Passion Wears Pearls (33 page)

“I am not an oyster!”

“Just wear them for me, woman.”

She eyed him warily. “Like the red dress? Just to wear for the painting?”

“Precisely. No scandalous gifts of jewelry. You can just put them back in the box afterward … if you prefer.”

She nodded, some of the excitement returning to her face now that a compromise had been struck. “Wherever did you get all of them?”

He shrugged. “Souvenirs from India.”

“Souvenirs? Queen Victoria doesn’t have a single strand to rival even one of these, Josiah!”

He smiled. “What does she need of more pearls? Whereas my Eleanor”—he leaned over to kiss the warm little indent behind her left ear—“should wear these and nothing else.”

“I will not pose without my clothes!” She squeaked her prim protest, but leaned back against him, urging him to brave more of her skin as she tipped her head to one side. “You are … a rogue to suggest it!”

“Then I shall find an ivory satin dress to suit the occasion.” He sighed, as if conceding a great battle. “Something simple to set you off like a jewel, Eleanor, and I will paint you like a modest goddess if you wish.” His tongue teased the lines of her neck until she shivered against him and he added another rope of pearls to the decadent strands already around her throat.

She bit her tongue to keep from laughing. “I will buy my own clothes, Mr. Hastings.” It was too sweet a victory that he would agree to work again, even if she suspected that
once again she’d been maneuvered into doing exactly what he wanted. The cold pearls had warmed against her skin, their weight hypnotic as the silky soft orbs moved across her shoulders to drape down the sensitive line of her spine. “And I am no goddess. But I think … we should put these away, Mr. Hastings. They are too opulent for a woman born on Orchard Street.”

“They are not rich enough, Miss Beckett.” He spoke against the shell of her ear, sending another shimmer of desire down her back to pool between her legs. “Not opulent enough to match you.”

Eleanor guided his hands down over her breasts, the pearls adding to the game, and she closed her eyes at the soft slide of her surrender. “Then you must paint me in pearls and teach me what opulence is.”

Josiah smiled and began to unhook the buttons of her dress. “Let the lessons begin.”

Eleanor adjusted her bonnet as she watched the London streets pass. Josiah had urged her to use the carriage for a day of errands and she’d made the most of it, giving in to pick up some new dresses and necessaries. The ivory satin evening gown was safely ensconced in a box on the seat across from her, and Eleanor was doing her best not to look at it since the very thought of the “pearl” dress made her skin tingle. It felt wicked to indulge herself again and spend money without fear, but the lingering anxiety from her recent poverty was finally starting to let go.

Even so, there was one bit of her past that she didn’t wish to banish.

Finished with her own requirements, Eleanor had asked the driver to head back toward more familiar streets so that she could seek out Maggie. She had few enough friends in the world, and wanted to assure herself that dear Margaret was well. But the runner she sent into Madame Claremont’s confirmed that Maggie wasn’t in the shop that day, so she’d started to lament her plans. She’d even had the carriage
wait along the route Margaret would take from the shop to the boarding house. But her friend never came. At last, Eleanor had given up on an impromptu reunion and tapped on the roof for the driver to head back to Josiah’s.

But as the carriage pulled away down a narrow side street, Eleanor caught sight of a familiar bonnet on the sidewalk. She signaled the driver to stop and launched out of the carriage to catch her friend in the crowd. “Margaret?”

“Ellie! Is that you?” Maggie turned, openly astonished and pleased to see Eleanor, before giving her a quick hug.

Eleanor smiled and then took a step back, some of the joy at the reunion fading as she realized that the state of Maggie’s dress bordered on scandalous. Despite the cold bite in the air, the cut of her bodice and blouse invited the eyes to appreciate her bountiful cleavage, and the bright blue and yellow of her skirts made her seem like a bright bluebird surrounded by dark winter pigeons. “Margaret. I was looking for you at the dress shop.”

“Oh, dear! I’d have paid to see that dust-up!” Maggie laughed.

“I wisely sent a boy in to ask for you.” Eleanor smiled. “I’m not brave enough to face her again. But, are you … not in her employ?”

“Madame Claremont turned me out after you left.”

“Oh, Margaret! I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be. It was inevitable with her temper, but she was in quite a lather over it all when you kicked her off. The other girls were spiteful to you, I know, but they were secretly happy to see you get away. And when your Mr. Hastings left me that purse, I wasn’t sorry to go either!”

Her first instinct was to correct Maggie’s assumption about
her
Mr. Hastings, but she bit off the words, her stomach churning. “He left you with some money that day?”

“A generous sum, to be sure. Didn’t he tell you?”

Eleanor shook her head.

Maggie laughed. “I think he did it just to goad ol’ Claremont for bickering over that red dress! Don’t worry, Ellie. It didn’t come with a wink.”

“Of course not. Mr. Hastings is not that kind of man.”

Maggie’s smirk did nothing to comfort Eleanor. “As you say, as you say!”

“Are you … all right now? Have you found other employment?” Eleanor asked, determined to steer the conversation onto more solid ground.

Maggie laughed. “I’m my own mistress and no complaints!” She touched Eleanor’s coat sleeve. “And you? It was a brief meeting, but I envy you your patron. Is he generous, Eleanor? Are you happy, then? I know the sporting life isn’t exactly what you had in mind, but a man like that could make it pleasant enough, yes?”

She gasped in shock. “Mr. Hastings is—not my patron. I don’t …”

Maggie eyed the carriage behind her, her expression chilling at the perceived slight. “Of course you don’t. You’re a good girl. So, it’s another shop you’re at, then? Or did you get a position as a governess for a family in Town?”

Eleanor’s face blazed with misery. “No. Mr. Hastings hired me, but not—I mean, I am not his …” The blush deepened, her conscience screaming at the twists of an impossible situation.
I am not his mistress. I am simply the woman he paid to look at and who now eagerly beds him in a blissful dance of ruin that she never wants to end. Oh, God. How tangled is a life that I cannot describe it to anyone without disgracing myself?
“I model for him. He is a painter.”

“Model?” she asked, her tone a bit too neutral. “Well, that’s different, then.”

Eleanor couldn’t meet her friend’s unflinching gaze. “It … is.”

“Well, I’m glad for you. You’ve kept your feet on the ground, as they say, and not become a light-skirt like some others.” Maggie crossed her arms. “You’re a lucky girl.”

“Yes. I truly am.” Eleanor swallowed nervously. “Mr. Hastings is—or rather, was a very generous employer.”

Maggie looked at the carriage behind them and the waiting driver. “So it seems.”

“I—hope you’ll let me—would you like to get something to eat? We can get out of the weather for a bit and—”

“I’m pressed for time today, miss.” Maggie took a step back, all bravado as she defensively retreated from Eleanor’s charity. “And I’ll be warm enough after a toddy or two.”

“Margaret, I didn’t mean … You were always so kind and I would never insinuate that you—”

“My feelings aren’t bruised, Ellie. I’m no delicate flower, and I don’t want you to worry about me. Another day and we’ll sit over marzipan and teacups and talk about the weather. ’Course, if your man needs another model, you feel free to tell him I’m as cheerful as a magpie, yes? I still have his card and I’m not at all shy.”

Eleanor nodded, inwardly sickened at the idea of any other woman sitting for him as she did. Irrational jealousy made her even more miserable at the strained meeting with her friend. “Yes. Another day, then.”

Maggie sauntered off, her hips swaying provocatively as she walked and causing several men to stare appreciatively. Eleanor could only watch her go and wish that somehow she’d been less like Mrs. Dunleigh and more like Mrs. Clay in their encounter.

Josiah dabbed another smattering of paint on the canvas. It was all he could do to pray that Eleanor wouldn’t get back too quickly and catch him with his nose less than three inches from the surface of his work.

His head was pounding from the strain on his eyes, but once again, he was driven by the idea of capturing his beloved muse in oils. Eleanor in some white organza shift and pearls was an ethereal vision, and Josiah was determined to paint her as an earthbound angel.

Especially since he knew with each passing hour that his angel was bound to fly off. Even without the pressing deadline of the meeting with the Jackal, he would have to face losing her sooner rather than later. Eleanor’s nature would
not allow her to remain much longer. No matter how liberated the sexual fire was between them, she was still a respectable creature of the world.

How much longer will she allow me to love her as I do?

If only I could marry her. …

The fantasy spun out again, and for longer than usual, it held steady in his mind’s eye. Eleanor could help him bear the unbearable. The comfort of her presence might make life worth living, even if he couldn’t paint again.

Hell, I’ve money enough to hire an army of servants to free her from my personal care and—

His stomach turned at the idea of being a pitiable object requiring care, and even if his dear wife weren’t directly involved, it made it worse to think of Eleanor seeing him that way. Josiah pressed his hand against his eyes, using the heat of his fingertips to try to press away the grim fog.

It was only a matter of time before he would be forced to confess his illness to her.

Perhaps it was better if his last vision of her involved an honest reaction to his malady. Then he wouldn’t have to be tortured for the rest of his life wondering if he’d made the right decision.

Or you could man up and end it before it comes to that, Hastings.

His hand dropped and he looked again at the canvas and the first hints of the portrait there. Breaking her heart out of some backhanded effort to spare himself the agony of enduring her disgust or pity seemed cowardly, and Josiah firmly dismissed the idea.

I’ll tell her when it’s appropriate, and that will be that. If she leaves me before I get the chance, then that will be even better, but I’m not shoving that woman out the door until I have to, damn it! I’ve hired Creed and I’ve put new locks on the gate. Escher’s been warned not to allow any visitors he doesn’t know well and his wife’s been careful to source all her ingredients so we don’t run afoul of any more poisoners. It’s not as if the Jackal is going to draw more attention to himself before the meeting and spoil his
chance to get his hands on whatever mysterious trinket he’s angling for.

Josiah stepped back to use a rag to clean his hands and surveyed his tools. Escher had left a tray with the day’s paper for him, but Josiah hadn’t been able to force himself to pick it up. Losing the ability to read had been a stinging blow to his ego and unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. Yesterday, Michael had sent another note, and after several long, unsuccessful minutes of watching the handwriting on the page slip and slide just out of his field of vision, Josiah had conceded defeat.

Even worse, he’d cut himself shaving no less than three times and was going to add that ignoble request to the list of Escher’s growing duties before too long.

It’s all happening so quickly now. There’s not much time left. But time perhaps for one last grand gesture—a fast private showing of the portrait to prove to her that no matter what else she may come to think of me, I was a man of my word.

The sound of Eleanor’s footsteps through the studio’s open doorway interrupted his thoughts, and Josiah forced himself to smile as she came into the room. “How was your outing?” he asked.