions, but something still didn’t ring true about his model.

His model. Wryly he noted the possessive pronoun as he followed her down the street.

Ahead she rounded the corner, just as a woman carrying a basket of fruit and vegetables pushed towards him.

‘Fancy something ripe, love?’ She winked.

‘I’m in a hurry.’ Benedict raced past her.

As he turned the corner he stared down the street in astonishment.

Cameo Ashe had vanished. A crested carriage was pulling away and Becky the match girl stood alone. He gave her a wave. He often gave her food as she sat outside the bakery shop. He slipped her money when he had it; more often he gave her warm bread rolls. It must be torment to smell the baking bread.

Becky waved back. But of his model, there was no sign. As if she was a character in a fairy tale or a creature of his imagination. Gone.

Benedict ran his hand through his hair.

With a suppressed groan he made his way back up to the studio and strode over to the washstand, pouring the jug of water into the basin with an unsteady tilt. Glancing up into the mirror, beyond his reflected face he caught sight of the chaise longue Miss Ashe had just vacated. The scene echoed with presence, like a good still-life painting. So clear was her remembered image it seemed as if she still sat there, that slim upright figure, the sunlight bringing out unexpected glints in her dark hair.

Finishing this portrait was too important. Already his gut told him how good it was going to be. There must be no distractions. Cameo Ashe must not become more to him than a model. He vowed not to go chasing after her again, trying to find out more about her. No. Better that she was an apparition who appeared from nowhere. The flesh-and-blood woman, he must resist.

But he’d almost weakened. He wanted to show her the sketches he had made of Venice, see the curve of her neck as she studied them, to take his paintbrush, and take his finger...

Biting down an expletive, he leant across and pushed back the mirror. It swung like a pendulum. Her image he could surely erase, but the unexpected feel of her in his arms, the touch of those soft lips, the face lifted up to his like a delicate flower... The kiss they had shared, the one he sensed they were both trying so hard to forget, had been a promise of passion that ran deep.

What was it about her? he reflected as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, shrugged it off in a way he wished he could shrug off his persistent thoughts of Miss Ashe. She seemed different from any other model he had ever employed, but in a way he couldn’t put his finger on.

Was it her complete stillness as she posed? She only made tiny breaths. Other than that she hadn’t moved a muscle. Even the involuntary opening and shutting of her lashes seemed slow, as though not to disturb him, while his meticulous nature drove him on to sketch her over and over again, seeking to capture the exact lines of that chin, the shape of those lips. All his other models became bored, unable to hold positions for more than an hour or so. Miss Ashe sat there on the chaise longue unmoving for longer than that, her spine straight, apparently able to hold her pose unendingly.

Something else bothered him. He swore she was watching him. As intently as he sketched her, so she studied him in return, observing the slightest movement he made, taking in each step of the process, each sweep of his hand across the paper. He felt as if she were drawing with him in a strange fusion that bound them together.

Therein lay the difference. His other models, Maisie in particular, wanted him to stop working as soon as possible. Miss Ashe seemed to want him to go on, whilst drinking it all in with those violet eyes.

He’d sensed her complete focus as he finished drawing her mouth, with its full upper lip, and at last began to get her pointed chin right. Then he’d known he could go no further. The high blue collar of her finely woven woollen dress was tight around her neck and he’d only been able to guess at the exact shape of her collarbones that, even beneath her dress, hinted at being delicate and fine. He’d had to see her bare neck, that beautiful slender neck. And then the delicate scent of violets had risen up as he dropped the cameo necklace against her pale skin of her throat...

Damnation. He tore off his shirt and thrust his hands into the basin of water, splashing it against his face. He would resist her. Foundling, seamstress or governess, he had to subdue his curiosity, his need to know more. When she came for the next session he’d continue to paint her, but that was all.

Time to get to work. It would be another long night.

Chapter Seven

‘Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete

Portion’d in halves between us, that we grew.’

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

Cameo turned the corner. Above her head the sign for the Lamb public house creaked as it swung in the breeze. The street was becoming so familiar to her: the crowds of people buying and selling their wares, the carriages and carts, the busy butcher’s shop, the bakery with the smell of warm fresh bread wafting from inside.

Becky, the match girl, sat on the cobbles with her wares laid out beside her.

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