could diminish your beauty.’ He squeezed her hand and glanced to Ariana. ‘Your daughter has inherited every bit of your loveliness. She makes a fine Juliet. Beauty and an acting skill that rivals your own. You must be proud.’
Ariana’s mother still smiled, but Ariana caught the hard glint in her eye. ‘Yes, I must be proud, mustn’t I?’
Early the following morning, Jack woke to a messenger bringing him Tranville’s first, quite generous, payment of the commission. At least Tranville’s money enabled Jack to replenish his supplies. He walked the mile to Ludgate Hill where Thomas Clay’s establishment offered the finest pigments and purchased enough for several paintings. He returned in time to set up the studio for Ariana’s arrival.
As he waited for her, he looked over the several images of Ariana he’d sketched from memory, including the ones he’d drawn after that first fleeting contact with her. The night before he’d filled page after page with her profile, her eyes, her smile; when the light had faded to dusk, he read Antony and Cleopatra by lamplight.
She knocked upon his door promptly at two. Jack rose from his drawing table, hastily stacking the sketches. When he opened the door, her face was flushed pink from the winter air.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Vernon.’ She smiled and her eyes shone with pleasure.
Their impact forced him to avert his gaze. ‘Miss Blane, I trust you are well.’
‘I am always well,’ she responded cheerfully.
He had the presence of mind to assist her in removing her cloak, too aware of the elegant curve of her neck and, beneath her bonnet, the peek of auburn hair at its nape.
‘Were you able to read the play?’ she asked, pulling off her gloves and untying the ribbons of her bonnet.
He hung her cloak on a peg. ‘I read it all last night.’
She placed her hat and gloves on the table nearby and faced him, still smiling, looking eager for whatever was to come.
His sketches had not done her justice, he realised. He’d not captured that spark of energy, that vivacity that was hers alone. His fingers itched to try again.
But he must attend to the civilities. ‘I will make us some tea.’ He started for the galley, but she reached it ahead of him.
‘I’ll do it.’ She swept aside the curtain covering the doorway and glanced around the galley. ‘There is very little for me to do. You’ve prepared everything.’
He’d placed the kettle on the fire before she arrived. The tea was in the pot. She poured the water.
‘You must allow me to carry the tray,’ he said.
She looked up at him with an impish grin. ‘Must I?’
He stepped into the space. ‘I insist.’
There was no room for both of them, but he thought of that too late. Their arms brushed as she tried to move past him and the mere contact with her caused Jack’s senses to flare with an awareness of more than her physical beauty.
She faced him, their bodies almost touching. Reaching up to his face, she gently rubbed his cheek with her finger. ‘You have a black smudge.’
Charcoal from his drawings.
He grabbed a cloth and rubbed where she had touched, but he could not erase the explosion of carnal desire she aroused in him. He turned from her and picked up the tray. She followed silently as he carried it to where they’d been sitting the previous day.
She sat in a chair as if that moment of touching had never happened. ‘Where do we begin? Do we discuss how to depict Cleopatra?’
Jack murmured, ‘It seems a good way to start.’
She poured the tea and handed him his cup. ‘What did you think?’
‘Of Cleopatra?’
‘Yes.’ She lifted her tea.
He placed his cup on the table. ‘I was struck by her political ambition. I had not remembered the play that way from my school days.’
She smiled. ‘Perhaps you were too romantic as a boy.’
He laughed drily. ‘I dare say not, but I understand more of life now. Antony was motivated by passion, but Cleopatra was motivated by ambition.’
She nodded. ‘I do agree. She betrays Antony twice. And I doubt she killed herself out of love for him.’
He moved his cup, but did not lift it. ‘But his love for her led to his death.’
‘And to hers,’ she reminded him. ‘One could say she was a woman alone merely trying to make her way in the world and that his passion for her led to her downfall.’
He thought of his mother’s situation. ‘The world has not changed much.’
‘Indeed,’ she said with a firm tone.
He glanced into her face, remembering it was Tranville who played the role of Antony in her life, not he. The sun from the window shot shades of red through her auburn hair. The look she gave him in return was soft and companionable.
Jack had to glance away. ‘It is an odd play. More a history than a romance.’
She laughed. ‘It is a good thing. There is enough romancing from Mr Kean in the play as it is.’
He glanced at her in surprise. ‘You do not like Kean as your leading man?’
She shook her head. ‘Not at all. He smells of whisky and he is too short.’
‘The celebrated Mr Kean?’
Her face puckered as if she’d eaten a lemon. ‘I dare say he shows more favourably in the theatre boxes.’
Her frank tone made him relax and pushed thoughts of Tranville out of his mind. He felt as if they’d returned to Somerset House.
They began discussing how Cleopatra might be depicted and if she should be seated or standing. Jack was impatient to draw her.
She put down her teacup and sat on the edge of her chair. ‘Shall I pose now? Perhaps as Cleopatra on her throne?’
She straightened her spine and raised her chin, instantly transforming herself into a haughty queen who looked down on the rest of the world.
He was intrigued. ‘Hold that pose.’
He moved his drawing table closer to her chair and placed a clean sheet of paper on its angled surface. He sketched quickly, using charcoal and pastels, not thinking, allowing the image to come directly from his eye to his hand.
She remained very still, almost like a statue.
He put that sketch aside and replaced it with a fresh piece of paper. ‘Stand now and move.’
‘Move?’
He twirled his hand as an example. ‘Move around in front of me. Like Cleopatra would move.’
The natural quick and graceful movements that had entranced him heretofore were replaced by a regal step, back and forth.
He sketched hurriedly.
‘I feel a bit silly,’ she said as she crossed in front of him.
‘You do not look silly,’ he responded. ‘This is precisely what I need.’
He tried her in other poses, seated and standing, producing ten pastel drawings that gave him ideas of how a final painting might appear.
He looked through them.
‘May I see?’ She walked over to stand beside him at the drawing table, bringing with her the scent of rose water. She examined each drawing, one after the other.
‘Remarkable!’ She looked through them again, setting three of them side by side. ‘You