An Experienced Mistress (8 page)

“And wealthy as the Queen of Sheba. You could do worse, old boy, if you did have a mind to marry.”

Will knew he could hardly do better. And if it happened that he married Daisy, her older sister Violet would feel awkward, dozens of gentlemen would feel jealous, and Will’s mother would feel ecstatic.

But he suspected he would feel nothing.

“Of course I shall marry, sooner or later,” was all he said.

“If you want to marry that one, it may have to be sooner. Unless she wants to, she won’t stay on the market for long.”

Will was sure he was right. But he didn’t like the idea of cutting short his liaison with Genevieve. He looked forward to enjoying her bed...or wherever she preferred to carry out her mistressly duties.

And he looked forward to talking to her again.

“As I say, Miss Tudbury and I scarcely know each other.” Will finished the last of his port and pushed the glass away. “I’m not even sure what we’ll discuss at this dinner.”

“Well, I should avoid discussing this new mistress of yours,” Coventry advised drolly. “Other than that, I’m sure any topic will do.”

****

Throughout the next few days, Genevieve remained amazed at how things had gone with Will Creighton.

When he strode into her parlor that evening, impeccably dressed, imposing, her nerve almost failed her. This man was no one’s fool, to fall for a ruse or for rules.

But she’d found the courage to carry out the charade, and he agreed to her strictures about taking things slowly. He’d been willing to follow her lead.

The most absurd thing about it, of course, was that Will Creighton seemed the last man on earth who needed instruction. Even his first kiss overwhelmed her senses. His heated caresses, his passionate assault, made her tremble with an eagerness that shocked her.

She of all people should know better than to be taken in by such things. Had she learned nothing from her disastrous interlude with Adam?

But had that been the same thing? Even as an eighteen-year-old, besotted with her first painting teacher, she’d not felt anything quite so...visceral.

Genevieve came to Adam’s class believing fiercely in her own natural talents, feeling as though all kinds of rich possibilities lay ahead.

Adam was the image of what she herself wanted to be. He’d already achieved some success as a painter, and sounded so authoritative when he talked about Art. She was thrilled when he took a particular interest in her progress. Even more impressively, he’d introduced her to a few of the most notable painters in England, men whose work she idolized. Genevieve felt certain that as long as she was with Adam, she’d learn how to be a real artist.

But he always teased her, too, about her staid and cosseted life. Could she truly make the most of her talents, if she rarely went beyond the narrow boundaries and narrower views of Yorkshire? His words hit home for Genevieve: she
was
a callow country girl. Just taking the train to London for a painting class had seemed the greatest of adventures.

She hadn’t withstood the dual onslaught of his flattery and his goading. One day after class, swayed by his protestations of love, she’d gone with him back to his rooms. And he enticed her into bed with him.

He hurt her when he took her virginity. As soon as it was over, he’d dressed and left to meet another artist, leaving her in the drafty, cold rooms he rented then.

The next week, she modeled for his Venus painting. Not long after that, he abandoned her completely, leaving her unfit to be any respectable man’s wife.

Her father learned about Genevieve’s disgrace because she’d been too distraught to hide it from him.

At first he said some very harsh things.
For the first time in my life, I’m glad your mother’s gone, so she doesn’t have to know of this.
For a few days he spoke of forcing Adam Forsythe to marry her, but this line of talk dwindled, because she wasn’t pregnant and, in all likelihood, her father couldn’t think of any means of coercing the man to do it.

Eventually, her father came to blame himself. He told her he never knew how to speak to her of such things. It would have been her mother’s place to do so...or even her governess, had that woman stayed with them longer.

Genevieve’s younger sister Christine was angry with her for far longer. She’d railed that no respectable man would have her either, once word of this leaked out. Who would want such a connection?

But Genevieve’s disgrace remained a rumor rather than settled fact among their neighbors and acquaintances. Christine gathered information about what was said from a well-connected best friend. Some were certain she’d had a scandalous affair, some heard that an artist forced himself upon her, and a few thought they knew that she’d merely fallen in love with a painter, and he’d broken her heart, and that was all.

Once Christine had a handsome offer of marriage, she forgave her sister, and they were on good terms now.

All in all, the affair with Adam could’ve been much worse on Genevieve. Yet it had been bad enough that she should know better than to soften her heart at all to any other silver-tongued rogue.

But Will Creighton’s words, every nuance of his smooth baritone voice, echoed again and again in her head.

A man could get lost in those green eyes of yours.

You looked like an angel among the mortals.

And again and again, she reminded herself that that had been part of the lesson. It hadn’t meant anything. After all, he’d said, right after that, his thoughts were far from pure.

That vulgarity should have kept her from having any regard for him.

It should not pique her curiosity even more. Dear Lord, what was the matter with her?

She thought back to the end of their visit. By the time he left, he no longer seemed so angry at her for managing to resist his smoldering advances. But he certainly hadn’t acted happy.

Chances were excellent that he’d not return. Indeed, the more she thought about it, the more she felt it was impossible. He wanted a real mistress, naturally. She was grateful just to have had such an unexpected, heady experience with such an extraordinary man.

She couldn’t stop thinking of his words, of his passion. Every time she did, her cheeks burned.

****

“Genevieve, I vow I have never seen your cheeks so rosy,” Ruth Davidson declared. She had come to Genevieve’s studio this Saturday afternoon for a painting session. “You look in the bloom of health.”

“It’s that country air,” Percy Wentworth said. He set up his easel. “I begin to think Genny has the right idea. Perhaps Eli and I ought to rent a cottage somewhere out here.” Percy was a stout, white-haired painter who had, for more than two decades, shared rooms with another diehard bachelor.

“I wonder if Eli could be a banker in the country,” mused the dreamy voice of Ida Keating, entering after Ruth.

“Oh, Ida.” Percy came over to press her hand. “I have been absolutely dying to tell you how proud I am. The Royal Academy!”

“Oh, thank you. I feel very fortunate.”

“I hardly think it a matter of good fortune,” Ruth chimed in. “A talented artist like our Ida? It’s no less than she deserves!”

Ashamed of the envy that coiled in her belly, Genevieve knew she was every bit as good as Ida...or hoped so.

She should be as gracious as her friends were. Then again, it was easy enough for Percy to be magnanimous: he had a steady portrait business, and he shared expenses with a banker. And Ruth...well, maybe Ruth was just a better person than she.

“It’s true, Ida. You deserve it,” Genevieve forced herself to tell the woman, and was rewarded with a bright smile. Her jealousy dissolved. After all, she liked Ida. And who knew? Maybe someday one of Genevieve’s pictures would get exhibited in the Royal Academy, too.

“Do come meet our model,” Genevieve said to Ruth, gesturing her over to the young woman sitting in the window seat. “Ruth, this is Miss Lumley. Miss Lumley, this is Miss Davidson.”

“How do you do,” both women said at the same time. The model wore an old fringed wrapper that Genevieve gave to her to change into before the other painters arrived. Genevieve knew from having been a model herself that it was awkward to shuck off one’s clothes in front of other people. Nudity in front of artists was not troublesome once one got used to it. Genevieve had found posing impersonal, like being a statue.

“Have you modeled before?” Ruth asked the girl kindly.

“Yes, ma’am. For Mr. Wentworth. And I was meant to do it for a Mr. Visser. But then Mr. Wentworth told me that maybe I shouldn’t, and that he maybe didn’t have no money.”

Genevieve tensed at the mention of her cousin and turned to Percy. “Have you heard anything about Cage lately?”

The man grimaced. “I’m afraid he’s in a bad way,” he admitted. “He’s living somewhere in the Rookery.”

“Good heavens,” Genevieve said. The Rookery was a notorious stronghold of violent criminals and thieves, mixed in with the merely unfortunate. “Did he tell you that?”

“No. But Brett spoke with him—you remember John Brett, the fellow who does the landscapes? Apparently Cage was saying something like, ‘Genevieve has several of my paintings, and she refuses to return them.’”

“What?” Genevieve almost laughed. “That’s absurd. I haven’t any of his old paintings.”

Percy shook his head. “He’s mad as a hatter. He told Brett he was going to get them back.”

She gave a snort of disgust. “He’s ashamed because he’s not working, and he can’t hide that fact any more.”

“It’s not even worth thinking about,” Ruth said. “Come now, we should get started.”

“Oh! Yes,” Genevieve agreed. They were all paying for the model’s time; they could discuss this more later. “I thought we could do a seated pose, so that Miss Lumley will not need as many rests?”

The others assented. Genevieve dragged the small sofa in front of a window, saying to Miss Lumley, “I think it would be best if you sat over here, in the light...”

Soon the model was arranged in a graceful position. With no sound except the birds chatting outside the open window, they all began to paint. The air in the room thickened with the smell of turpentine, but the breeze kept the odor from overwhelming. Genevieve traced Miss Lumley in the barest outline, then paused for a while and looked at her, trying to decide how she wanted to depict her.

The woman appeared about the age Genevieve had been when she modeled for Adam Forsythe. And the upward angle of the model’s head made her think of the Venus Adam painted, the one that now hung in Mr. Valerio’s library. She remembered again what the Italian collector said about how it was Genevieve’s role to inspire art, not create it.

Genevieve would see about that. She’d create her own Venus, and put Adam’s work to shame.

With a surge of enthusiasm, she squeezed out portions of cadmium, ochre, and titanium white, mixing a peachy flesh color with which to paint a goddess. Another fresh breeze blew in the window, full of the scent of warming earth and spring.

They were well into the third hour of painting—Miss Lumley took a couple of breaks—when Flory appeared in the doorway. “Miss Genny, there’s someone here to see you.”

“Dear me,” Ruth murmured. No doubt, her friend thought of Cage Visser.

“Who is it?” Genevieve asked.

Flory hesitated, and then Genevieve understood that William Creighton was downstairs.

Chapter Six

“Never mind, I shall be down directly!” Genevieve trilled, before her maid had the chance to say anything else. “I’ll return in a few minutes,” she added to her friends.

She sounded nonchalant, but quivered inside.

What was he doing here? Did he think he could drop by at any time and satisfy his urges?

But he hadn’t satisfied
his
urges, the last time there, had he? Maybe that was why he came back! After all, she doubted he just decided to stop by and kiss her senseless again.

Oh, dear. She hurried after Flory down the stairs.

Will stood up when she entered the drawing room, his hat in hand, and inclined his head toward her.

He was altogether too disarming. Enough to undo a woman. The flattering things he’d said to her, their last time together, echoed in her mind ever since. Though she’d requested he flatter her as part of the lesson, his words had made her foolishly happy, which in turn made her feel foolish.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I hope I have not disturbed you.”

“No, not at all.” She saw his expression turn to surprise as he saw what she wore. She looked down at her old artist’s smock, covered with drips and smears, and realized she was a mess.

“You will have to pardon my appearance,” she said. “I am—I’m painting.”

“Painting? Do you mean painting a picture?”

“Yes.”

“I had no idea you were an artist yourself.” Will’s gaze sharpened with interest. “How long have you been painting?”

“For several years.” She flushed in pleasure at how easily he conferred the title of “artist.” He was probably just being polite, but still...

“Several years? You must be very good.”

“Well, I don’t know...” In Genevieve’s opinion, she was very good, but one wasn’t supposed to go around saying that. “I fear I do not have much time to visit. You see, I have some of my friends upstairs in my studio, and we’re all in the middle of working.”

“Indeed? Might I come up and see?”

“No!”

Her friends and Will couldn’t meet. It was out of the question. Heaven only knew what he might say to them about their arrangement.

He shrugged. “As you wish.”

“We’re working with a model. I don’t think she would appreciate your walking in.”

“Why ever not? Oh.” Understanding dawned on his face. “Do you mean to say you have a nude woman upstairs?”

“Well, yes.”

“And everyone is standing around looking at her?”

“No. Everyone is standing around painting her.”

“Presumably they must look to paint.”

Genevieve giggled. “Well, I suppose so. But I don’t know why you’re so shocked. Surely you’ve heard of this kind of thing before.”

“Yes, of course...I have just never been around it before.”

“It’s not nearly as exotic as you make it sound,” Genevieve assured him.

“Miss, I think we’re going to stop for the day!” a female voice from above them bellowed out.

Genevieve and Will both looked up to see Miss Lumley at the top the stairs. The velvet wrapper hung open around her shoulders, her whole naked body in clear sight. She clung to the top of the banister with one hand, standing on one foot and shaking her leg so vigorously that every part of her jiggled. The flesh of her thighs shuddered, and her small breasts bounced up and down.

“Oh, pardon me,” Miss Lumley added, seeing Will. She stopped shaking her leg and wrapped the velvet around her, though she still seemed to balance on one foot. “Didn’t know you still had company.”

“I thought you were to stay until four,” Genevieve mumbled, ignoring Will’s muffled outburst of laughter.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but my leg’s gone all asleep, like. I can give you the free hour next time, if you’d like another session. Your friends say they’d like to do it again next week.”

“Yes, Genny, would that be convenient for you?” Percy Wentworth joined her at the top of the stairs, laying a hand on the model’s shoulder. “I’m doing a lovely little siren with a harp, but I’m afraid I’ve only gotten started.” Percy’s expression turned to wonder as he noticed Will. “I say, who is your dashing friend?”

“William Creighton,” Will said. “I am an old friend of Miss Bell’s.”

“You don’t say?” Percy looked quizzical. “I thought I knew all her old friends, being one of them myself. Percival Wentworth. And this is our lovely model, Miss Lumley.”

“How do you do, miss,” Will said to the woman. Miss Lumley simpered and giggled.

“I’ll tell the others they can pack up for the day, then.” Percy disappeared back into the studio, Miss Lumley limping along behind him.

“What a colorful life you lead,” Will said.

“It’s getting more colorful all the time,” Genevieve murmured. She supposed to Will, Percy Wentworth did look like an odd character, with his quasi-Oriental robe instead of a proper coat. And Will probably wasn’t used to seeing young women frolicking about undressed. Not as far as she knew, anyway.

“What did you say?” Will asked her.

“Never mind.” She tried to bring the focus of the conversation back to him. “I never did find out, Mr. Creighton, why it is you stopped by?”

“Ah, yes.” His hand went to the inside pocket of his coat. “It’s nothing, perhaps. It’s just that I realized I had these.” He drew out the jeweled hair-pins that he removed the other day.

“Oh! Oh, good. I was going to ask you about them.”

“I might have brought them next week.” He handed them to her. “But I didn’t want you to think you lost them.”

“No, I appreciate that. I did wonder where they were.” She looked down at the sparkling pins. “I was a little upset about it. They were my mother’s.”

“Oh.” Will furrowed his brow. “Your mother, then...?”

“She died when I was fourteen. Influenza.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Thank you. Well...”

Genevieve’s attention was diverted by her friends tromping down the stairs, chattering, their easels and boxes of paints in their arms. Percy must have told them about Will. They all murmured “good afternoon” and tried to get a good look at him without being too obvious about it, and they were very obvious about it anyway.

Genevieve supposed that she might as well be polite, since Will always was. “Mr. Creighton, I would like you to meet my friends, Ruth Davidson and Ida Keating.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintances, ladies.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Creighton,” Ruth said.

Ida drew close to Will, staring at his face. “Have you ever posed for a picture?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I think you would be an excellent Saint John.” She reached out and nudged his chin to the left to get a look at his profile.

“Stop that,” Genevieve snapped, pushing Ida’s hand away.

“What? Oh, sorry,” Ida said blithely.

“Mr. Creighton is not modeling for anyone. But Miss Lumley will be available next Saturday, isn’t that right?”

Once Genevieve hurried her friends out the door, she closed it and looked back at Will. “I do apologize about all that. They are just...Well, they’re artists.”

Will shrugged. “They seem pleasant enough. So now can I see your paintings?”

“You don’t actually want to do that.”

“I actually do.” He really could be stubborn.

“Very well. You can come upstairs. But you must promise me to say only good things about my work.”

“Agreed.” Will followed her up the stairs and into the sunlit studio.

“So is this Miss Lumley?” he asked, going at once to her new, unfinished picture. “It looks very much like her.” Then the corner of his mouth twitched as if at some private joke. “In the face, I mean.”

“It will not look exactly like her, when I’m finished. I tend to idealize my subjects. One can always improve upon nature.”

She led him to the far corner under the eaves where paintings were stacked to lean against the wall. “Here is my Juliet, on the balcony.” He squatted down next to her to look.

“Good God. You painted that?”

“Yes.”

“It’s amazing. I can’t believe...” Will shook his head.

“You can’t believe a woman can paint so well?” Genevieve countered. Men thought all alike. They believed they were the only ones who could do anything worthwhile.

“No.” He sounded surprised, looking up at her with unguarded sincerity. “I can’t believe anyone I know personally can paint so well.”

“Oh.” She was touched by the comment, and embarrassed by her reaction. “It is far from perfect.”

“It’s wonderful. Not that I know anything about it.”

“You’re only saying that because I made you promise to be kind.”

He shook his head and extended a finger toward Juliet, moved it as though tracing the line of her face, though didn’t touch the canvas. “She looks so deep in thought.”

“Yes, she’s wondering where her true love is.” As soon as the words left her mouth, they seemed awkward, and she turned to the next canvas. “Here is the Lady of the Lake.”

“From King Arthur?” He gave her a keen look. “I loved those stories when I was growing up.”

“Did you indeed? I would always read them, too.” The image of Will as a boy, lost in tales of magic and chivalry, charmed her.

“Why are all your colors so bright?” he asked. “All of our paintings seem to be sort of...brown.”

“Most painters mix their paint with a lot of bitumen. It’s almost like tar. But my friends and I—and all the pre-Raphaelites, as they sometimes call us—prefer to use purer pigments.”

“Why does anyone dull down their colors, I wonder?”

“I believe they think it’s more refined and tasteful.”

“Mmm. I bet they do.” He flipped to another canvas. “You don’t paint as many men as women?”

“No.” Genevieve stood again. “It is harder to find men to pose.”

“Even if they don’t take their clothes off?”

Genevieve laughed. “Men never pose nude for women. Never. It puts us at a bit of a disadvantage.”

“I see.” Will stood as well. “So your friend was not making an indecent proposal to me?”

“No, nothing like that.” Genevieve grew irritated, thinking of Ida Keating circling Will Creighton like a hungry hawk. “And I don’t know what she was talking about. You would not be at all suitable as St. John.”

“Thank you very much.”

“It’s not an insult,” she said. “I just think you’d be better for other subjects.”

“Is that so? What would you paint me as?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps a heroic subject. Heracles, battling the hydra.”

“Heracles?” He smiled just enough to show a dimple. “I like that idea.”

She couldn’t help smiling back. “Of course, he’d only be wearing some sandals and carrying a shield. If you modeled for that, your friends and family would all die of mortification.”

“They would.” Will’s smile faded; he looked more reflective. “You know, you are lucky to get to do what you want. No one expects you to behave any particular way.”

“Oh, yes. Respectable gentlemen have it ever so much harder.”

Will gave an exasperated sigh. “You know I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Yes, I do know that.” She remembered that she hadn’t cleaned off her brushes yet—if the paint on them dried, they’d be ruined. She dipped a rag in turpentine and wiped off the bristles. “It is just that you don’t know what it’s like, for people like me. I don’t quite fit in anywhere.”

“I might know better than you think.”

“You? You fit in perfectly.”

“Not since I got back from the war, I don’t.”

She considered this. He had said that he’d been over there for almost two years. “I suppose I can imagine that. If you’ve been through hell, and no one else around you has...actually, I guess no one can imagine it. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Will gave a mirthless chuckle. “You are constantly amazing me.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one else understands that it might be strange to be back. Everyone talking about the things they’ve always talked about, doing all the things they’ve always done...”

“And meanwhile, you know about all those things that are happening over there,” she finished for him.

“I didn’t mean to start talking about
that
,” he said abruptly. “It’s not something a woman wants to hear about.”

“You talk to your gentleman friends about it, then?”

“I don’t need to talk to anyone about it. All I need to do is forget about it.” Genevieve supposed he might be correct.

“And you do an excellent job of making me forget,” he said. “I was thinking we should resume our lessons where we left off the other day.”

She felt a flutter of anger—and anticipation. “We agreed to Tuesday nights, I believe.”

“Come, Miss Bell. You will admit that I didn’t know, at the time, exactly what I was agreeing to.” His gaze raked over her. “Surely you have already made plans for the next lesson. You are not merely improvising as you go along, I hope.”