The Beauty Within. Marguerite Kaye
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firm clasp she had, though her nails were in an atrocious state, chewed to the quick, the skin bleeding around the edges. She had a pleasant voice, to his ear, the vowels clipped and precise. He had the impression of a fierce intelligence blazing from her eyes under that intense frown, though not beauty. Indeed, her dreadful gown, the way she rounded her posture, curling into herself as she sat down, made it clear that she cultivated plainness. But for all that—or perhaps because of that—he thought she had an interesting face.
Was she to be his subject? A pique of interest flared momentarily but no, the commission was for a portrait of children, and Lady Cressida was most definitely well past her girlhood. A pity, for he would have liked to try to capture the vitality behind the shimmering resentment. She was no empty-headed society beauty, nor appeared to have any aspirations to be depicted as such. He cursed the paradox which made the most interesting of subjects the least inclined to be painted, and the most beautiful subjects the ones he was least inclined to depict. Then he reminded himself that beauty was his business. A fact he was having to remind himself of rather too often.
‘Sit, sit.’ Lord Armstrong ushered him to a chair and resumed his own seat, surveying him shrewdly from behind the desk. ‘I wish you to paint a portrait of my boys. James is eight. Harry six. And the twins, George and Frederick, are five.’
‘Four, actually,’ the daughter intervened.
Her father waved away her comment. ‘Still in short coats, is the important thing. You’ll paint them together, as a group.’
It was, Giovanni noted, an instruction rather than a question. ‘And the mother too?’ he asked. ‘That is the usual …’
‘Lord, no. Bella’s not—no, no, I do not wish my wife depicted.’
‘What, then, of their sister?’ Giovanni asked, turning towards Lady Cressida.
‘Just the boys. I want you to capture their charms,’ his lordship said, looking pointedly at his daughter, whom he obviously considered to possess none.
Giovanni repressed a sigh. Another tedious depiction of cherubic children. Sons, but no daughter. The English aristocracy were no different from the Italian in their views in that regard. It was to be a pretty and idealistic portrait totally lacking in any truth, the licit products of Lord Armstrong’s loins displayed in the family gallery for posterity. His heart sank. ‘You wish me to show your sons as charming,’ he repeated fatalistically.
‘They are charming.’ Lord Armstrong frowned. ‘Proper manly boys, mind. I want you to show that too, nothing namby-pamby. Now, as to the composition …’
‘You may leave that decision with me.’ Forced to paint a vision far removed from reality he might be, but his fame had at least allowed him some element of control. As Giovanni had expected, his lordship looked put out. It was all so predictable. ‘You may have every confidence in my choice. I presume you have seen my work, my lord?’
‘Not seen as such, but I’ve heard excellent reports of it. I wouldn’t have summoned you here if I hadn’t.’
This was new. Across from him, he could see that it was news also to Lady Cressida, who looked appalled.
‘I fail to see how my being unfamiliar with your work is at all relevant.’ Lord Armstrong frowned heavily at his daughter. ‘As a diplomat, I have to trust the word of others constantly. If there’s a problem in Egypt, or Lisbon, or Madrid, I can’t be expected to hotfoot it over there in person. I ask myself, who is the best man for the job, and then I get him to deal with it. It’s the same with this portrait. I have taken soundings, sought expert advice. Signor di Matteo was consistently highly recommended—in point of fact,’ he said, turning to Giovanni, ‘I was told you were the best. Was I misinformed?’
‘Certainly, demand for my portraits far outstrips the rate at which I can produce them,’ Giovanni replied. Which was true, and ought to cause him a great deal more satisfaction than it did, even if it did not actually answer Lord Armstrong’s question. His success was such that he could command an extremely high premium for his portraits, even if that very success felt not like freedom but a prison of his own making. Another thing Giovanni was discovering recently, that success was a double-edged sword. Fame and fortune, while on the one hand securing his independence, had severely compromised his creativity. It was a price worth paying, he told himself every day. No matter that he felt his muse recede ever faster with every passing commission.
His newest patron, however, seemed quite satisfied with his response. To possess what others desired was sufficient for Lord Armstrong, as it was for most of his class.
His lordship got to his feet. ‘Then we are agreed.’ He held out his hand, and Giovanni stood too, taking it in a firm grip. ‘My secretary will handle the—er, commercial details. I look forward to seeing the finished product. I must make my excuses now, for I am expected at Apsley House. There is a chance I may have to accompany Wellington on his trip to St Petersburg. Inconvenient, but when one’s country calls, what can one do! I shall leave you in my daughter’s charge, signor. She will supervise her brothers during the sittings. Anything you need Cressida can provide, since Lady Armstrong, my wife, is currently indisposed.’
With only a curt nod in his daughter’s direction, Lord Armstrong hurried from the room, content that he had in one fell swoop neatly resolved all his domestic problems and could now concentrate his mind fully on the much more important and devilishly tricky matter of how best to address the issue of Greek independence without standing on either Turkish or Russian toes.
Left alone with the artist, Cressida surveyed him properly for the first time. She had been so absorbed in trying to maintain control of her temper that until now she had noted merely that Signor di Matteo’s dress was not at all like the peacock she expected, that he was younger than she had surmised from his reputation, and that his English was excellent. What struck her now with some force was that he was starkly and strikingly beautiful. Not merely handsome, but possessing such an ethereal magnetism and sense of physical perfection that she could almost question whether or not he was real.
Aware that she was staring, she took a mental inventory in an attempt to unscramble her reeling senses. High cheekbones and a high brow, the sleek line of his head outlined by the close-cropped cap of raven-black hair. His eyes were dark brown under heavy dark lids. It was a classically proportioned face, albeit vaguely saturnine. The planes of his cheeks were sharp, accentuated by the hollows below. He had a good nose. A near enough perfect nose, in fact. And his mouth—it was wasted on a man, that mouth. Full lips, top and bottom, deeply sensual, sculpted, and at the same time it curved up just enough to make him look as if he was on the verge of a smile, just enough to take the edge off his forbidding expression. Even without measuring the precise angles, Cressie could tell she was looking at the physical embodiment of perfect mathematical beauty. A face which would launch a thousand ships—or flutter a thousand female hearts more likely, she thought cynically. But it was also the epitome of her theory. And at that thought, her heart gave a little unaccustomed flutter.
She was being rude, though, judging from the way Signor di Matteo was returning her gaze. Haughty and at the same time wearily resigned, he was clearly accustomed to being stared at. No wonder, and even less of a surprise was his indifference to her, for he had painted some famous beauties. Unlike her father, Cressie had studied several examples of Signor di Matteo’s work in the course of her research for her treatise. Like the man himself, his paintings were perfectly proportioned and classically beautiful. Too perfect, almost. His subjects were portrayed flawlessly and flatteringly. There was, in the small number of portraits she had managed to view, a similarity in the way their faces conformed to an ideal, the result of which was undoubtedly a very accomplished likeness, but also moulded the individual features from a kind of template of beauty. Which was exactly the premise of the theory that Cressie had developed. Beauty could be reduced to a series of mathematical rules. It would be fascinating to see first-hand how Signor di Matteo, the famous artist, set about creating his works.
A famous artist who, Cressie now noted with deep embarrassment, was tapping his fingers impatiently on her father’s desk. She flushed. How rude he must think her. ‘I trust you have