Enticing Benedict Cole. Eliza Redgold
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‘You don’t need to pose any more just now, Miss Ashe.’ He sent her a fleeting but intense glance. ‘Sit down by the fire for a moment.’
‘Don’t you need me?’
Reaching for his brush, he dipped it into the black paint pooled on the palette. ‘I just want to get this right.’
Eager to watch his technique from another angle, she crossed the room and hovered behind him.
‘I can’t paint with you at my elbow,’ he snapped without turning his head.
The man was infuriating. Cameo sat down with a thump on the armchair by the fire and cast her eyes around. A book lay on the table among all the papers. The red leather binding appeared new. The Stones of Venice, its gilt lettering spelt out, by John Ruskin. She knew the author’s name, of course, for Ruskin was the famous champion of the Pre-Raphaelite movement who was able to make or break a painter’s reputation with a single review. She flicked the book open and found herself immediately held by the magnificent illustrations. She began to read.
‘I didn’t realise you were a reader, Miss Ashe.’ Like a prowling cat, Benedict had silently moved beside her. ‘But as you are a governess, I suppose it makes sense.’
At his sardonic drawl Cameo glanced up from the pages. She wasn’t sure how long she had been reading as he continued to paint, a companionable silence seeming to settle over them both. ‘It’s a wonderful book.’
He studied her for a moment before he reached across and retrieved it. ‘It’s the first volume.’ He flicked it open with his thumb. ‘It’s only just been published last year. It’s a masterpiece, as is Venice itself.’
‘You’ve been to Venice?’ She was relieved he’d dropped the topic of her role as a governess.
‘You sound surprised.’
‘It’s just the expense.’
‘How can an impoverished artist living in a garret afford it, is that what you mean?’ Benedict’s voice remained light, but his face shuttered closed. ‘I received an inheritance of a sort.’
She didn’t press him on where such an inheritance might have come from. A look of pain, quickly hidden, caused by her innocent query halted any such enquiries.
‘It wasn’t a Grand Tour as such.’ His mouth twisted. ‘But all artists must see the works by the Renaissance Masters, such as Titian, Bellini and Giorgione, who are among the greatest of the Venetian school. It’s an essential part of our training.’
‘My bro—’ She had opened her mouth to tell him her brother, George, had indeed travelled on a mandatory Grand Tour as did all young men of means. With a snap she shut it again. She possessed no brother George as the orphaned Miss Ashe.
‘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.
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