скачать книгу бесплатно
He spoke again to the woman and indicated the doorway.
That wasn’t appropriate. He would likely take that woman to the gardens as he had suggested to Emilie. True, the garden had many guests conversing in it, but a later meeting could be planned.
That unrepentant rake. That scoundrel. He was aware she watched.
Well, if he wished her to be aware, then she would give him a taste of his own medicine. Emilie turned to her mother.
‘Did you notice how Lady Elliot appears pained?’
Her mother’s brows furrowed and she inspected Lady Elliot, her grey hair swirled at the edges of a feathered band. ‘No,’ her mother said at Emilie’s side. ‘I perceive nothing out of the ordinary about her.’
‘I should ask her to take a turn around the gardens,’ Emilie said. ‘For her—for my health. If I say it is for my health, that might make her feel better and not make her ashamed of her weakness.’
‘That is so unlike you.’
‘It is the society, Mama. It makes me feel…um, not like an artist so much, but more like a…’ She paused, listening to the nonsense she spouted, but it had truth in it. ‘I feel…womanly.’
Her mother groaned. ‘If I had known that getting you to a gathering such as this would change you, I would have made sure to have done it years ago.’
All her mother would have had to do was guarantee some interesting artists would be there and Emilie would have jumped at the chance.
She meandered to the mother of the woman Lord Grayson had danced with. She was engrossed in conversation with a dowager. Chaperonage fell to the wayside when a mother’s daughter was close to a potential peer and a longed-for son-in-law.
‘Lady Elliot,’ she whispered, touching the woman’s arm and interrupting the discussion. ‘Could you please join me in the gardens? I may have had more wine than I should have. I had two glasses, but perhaps more.’
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘The wine is delicious, but a lady must always pace herself.’
Emilie touched her gloved hand to her forehead. ‘I agree. But sometimes a faster pace gets the better of me.’
The older woman patted her hand, spoke briefly to her companions and took Emilie’s arm as they strolled to the cooler air.
Emilie saw the darkest edge and aimed for it, leaving the strains of music behind.
‘If you’d stay with me for a moment longer…’ She kept Lady Elliot at her side. ‘I am feeling better, but…’
‘Dear…’ Lady Elliot patted Emilie’s glove ‘…do be careful of the drink. It doesn’t always improve a woman’s complexion. A little does add a rosy glow, but take a lot and the headache isn’t worth it. You’ll be ghastly the following day.’
‘Well,’ Emilie admitted, brushing away a wisp of hair that had loosened from her bun, ‘now and then, I do forget about my appearance.’
‘You must never do that.’ Lady Elliot sputtered. ‘A woman’s decorum and fashion should always be of utmost importance in her mind. My Cecilia Ann has been schooled in that. Proper manners and a good wardrobe can take a woman far.’
Emilie frowned. She wouldn’t make it far then.
They found a bench in the darkness. ‘It is a lovely evening,’ Lady Elliot said, ‘except for Mrs Hodges’s dress. The colours would favour Mr Hodges better.’
‘Um…’ Emilie said, imagining a painting of Mr Hodges. ‘It would not work with his complexion. He would fade away into nothing.’
They discussed the varieties of colour in the ballroom, then feminine laughter and one rich baritone interrupted their chat. The laughter and the baritone were obviously moving towards Emilie and Lady Elliot.
The woman beside Emilie stilled.
Lord Grayson and his dancing partner were nearly directly in front of them when the two standing saw the two sitting. Even the air stopped.
The young woman spoke, voice high. ‘Mother?’
Lady Elliot moved to her feet. She took her daughter’s arm. ‘You promised the next reel to Sir Calvin.’ She took her daughter’s arm. ‘Cecilia. Inside. Right now. Immediately. I cannot fathom how you got confused. That is inexcusable manners.’
Lady Elliot didn’t slow as she twirled her daughter around and moved towards the lighted house—forgetting all about Emilie.
Chapter Two (#ua811061b-3445-5277-8b58-abb84ad26494)
Lord Grayson remained perfectly still for several moments before he moved. He rearranged the hem of his sleeve and his eyes fell over Emilie, making the air she swallowed fill her with a fresh warmth. ‘We meet again.’
‘You knew I was out here,’ she said.
‘Whether I did or not, it doesn’t matter.’
Even in the darkness, Emilie could imagine him plainly. Nature had sculpted a visage which could have inspired Michelangelo to do better work.
Her hand wanted to caress, to run over the planes of his cheek so she could experience him with the feeling of touch as well as sight.
Inwardly, she berated her traitorous thoughts. She pulled herself from the momentary stupor, blaming it on her fascination with form.
How unfair that someone such as Lord Grayson, a man who said he liked frivolities, would have such a pleasing appearance. Her mother had been so wrong about which of Avondale’s sons had been graced with handsomeness.
The humour on his lips faded. ‘Miss Catesby, you are an accident waiting to happen.’
She tossed the words out. ‘Accidents do happen and I am not the cause of any of them.’
‘You cause things to happen on purpose.’
‘Occasionally.’
He reached out, taking her hand, and she moved, letting him pull her to her feet.
‘When you are near, Miss Catesby, I suspect they happen more than usual.’ He touched her waist, gently connecting with her garment and pouring sensation into her.
‘I would not claim that.’ She forced her voice to be firm and tried to examine him closely in the darkness—an error. Something pushed her heartbeats faster.
‘We have seen each other before,’ he said. ‘Years ago.’
‘I don’t…’ She searched her memories. ‘Are you certain?’ she asked.
She heard the leaves whispering to each other as they rustled in the darkness.
He didn’t answer with his voice. But his expression told her. ‘I remembered where earlier. But it has been many years. I didn’t recognise you at first.’
Emilie paused.
‘I should go inside.’ The words didn’t sound like her own. ‘I wouldn’t want either of our reputations harmed.’
‘Miss Catesby.’ His free hand closed over her gloved fingers and before she knew what he intended, he lifted her fingertips as if to kiss them. The scent of his shaving soap teased her. She’d never come across a soap like that, but she wasn’t sure if it was the soap that made him smell so good, or if it was the man himself.
‘If my reputation were to be harmed, I would be pleased if you were the one to do it.’
She felt disappointment when he dropped her hand instead of kissing it.
He moved closer and she realised he still held her waist, rotating his fingertips against the covered corset which felt thicker than any mattress, yet the warmth of his hand penetrated the garment. His mouth moved closer to her own and he held her still, keeping her so steady she couldn’t have moved away. She presumed him about to kiss her, but instead, he spoke.
‘Miss Catesby. Stay away from my brother. He would ruin you.’
She touched the light wool of his waistcoat, letting her fingers flatten against him. Leaves rustled again as the wind touched them. The breeze strengthened, and the air tingled her cheeks. ‘I would say it’s not your concern.’
‘Miss Catesby. You’re an innocent.’ His fingers pressed into the fabric at her waist and he moved back a whisper.
She trailed her fingers up the waistcoat, touching the cravat, the edge of his jaw, the curve of his lips. She could have been touching a Michelangelo when she felt his face. This was something she’d never imagined before. Her heart pounded from the merest touch of his skin.
To feel a true masterpiece overwhelmed her. She dropped her hand and clenched it, keeping it at her side. She could hardly wait to capture in paint a masculine jawline. One with a hint of darkness in it. In shadows. Such a challenge. To put this image on canvas. A man in the shadows. Darkened features. She could never call it The Dark Angel. Her mother would destroy it. She would call it A Saint In Repose.
She could not calm her heartbeats, but inspiration came at the strangest moments, and one should relish them, hold them close, hug them to one’s heart.
But she could not touch him again. He was the forbidden fruit. The crevasse that could swallow the as-yet-unmade creations that were inside her and turn her into nothingness.
‘Art is my passion.’
His mouth parted. ‘You could have more than one passion, perhaps.’
‘I do. Oils, then watercolours.’
‘Oils?’ he spoke, moving so close, and somehow he’d turned the word into something else. Something intimate.
Her scrutiny never left him and her hand escaped again. She had to study him. She retraced his jawline. The linen cravat. The rougher wool. She stopped where she started, trapped in some trance that he had spun around her.
Her love of shape and form and inspiration travelled from her fingertips to deep inside her.
He stepped away and her fingers followed, lingering at his waistcoat.
‘No.’ His voice roughened.
‘Your brother would not refuse my touch.’
‘No.’ The word destroyed the magic. ‘I am telling you no for both of us.’
He touched the hand at his chest, took her fingers, kissed above the glove and released her. ‘And you must stay away from him.’
‘Really, Lord Grayson?’
‘Yes.’ He brushed a touch across her cheek and she swayed towards him.
She whispered, ‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘You are creating an accident and it is your choice.’ Grayson took her shoulders and moved inches from her, hinting at things both darker and softer. ‘Do you prefer my brother?’
She didn’t speak.
He whispered at her ear, his voice becoming even richer. Fingertips touched her chin. ‘He is wrong for you.’
She turned away, pulling from his grasp.
He increased the distance between them, using his voice to make a barrier, but a barrier that could be moved. ‘Say it, Miss Catesby. Say whether you prefer me over my brother.’
‘Why should it matter? I hardly know him.’ She examined Lord Grayson again. ‘I know even less of you.’
‘I feel I have known you for ever.’ He paused. ‘Please call me Marcus.’
‘This is the first occasion we’ve met. Truly.’ Yet he stirred something deep inside her. She wanted to tell him the energy he inspired within her. How fortunate she’d been to have the opportunity to approach him and to feel the sensations. She gave him her greatest compliment. ‘You would make a lovely portrait.’
In that second, he retreated, turning the night cold.
His head tilted back and, even in the dim light, she could tell he scrutinised something in the distance. He flexed his jaw. ‘I hope you enjoy the soirée.’
‘And you as well, Marcus.’
She couldn’t force herself to leave him, but he turned and moved back to the light.
She took her glove from her hand and touched her lips. Marcus. So much better than Michelangelo’s David. David was almost a child. Marcus was a man.
Unable to move inside, she waited in the darkness, listening to the muted music and the laughter. Her aunt had a book with an engraving of the sculptor’s Moses. Marcus was not bearded or old, but she imagined him as a likeness of that sculpture. Oh, the arms. They were magnificent in the engraving.
She touched her chin, retracing the movement of his hand. She must stay away from Marcus.
To create was one thing. To love that moment was glorious. But to be swallowed inside one piece of passion could destroy the creator.
Look what Michelangelo had done to Moses’s head. No matter what the protuberances truly were, they hinted at a darker side of inspiration. The face warned her. The same man who had sculpted David had created Moses. Moses, with the glare, the judgemental regard and the condemnation within him.
Marcus condemned her. His voice, his movement and his face did.
Then she paused. He condemned her. When he was not staring at her as if she were the only woman in the world.
But she wasn’t a woman. She was an artist. And she’d been born to be alone and to create.
Then she thought of Marcus. But what if she must experience deep feelings in order to reflect them in her paintings? What if she must have a tortured soul in order to paint with depth…?
Or perhaps she had heard that somewhere and it was nonsense. Perhaps she just needed a roof for her studio, an imagination and paints.
Yes, she decided, thinking back to her struggles with paints.
Art provides all the torture an artist requires.
