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Enticing Benedict Cole
Eliza Redgold
AN ARTIST, A LADY, A SECRET PASSION…When Benedict Cole shuns her request for painting lessons, Lady ‘Cameo’ Catherine Mary St Clair takes matters into her own hands. She arrives at Benedict’s studio – only to be mistaken for a model! It’s an opportunity she just can’t turn down…Benedict knows better than to let intimacy interfere with his work, yet he can’t quell his fascination for the mysterious Cameo. And after one daring night together everything changes. Will Cameo still be his muse when Benedict discovers who she really is?
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 and clasped her chin.
Author Note (#ulink_c4c60ffe-29f9-5395-862f-8a355eb05d81)
A portrait of passion …
Do you love the Victorian era? I do. It was an amazing time, when passion lurked beneath propriety and secrets and scandals were hidden beneath the surface. This story is inspired by the desperately romantic Pre-Raphaelite artists and models of Victorian England. The beautiful and sensual Pre-Raphaelite paintings are some of the most familiar artworks in the world today. I expect, like me, you have your favourites—do get in touch and let me know!
Just like Benedict Cole’s, the art and the love lives of the Pre-Raphaelite painters—a group of brilliant, free-thinking young men—were considered scandalous. Their artistic milieu was in complete contrast with the strict conventions of the Victorian upper classes. Ladies like ‘Cameo’, Lady Catherine Mary St Clair, lived in a controlled, stifling world, and often felt trapped and unhappy. It would have been considered unthinkable for a young aristocratic woman such as Cameo to want to pursue art seriously, and even more unthinkable to be an artist’s model.
This story celebrates every woman who ever challenged convention for the sake of art, and for the sake of love.
I hope you enjoy it!
Enticing Benedict Cole
Eliza Redgold
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ELIZA REDGOLD is an author, academic and unashamed romantic. She was born in Scotland, is married to an Englishman, and currently lives in Australia. She loves to share stories with readers! Get in touch with Eliza via Twitter: @ElizaRedgold, on Facebook: facebook.com/ElizaRedgoldAuthor (http://www.facebook.com/ElizaRedgoldAuthor) and Pinterest: pinterest.com/elizaredgold (http://www.pinterest.com/elizaredgold). Or visit her at goodreads.com/author/show/7086012.Eliza_Redgold (http://goodreads.com/author/show/7086012.Eliza_Redgold) and elizaredgold.com (http://elizaredgold.com).
Enticing Benedict Coleis Eliza Redgold’s magical debut for Mills & Boon Historical Romance!
For Madeleine, who first listened to the whole story, and for my sister, the original Catherine Mary.
Many thanks to those who made Cameo’s acquaintance more than once in writing this story.
To the Wordwrights critique group, Janet Woods, Deb Bennetto, Karen Saayman and Anne Summers, who read early versions and made such valuable comments, and to Jenny Schwartz, an angel of a critique partner.
Thanks to my daughter, Jessica, who played Yann Tiersen’s Rue des Cascades on the piano as theme music while Cameo raced through the streets of London to find Benedict, and to my husband, James, who always makes London magical.
Contents
Cover (#u0bca2c40-ee69-559a-aaa4-407ef0b30db3)
Introduction (#u916876b7-0896-58ae-9fb0-c9ad2e3b344a)
Author Note (#ulink_5af1bcad-8c0c-5d71-b7a5-9dc421351c5b)
Title Page (#u5bbb8559-0c5a-571a-b57b-196785eef89c)
About the Author (#u1f3c5b72-51e6-5715-a7c1-4e0183584e2a)
Dedication (#u62aba978-96c4-530a-a560-82ed332a52d3)
Acknowledgments (#u7e850cd7-9a73-5099-a5a3-975e52c3cf6a)
Prologue (#ulink_aa6f7260-282e-5850-9bc4-035407a8d295)
Chapter One (#ulink_bb74a4a3-2977-5692-a87e-38e2e58bbdd5)
Chapter Two (#ulink_09955f87-9407-5c7d-8d42-0859d668cdc3)
Chapter Three (#ulink_8fab1755-1865-540a-b0d2-7125d8351380)
Chapter Four (#ulink_42368c2c-6306-560a-a199-377b92455a3c)
Chapter Five (#ulink_a02c137a-76df-5af7-8dcf-23f8610dca11)
Chapter Six (#ulink_75042c63-c914-5f58-877c-eaf9e51c4be8)
Chapter Seven (#ulink_8f4d6dc8-6ffd-5d69-93bf-9eb35318317b)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_68f8f6f6-760b-5c9b-876c-ab1e30c6b907)
‘Love, A more ideal Artist he than all.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’ (1842)
‘On that veil’d picture—veil’d, for what it holds
May not be dwelt on by the common day.
This prelude has prepared thee.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
London 1852
Cameo pressed the letter to her lips.
Beneath her carefully crafted, polite phrases would he read her hopes and dreams in each line?
Through the open window she stared out past the silhouette of the ash tree into the starry night beyond, as if by will she summoned him to reply. Beyond, by the light of the moon, she made out in front of the house the darkened grassy garden of the square with its plane trees, the high black wrought-iron railings encircling the snowdrops and daffodils. She felt caged in the house, like a bird who longed to be free. She wanted to be out in the world, to be part of it all. To learn. To paint. To live.
With a sigh she closed the velvet curtains and retreated into her bedroom. On her dressing table the candle flickered. The flame leapt high, with its orange, red and yellow tongue, its vivid blue centre. If only she could learn to capture such passionate colours with her paints!
He did.
Benedict Cole.
That was his name. She’d stared at it, scrawled in black paint at the corner of the canvas.
She’d discovered his passion and power when she’d seen his painting at the Royal Academy of Art. It had stopped her in her tracks, her breath shuddering.
The work was marvellous. The subject was simple, a woman holding sheaves of wheat. But the subject of the painting wasn’t what caught her attention. It was the strokes of his brush.
As if his paintbrush stroked her skin.
As if it touched her heart.
There was a secret in that painting, as if it held a message, as if it spoke directly to her. She...recognised it. That was it. Somehow, she understood the soul of the artist who had painted that picture. The effect on her had been extraordinary. She wanted to stand in front of it for hours, soaking in the colours, the textures, his use of light. She returned again and again to view it.
Benedict Cole must teach her. She knew it. She needed to learn everything he knew. Only he could free her hands and the emotions locked inside her. Only he could show her how to put them on paper, on canvas, with charcoal, with paint, until the work came to life.
She must find a way.
Now at last she’d gathered up her courage to write to him.
She yearned to pour out all her hopes and dreams in the letter, her longings and desires. But her phrases remained stilted. Draft after draft, pen staining her fingers, she’d tried to find the right words to ask his consent to give her lessons and that she would pay him handsomely for his time.
And she hoped that he would understand. It meant so much more.
Her heart beating fast, she picked up the letter.
Sealing it with a drop of wax, she blew out the candle.
She could only pray for his answer.
Chapter One (#ulink_bde32448-8cec-50a4-b48d-51955bfd550b)
‘This morning is the morning of the day.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
‘The answer is no!’ Gerald St Clair, Earl of Buxton, threw his newspaper down on the breakfast table. ‘Don’t ask me again, Cameo!’
