Inamorata (25 page)

Hannigan looked at me. I thought I saw hesitation there—or uncertainty, which was strange coming from him.

In surprise, I said, “Don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve been commissioned.”

He said, “No. It’s only . . . never one so important as Henry Loneghan. Well, there was one in New York, but it never worked out.” His gaze went distant.

His sister was next to him before he’d even finished speaking, a swirl of concern and muslin. She put her arm around him, tangling her fingers in his hair. I felt bedeviled, seduced by the two of them. How in God’s name did they do it? She smiled up at me until I nearly forgot what we were talking about.

I finished the last bit of wine and held out the bottle. “Well, this is done.”

“We’ll need another,” she said, rising quickly. “There’s one in the kitchen. I’ll get it.”

She hurried off, a blur of white in the darkness.

I asked quietly, “What happened with the commission in New York?”

“Nothing really.” Hannigan laughed shortly, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “The man who hired me . . . his son took a liking to me. I didn’t return the sentiment. The commission was canceled. But”—here a deep breath—“the son’s dead now, more’s the pity. A few weeks ago. Don’t tell Sophie. She doesn’t know. It would . . . distress her.”

“Why would it distress her?” I asked.

He looked at me, his eyes looking almost black in the lamplight. Black and deep and oddly fathomless. I rarely felt sad, but in that moment, Joseph Hannigan’s regret over his sister’s grief filled me with sorrow.

“She liked him,” he said simply.

“Even though he caused you to lose a commission?”

“It was hard for her, that’s all. I’d rather not remind her of it.”

“I see,” I said, though I didn’t, not really. I felt there was something more here, but I didn’t know if it was important, or how to discover it—or frankly, if I cared enough to try.

Just then there was the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen. Hannigan jerked around, but I was halfway there before he could rouse from the settee. “I’ll go see,” I told him, and in moments I was in the kitchen, staring down at Sophie Hannigan, who was on her hands and knees, mopping up bits of broken glass littering the floor.

“I dropped the glass,” she said unnecessarily as she looked up. Her braid fell over her shoulder. The open collar of her dressing gown revealed the beginning swell of her breasts. Her eyes were so blue—not so dark as her brother’s, but the same shape, with the same intensity. Her hair shone in the light from the flickering oil lamp the way his had shined in the sun on the Campo della Carita. The urge to touch her was irresistible.

She frowned slightly and sat back on her heels, letting the cloth she’d been wiping with drop. It fluttered to the ground near her knee. “What is it?” she asked in a husky whisper that inflamed me.

I hardly knew what I was doing. I took two steps and pulled her to her feet, into my arms. I backed her up until she was against the table and could go no farther. I pressed into her until I felt those soft breasts against my chest, until I heard her little cry of pleasure—or perhaps it wasn’t pleasure, perhaps it was dismay; the truth was I didn’t care. I shoved my hand in her hair, tangling it about my fingers to keep her still, and then I kissed her, an open assault. She tasted of wine and sleep. I clutched her hip with my other hand, jerking her ever closer, settling myself in the indentation between her thighs, wanting her to feel how hard I was. I heard her gasp and bent my head to her jaw, her throat, the swell of her breasts.

The taste of her skin, after so long away, was its own torment, that familiar honey, that faint and delicious salt, that smooth tautness I had never been able to get enough of, that smell of musk and almonds—no . . . no wait, it wasn’t almonds. It was violets. Violets.
Violets.

The same confusion that had rocked me at the salon the other night returned. The memories—honey and salt and almonds—weren’t of Sophie, but of Odilé.

I jerked away from her, my desire fading in fear and dismay, cursing beneath my breath.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said—breathlessly.

It took me a moment to understand that she was apologizing. What transgression she could possibly think she’d committed I had no idea. I was ashamed that she should think it, afraid of what was happening to me, angry. I’d thought my desire for Sophie meant that Odilé’s spell had faded at last. How wretched to discover it wasn’t true, how bound I still was. Was I never to be rid of her?

It was all I could do to say to Sophie, “You’ve done nothing,” and even then I felt how abrupt the words were, how clipped my voice. I tried to smooth it. “Truly, nothing. It wasn’t you, Sophie. It’s me. I’m the one who should be sorry. For”—I took a deep breath. When I looked back at her again, it was with at least some modicum of civility. “For . . . attacking you that way. It was unforgivable.”

She clutched the edges of her dressing gown, drawing together what I’d loosened.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “Forgive me.”

She looked at me as if she didn’t quite believe me, a feral wariness—well, I couldn’t blame her. I had just made a complete mess of a perfect opportunity, and all the pretty words in the world couldn’t change it. Damn Odilé. Damn her for Paris, for every moment since, for what she’d done to me, for not expecting it. I hated her so much in that moment.

I said softly, “I am undone by you, Sophie. But this . . . this . . . you deserve better than this. I’m sorry for being such a savage. It was only . . . I seem to lose all sense when I’m with you.”

They were the prettiest words I could think of just then—and it was a struggle to think of any, I promise you. But they were working, I saw. Her fingers loosened on the dressing gown; her eyes grew soft and luminous.

I whispered, “Come to my rooms one night—or one day, if you prefer. Whatever is easier. I’ll arrange for Giles to be gone. We’ll have the whole place to ourselves without interruption.”

She licked her lips, which sent a little hitch snaking through me. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I could—”

I heard footsteps. Her brother. She heard him too. She dropped her hand from her dressing gown and straightened, hurrying back to the mess on the floor, picking up the rag again. I didn’t move from my position against the wall. Respectably distant.

Then he was in the doorway. He frowned and ran a hand through his hair, looking at the glass she’d swept into a little pile before I’d interrupted her. “What did you break?”

“A glass,” she said. “I saw a spider and it startled me into dropping it.”

“I see.” I thought I saw speculation in his gaze—perhaps he felt the currents swirling in the room. I did not doubt for a moment that he did.

I pushed off from the wall. “It’s late. I should be going, I think.”

Sophie looked up. “Oh, but there was another bottle of wine.”

“Save it for another time,” I said.

“I’ll walk you out,” Hannigan said. I said good night to Sophie and let him herd me to the door. Once there, he paused and said, “I owe you a great debt, Dane. For Loneghan. Whatever I can do for you, you’ve only to say the word.”

I knew exactly what he could do for me, but how was I to say,
Don’t stop your sister from coming to my bed
? Instead I only smiled and said, “You owe me nothing. It was a pleasure to see how well Henry liked you. You’ll do a fine job with the commission. I’ve every faith.”

He took a deep breath. “Well, thank you. You’ve made a great deal possible.”

I wasn’t certain what that meant. It didn’t matter. “It will be enough for me to see your success and know I had a small hand in it.”

“Neither Sophie nor I will ever forget it,” he said, and the way he said it was strange. The goodwill that had been between us seemed to evaporate. Suddenly I had the distinct impression that he had put me in the past already. The dim gaslight from the
portego
behind him cast him in half-light and shadow, and he looked for that moment like one of William Blake’s dark angels, both beautiful and terrible.

It felt like a warning. For a moment I could only stand and stare. Finally I managed, “Well then, good night.”

“Good night, Dane,” he said, and closed the door.

S
OPHIE

J
oseph came back into the kitchen, where I stood staring down at the glass I’d swept into a pile, watching the reflections of the oil lamp upon the shards, my heart racing, uncertain what I felt: longing or fear or despair.

He said, “He’s done what we needed him to do, Soph.”

I looked up at him, knowing exactly what he meant: I could set Nicholas aside. And he was right. But I still felt the press of Nicholas’s lips against mine, his hand on my breast. I still churned with wanting him even as I knew I must not. I had promised myself already to resist him now that he’d won us Loneghan. I would not have let myself kiss him at all tonight, truthfully. In fact, it was Joseph’s fault I had. Joseph’s fault that I’d dropped the glass, that I’d been so struck with confusion and sorrow that I hadn’t been able to think anything but
Edward. Edward was dead
. I don’t know why I felt sorrow. I was angry with Edward Roberts. I hated him, in fact, for what he’d done to us. But that he was dead startled me. It brought everything back so fiercely—the way I’d felt about him, the things I’d wanted—and it was in the midst of that confusion that Nicholas Dane had stepped into the kitchen and given me that look of yearning, that look that had been my downfall before, that I’d seen in Edward’s eyes, no matter that it had been a lie. A look to make me feel special simply because I was me.

It had seemed so easy to step into Nicholas’s arms, to let him comfort me. Edward was dead, and I would never have known it had I not overheard my brother’s words. I could not believe Joseph had kept it from me, though I understood too why he had. He knew I would feel this way.

And in the end, it had been that which saved me. Joseph keeping it secret reminded me of what Edward had done to us, why we were here and what was at stake.

I said to Joseph now, “We don’t have to accept Odilé León’s commission. We have Henry Loneghan. He’s the one we need. You’ll have to focus on him. You can’t afford to waste time with her.”

My brother had braced his arm against the door, above his head, and I saw his muscles tense. “What about the money?”

“We’ll have enough with Loneghan’s commission.” I pleaded. “We don’t need her. Tell me you’ll turn it down. Write to her tonight.”

Joseph’s expression was thoughtful. “It’s not the waste of time that has you bothered, is it?”

Suddenly it all came together, the things I’d seen in Odilé, the things that had felt so familiar. “She reminds me of someone.”

He raised a questioning brow.

“You don’t see it?”

He said quietly, “She’s not Jessie, Soph.”

I winced. I hated it when he called her by her name. I preferred the distance of
Miss Coring
. I preferred anger and hatred in his eyes over that gentle sorrow.

I whispered, “Don’t you remember the story, Joseph? How the princess saw in the demon-queen something terrible from the start, no matter that she seemed so kind and good?”

“You never saw that in her,” he said, a little brutally. “Not at the start. Neither of us did. And what bad have you seen in Odilé León? You seemed to like her at dinner.”

Of course, I couldn’t tell him why I felt as I did. How could I tell him the truth, that the world had become muted in her presence, subsumed by her fierce energy, her spell? How could I say the truth, which was that I saw in her the thing that could take him away from me? That had nearly taken him once before?

“She looks at you as if she means to swallow you whole.”

“Why does that trouble you? There have been others—”

“Not like that,” I said firmly. “She frightens me. You know what Mrs. Bronson said about her.”

“I’m not Nelson Stafford, Soph,” he said. “I’m not about to die of love for Odilé León. I want her, but that means nothing. You know that.” His eyes were luminous in the dimness of the small lamp. In them, I saw a love and devotion that was mine alone. “You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“That will never happen.”

“You say that, but—”

“She needs someone like you,” he said. “I think she’s very sad. There’s something tragic about her. I think she would like your world. You should tell her one of your stories.”

As always, I was struck by how much my brother saw. But I didn’t like that he’d seen it in her. “I doubt she would find my stories interesting.”

“She’s like all of us. Just looking for her own happy ending. I want to know more about her. But I’m only painting her. Nothing else.”

I knew him as well as he knew me, and I gave him a look that made him glance uncomfortably away. I said again, “We don’t need her, Joseph. Not now. We have what we came for. Tell her no, and I’ll say the same to Nicholas.”

I felt an ache in my chest even as I said it, but it was a bargain I knew would get Joseph’s attention. It did. “Loneghan’s hired me, yes, but I can’t do the work until spring. He and his wife leave for Rome this week. They’ll be gone for months. He gave me some coin in promise, but it isn’t much. Not enough to keep us.”

“Spring?” I could not hide my disappointment.

“So you see . . . there’s no choice. I can’t say no to her. But you can write to Dane, Soph. I wish you would. I know you like him, and I do too, but”—he took a deep breath—“Loneghan’s ours. The Bronsons accept us. What else do we need him for?”

I glanced down again at the pile of glass, feeling suddenly sad. I didn’t know how to tell him that for a few moments Nicholas had felt as if he belonged just to me. It was not true, of course—I knew Nicholas was as caught in my brother’s spell as everyone was. It was only a matter of time before I would fade in importance, as I always did.

“You’re only jealous,” I said.

“Yes.” Joseph’s voice was a whisper. “Though that’s not it. Not really. I want you to be happy, but . . . but you like him too much already. I can’t watch you go through that again.”

“I know.” My brother was right. Better to end things with Nicholas Dane now, before he became just another Edward Roberts, another relationship ended in scandal and disaster and regret.

I felt Joseph move; I saw the shadow of him crossing the floor to me, and then his arms came around, drawing me back into his chest. “I’m just painting her,” Joseph whispered again. “I promise.” I felt his kiss upon my hair, and the spell of Odilé León was gone; he was there with me again, mine alone, and relief swept my sorrow and fear away.