you’re ideal for my next painting. You’re hired.’
She exhaled. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m not sure you’ll thank me when we’re working,’ he warned. ‘Being a model is not the easy job many young women think it will be. I shall require you to sit without moving for hours at a time, every day. Do you think you can do that?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Wasn’t half her life spent sitting bored at dining tables and in drawing rooms? ‘I’ll have no trouble with that.’
‘I’ve already completed a lot of the background work so I don’t need you for that. The work is partly complete.’ The wooden chair scraped across the floor as Benedict sat by the fire again and pushed his dark hair from his brow. ‘Do you have any questions for me?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then you’re unusual. You haven’t asked the question most models ask the minute they walk in the door.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Payment, Miss Ashe,’ he drawled. ‘Most models are interested in how much they will be paid. Since you’re experiencing such—how did you put it?—hard times, I expected payment to be of the utmost importance to you.’
Beneath her layers of petticoats she gave herself a kick. ‘Oh.’
‘Perhaps it is your preference for social niceties preventing you making mention of the sordid topic of coin? Will a shilling each session be satisfactory?’
‘Is that the customary rate?’ she asked boldly.
His mouth curved. ‘I’m not trying to cheat you.’
‘Then that will be perfectly satisfactory.’
‘You’re most trusting, Miss Ashe.’
She dragged her attention away from him and his sardonic expression. ‘I do have a question. The painting’s subject—what is it?’
‘That’s a question I can’t fully answer now. I can only tell you it’s based on a poem by Alfred Tennyson. You know the poet’s work, perhaps.’
‘Mrs Cotton was fond of his work, as our dear Queen Victoria is,’ she replied, as her mind went immediately to the fine leather-bound volume of the poet’s work she kept on her bedside table. She had read the poems over and over again, revelling in the romance and passion, wishing she could make her paintings speak in such a way.
‘Many painters today are drawing on Tennyson’s work for inspiration. I must warn you, the painting may not be what you expect.’ He allowed a silence to fall between them for a moment. ‘How can I put this in a way to suit your delicate sensibilities...?’
Her skin rippled as his all-encompassing artist’s stare lingered over her. ‘Let me just say the painting will be somewhat—revealing.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, Mr Cole.’
‘The painting will not be like your cameo. That is a profile of a woman’s face. But my painting will not merely be of your face. What I have in mind will require I make a study of...your form.’ Once again his gaze wandered over her.
‘I see.’ Her stomach gave another of those mysterious lurches. ‘To what extent will my...form...be displayed?’
‘You need have no fear.’ A smile flickered at the corners of his strong mouth. ‘I will produce a work acceptable to common standards of decency and at this stage it’s a private project. In the painting, you will appear in a simple white gown. But in order to paint you as I wish, you may need to show parts of yourself which ordinarily you do not. But even among artists, I can assure you, there are proprieties we observe.’
‘I’m no prude, Mr Cole.’ She gulped. ‘I will model to your requirements, assuming all the necessary proprieties are observed.’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t consider proceeding otherwise. Then we are agreed. Can you come tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ Somehow, she’d find a way.
‘Come in the morning at nine o’clock. The sun will be at the right angle.’ He stood, ending the interview.
‘Thank you for calling,’ he added, with a somewhat teasing politeness.
Cameo got to her feet and replied coldly, ‘Thank you very much, Mr Cole. I will see you tomorrow.’
‘Miss Ashe. I think you’ve forgotten something.’ His voice halted her as she picked up her coat and bonnet. ‘Your hair.’
Why, she’d been sitting there the whole time in the company of a strange man with her hair down! Frantically she found the hairpins she’d dropped on to the chaise longue and began to pin up her heavy mass of hair. How could she restore it to her previous style, without the help of her mama’s maid? After a few attempts, she gave up. With a few hairpins, she coiled it into a spiral at the back of her head and pinned it in place. He made no comment, but she knew Benedict Cole missed nothing of her clumsy work.
She seized her bonnet and coat. ‘Well, goodbye.’
He gave a mocking bow. ‘Until tomorrow, Miss Ashe.’
‘The full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn’d
Her violet eyes.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
The studio door slammed and a gust of wind blew through the window. Crossing the room, Benedict heaved down the sash. Miss Cameo Ashe had not yet appeared on the street. She’d still be going down the stairs with that quick light step he’d noticed, in her fine kid boots.
Her boots had exposed her. She’d been dressed in that alluringly simple grey dress, which had all the marks of simplicity that only came from quality, carved ivory buttons all the way down the front, a pristine lace collar and cuffs. Her figure was slender, willowy, her tiny waist emphasised by her corset, yet not in the over-exaggerated way he hated, for she was perfectly proportioned. Nestled at the tender point of her throat above her collar was her cameo necklace tied with a black-velvet ribbon, a large stone, black and white, the carving in relief exquisite. But her elegant, obviously expensive boots were the biggest clue. And her ankles, which he’d been unable to ignore as she sat on the armchair, were equally elegant, with the delicate lines of a purebred filly.
She was no orphan girl turned out on the street. Certainly there was a strength to her he’d noticed immediately, a determination that suggested an ability to survive, but there was also a vulnerability he found himself unable to define.
The story she had told him. His mouth lifted at the corners. It had so many holes, that story, yet she struggled on, trying to convince him she was a girl who had no choice but to be an artist’s model. How did she expect him to believe her when her voice held no hint of the streets? True, she explained that by saying she’d been taken in by a genteel lady, but it hadn’t added up.
At his easel he idly picked up a paintbrush, running it through his fingers. Explanations played in his mind. Nothing she told him made sense. Yet she intrigued him, captivated him. He hadn’t been able to believe it when she had lifted off her bonnet and eased the pins from her long black hair. As each silken strand was liberated, his heart had drummed faster and faster.
He’d found her. He’d begun to think it wasn’t possible, that he might never discover a model for the painting of his dreams. Yet there she was, standing in front of him, slender yet strong. And her eyes. Shaded beneath her bonnet, they had looked grey or blue outside the door when he had first met her. In the light of the studio he’d discerned they were the rare shade of purple he had searched for.
He’d already painted the background of the portrait