Here I am again, thought Madelene irritably as she stared at the closed door of Benedict’s studio. We have to stop meeting like this, she thought toward the splintered and unpainted wood, and she winced. Clearly Helene and Miss Sewell were rubbing off on her.
Of course it was her own fault. If she’d had more steadiness of purpose and nerve, she would have stayed away. No one was forcing her to return here. Not Adele, and certainly not Helene.
But Helene had decided the time had come to invite some of the more eminent among their new acquaintances to call, so yesterday the three of them had to be “at home.” Adele had volunteered her house for the exercise, since some of these grander ladies might balk at being seen in Miss Sewell’s little green parlor and, fussy though she might be, Adele’s Aunt Kearsely was an impeccable hostess.
It was the voluble Lady Finch who was the earliest of their invited callers, and practically the first words out of her mouth had been, “What is this I hear that you are having your portrait painted, Miss Valmeyer? And by none other than Lord Benedict Pelham! Does he say when it will be finished? Are there plans for the unveiling?”
Madelene had been so confused she’d almost been unable to answer. But that had sealed it. If people were talking about the portrait, she must go through with it. To do otherwise would be to create a sense of disappointment that might cause them to change their minds about accepting their invitations to the ball.
At least, that was what she told herself. It was certainly the most comfortable line of reasoning. All the others led straight back to her last conversation with Benedict and those things she’d heard beneath his anguished outcry.
Of course she hadn’t told any of the others about the contents of that last conversation. She wasn’t keeping secrets, exactly. It was just that they didn’t need the distraction of Madelene’s foolishness. Especially not Helene. Now that they’d secured the Tapswell Gardens for their ball, they had to finalize the guest list, choose the menus, find the musicians—and that was all before the invitations could even be sent to the engravers. They must be engraved, Helene insisted, and with gilt edges. There was no point in half measures. Adele of course agreed, because it would be grand and beautiful. Miss Sewell was not home and so could not be consulted on the subject.
All these details had occupied today’s meeting at No. 48, up until the moment when Madelene had to rush to collect her cloak and bonnet or risk being late.
She’d turned around from tying her bonnet ribbon to reach for her reticule. But it wasn’t on the table where she’d left it. She looked around in confusion. Because her bonnet brim blocked much of her peripheral vision, it took her a moment to see Helene standing behind her, holding the beaded bag.
“I’ll go with you to Lord Benedict’s, if you want.” Helene handed the reticule to Madelene. “Adele can keep herself busy elsewhere today.”
Madelene peered at her friend. Her face was drawn unusually taut. “What’s happened, Helene?”
Helene pressed her mouth into a thin line. “I’ve had a quarrel with Miss Sewell.”
“About me?”
“Among other things. Listen to me, Madelene.” Helene took her hand. “I didn’t mean for word of the painting to get out. But now it is, and nothing can be done about it, but it does not matter.” Helene pressed her hand. “You do not have to go back to the studio if you do not want to, and you certainly do not have to be alone, if Lord Benedict . . .”
“Lord Benedict has done nothing wrong, I promise you. And I want to go back. I need to put things on a proper footing between us,” she said. “A disinterested and professional footing.”
“Is that really what you want?”
“Yes,” Madelene said firmly.
Helene peered at her for a long and uncomfortable moment. “Very well. Since you say it, I believe you. But if you change your mind at any point, cry off. I will stand with you, whatever you decide.”
“But the ball . . .”
“The ball doesn’t matter,” Helene said. “Not as much as you do.”
They’d embraced and Madelene had to resort to her handkerchief quickly. Dear Helene. The world might see her as cold and managing, but she was true as steel.
And so here Madelene had returned to the studio, and here she stood in front of the door again, with her hand raised again. And again, she hesitated. What would she do if there was another scene, like last time? What would she do with her disordered feelings and her sudden bursts of confession and sympathy? What if he mocked her? What if he did as he said and used her, showed her up before the world . . . ?
He would not, murmured the treacherous, sentimental voice from the back of her mind. He will not. He is not such a man. I know this. He simply does not trust himself as he should, as I do.
Yes, said the other voice, the older, bitter, frightened voice. You also trusted Jeremy, and Wallace, and Frederic, and you were wrong about them all and they left you alone.
Well, that at least Benedict could not do. He could not leave her, because he had never come to her. She had gone to him. And even if, no, when, he did go away, she would still have Helene, Adele, and Miss Sewell all behind her, as well as Cousin Henry. She was not merely a friendless girl with a dangling fortune. Not anymore. She needed to remember that. She could and she would control herself and her emotions. She would not allow a hopeless and dangerous attraction get in the way of the future for herself and her friends. She would sit for the portrait. It would be finished. She would . . . she would . . .
She didn’t know what she’d do after that. She’d think about it later.
Madelene raised her hand and knocked.
For a moment, nothing happened. Madelene’s heart thumped and sputtered underneath her breast. Then there was the sound of running feet, and the door flew open. Lord Benedict, breathless and flushed, stared at her in surprise.
“You’re late,” he breathed. “I was afraid you might not come.”
“But I did.” She gestured, a little, and smiled a little. She also ignored how the hitch in his voice sent delicate shivers across her skin.
“I’m glad,” he said as he stood back to let her pass.
“I was a little afraid, after last time, that you might not want me back,” she said lightly as she stepped inside.
“Last time was my fault,” he told her. “It has been a very long time since I painted a portrait. My manners have fallen into disuse. I am resolved to do better this time. I wanted to write a note, or send Marcus with a message, but . . .” He gestured helplessly. “Everything I tried to say sounded ridiculous. Or bombastic.”
“I did think about staying away,” she admitted. “I thought you must surely have enough sketches by now to be getting on with. But . . . there were reasons to continue.”
“This conspiracy of yours with Miss Sewell and the other girls?” She heard a note of disappointment in his voice, and her heart thrilled in response.
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose Lord Windford told you about the party? Will you please keep that in confidence until the invitations are sent? If word gets out about our plans, it could be detrimental to them.”
Benedict chuckled. “I doubt anyone is going to ask me about the plans of three young women for the season.” He paused. He wanted to stay something more, but she couldn’t tell what it might be. She’d been prepared for this meeting to be tense, perhaps even disappointing. But disappointment was not the feeling that surrounded her now. Neither was it regret, or even the anger that had been exposed and left raw by the words they’d flung before. There was something new in the air between them, like a promise left unspoken and unfulfilled.
“Was that the only reason you came back?” he asked. “Because you need the painting?”
“Yes,” she said. But she didn’t say it to him. She had to say it to the windows and the beautiful day outside. There was no possible way she could look into Benedict’s dark eyes feel the anticipation in the air around them and continue to lie.
“I see.” And with those two words, all that unspoken promise she’d felt so keenly when she entered seemed to crumble into dust. “Well, then, will you sit? The light is very good just now, and we should not waste it.”
You have done the right thing, she told herself. That’s why you came. To finish the conversation properly and be done with it. You have already seen that this attraction, however real it may be, can only cause trouble and get in the way of all your plans.
Madelene took her seat on the rush-bottomed chair and picked up the strings. The primroses had been replaced by geraniums, she noted. This time she would keep her mouth closed. She would instead occupy her thoughts with all she had accomplished so far. She would think about the fun of the dancing lessons Henry was giving them. She would congratulate herself on even being able to sit calmly and look at the geraniums, which made a nice change from primroses, and let Lord Benedict work. She would concentrate on herself within this space, just like Henry instructed. Surely if it worked for dancing, it must work the much simpler act of sitting still. How did the saying go? They also serve who only stand and wait? Or sat and waited, in her case. Well, she was serving her friends, which was all she’d wanted from the beginning. By sitting here, she paradoxically became an active participant in their coming triumph. The attraction between her and Lord Benedict might not have been entirely her imagination, but it was certainly an unnecessary complication. She didn’t need it. None of them needed that, especially not with a man who could only bring scandal and controversy.
There was only one problem. Even as she repeated this to herself, she knew it was not true.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. What you felt has never mattered. Remember Jeremy. You felt a great deal for him, too.
She’d met Jeremy Glenn during her debut season, and she’d fallen head over heels for him, and he, she thought, had fallen for her just as strongly.
Mama had thoroughly disabused her of that notion, of course. Mr. Glenn had been a fortune hunter, the first of many. All of them were eventually discovered courting other girls, or drunk, or playing with and losing to Octavius Pursewell or some other sharp. Across the long, lonely afternoons that followed, Madelene had forced herself to forget what it was like to desire someone’s touch and companionship— that breath of need, that silken insinuation of feeling that could keep you up until the small hours.
“You’re frowning.” Benedict’s voice cut across her thoughts, startling Madelene so much she jumped and dropped the strings.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I . . . I got a crick in my neck.”
“Let’s take a break, then,” he suggested. “I’ve some tea on the stove. It might even be fit to drink.”
“Thank you, I’d like that.”
“You have not yet tasted my tea.”
While Benedict busied himself at the cast-iron stove, Madelene moved across to the French doors. It was a still day, so Benedict had opened them to allow in some fresh air, or at least the vapor that passed for fresh air in London. She stood on the threshold, watching the sparrows and the pigeons flying between the chimney pots and the black smoke rising up to mix with the clouds.
“Do you like my view?” Benedict asked softly.
“Very much.” He was right behind her. She could feel his warmth, and his breath against her cheek. She dropped her gaze to see him reaching around to hand her a chipped mug of tea. She took it, and as she did, she turned.
He’d never been this close before, not even at the gallery. She’d never been able to see his eyes or the complex planes of his face so clearly. The sunlight streamed through the doors and caught in his chestnut hair. It glistened on the reddish stubble that outlined his straight, strong jaw. She wanted to touch it, to feel the texture of it. She wanted to touch him. Here. Now. This minute.
In a single instant, discipline and resolve turned into immediate, urgent desire. It was like the return of an absent friend.
He’s going to see. What am I going to do if he sees?
What am I going to do because I see it in him?
Because she had seen desire in Benedict’s face before, and she recognized it now. It shone in his dark eyes as they stared into hers. It resonated in the hitch in his breath.
What do I do? What do I do?
She did the only thing she could. She raised the mug of tea and took a long swallow. A moment later she made a face. She couldn’t help it.
Benedict laughed, and Madelene laughed in return, out of relief and the breaking of tension, and because it was a way to cover all her confusion.
“Not drinkable, then?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“I thank you for your honesty.” He took the mug from her hand and set it down on a worktable beside the window. Surely, he would step away now. But he didn’t.
“Did you get the painting I sent?” he asked. “The Prelude?”
“Yes, I did. Thank you.”
She had never seen such dark eyes, not on the gypsies in Covent Garden, not even on the Italian opera singers. Benedict’s eyes were unique, and they were searching hers.
“I keep thinking I should ask for it back,” he murmured. “I didn’t do you justice. Your hair . . . your eyes. They are so much more complex, so much more beautiful than I realized.”
He wasn’t touching her, but his meaning reached more deeply inside her than any touch ever had.
“I would not give it to you,” she said. “I love the painting. It brought . . .” She swallowed. She was too warm. It was his warmth wrapping around her. “It brought us here.”
There, she’d said it, and the words were as full of wicked intent as the air between them was full of heat.
“Oh no,” Benedict said. “You brought us here.”
“Are you sorry?”
His mouth shaped a single word, but there was no sound behind it. Instead, Benedict grabbed up her mug off the table and strode back to the stove, sloshing tea with each step and ignoring it.
“Perhaps you should go.”
She could go. This minute. She could remember she was mousy little Madelene Valmeyer, whom no one wanted and who had no business wanting anyone or anything. Except there was one small point to be considered.
Are you sorry? she’d asked him, and he’d silently shaped his one word.
No, he’d said.
“You have to stop that,” she said.
Benedict’s brow furrowed. “Stop what?”
“Saying what you mean. Saying . . . nice things, beautiful things to bring me closer, and then sending me away. It’s unkind.”
Why could she do this now? How had this courage come to her? It didn’t matter. What mattered was Benedict was stepping back. Not far, and not as if he was angry, but as if he was shaken. He closed his eyes. He breathed, slowly, deeply. “You’re right. Again. Do you make a habit of it?”
“Not that anyone would notice.”
Benedict smiled at that, just a little. He picked up the mug and lifted the lid on the ancient brown teapot that was sitting on the stove to pour the tarry, terrible tea back into its depths. When he finished, he replaced the lid. Madelene could sense that he’d also made some kind of decision.
“What do you know about me?” Benedict asked.
The question surprised her, but Madelene managed to swallow her stammer. “I know you’re an artist, and a good one. I know you’re friends with James Beauclaire and Lord Windford . . .”
He folded his arms. He was looking toward the far wall, where the finished canvases waited. “Do you know I used to be married?” he asked softly.
“Yes. I know that.”
“When my wife . . . died . . . things were very bad with me for a long time. I probably would have died myself if it hadn’t been for James and Marcus. But even after I decided I wanted to live, it was a long, cold time before I could stand to pick up a brush. I decided then I would only ever paint landscapes, countryside scenes. No portraits, no . . . no women.”
“Because your heart was broken,” she murmured.
Benedict shook his head. “Because I didn’t want to care again. You can’t . . . you can’t paint a portrait and not feel something for the person. I didn’t want to look into another pair of eyes, or to open that person in my thoughts to find another beating heart, or wonder what was going on inside another mind. I was afraid . . . I am afraid of caring too much.” He hung his head. “There. Now you know.”
“No, I don’t,” she said. Oh, something’s going to happen. The sky’s going to fall. At least the roof will cave in . . . “You agreed to paint this picture, of me. You didn’t have to. Why did you do that if you’re so afraid?”
“Because I do care. I didn’t want to, but I do. You’ve made me care.”
There was singing somewhere. It was in the back of her mind. A whole chorus of triumph and joy, raised up by those simple words. You’ve made me care.
But how could she answer? If she spoke of how very much those words meant, she’d only frighten him. Madelene thought of Miss Sewell, who could navigate any social setting. What would Miss Sewell do?
Miss Sewell would make a joke.
“So, I want to be seen, but I want to hide, and you do not want to not care, but you do. Aren’t we a pretty pair?”
Benedict chuckled. “That we are, Miss Valmeyer. That we are.”
“What are we to do about ourselves?”
“I wish I knew. Your friends are all very clever women. Perhaps they could tell us.”
Madelene gave a small laugh. “Oh, I’m sure if I told them the sorts of things that have passed between us, they’d have a great deal to say to me.”
“Then you haven’t . . . said anything about what’s happened here?”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t even be able to begin to explain.”
“I see,” he said slowly, and a spark of anger lit inside her.
“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You’re think I’m ashamed, or embarrassed.”
Benedict’s shoulders stiffened. So did his voice. “It would seem the obvious conclusion.”
“You’re doing it again. You say something nice, then you’re deliberately unkind.”
Benedict opened his mouth and closed it again. “I am, aren’t I?” He rubbed his forehead, hard. “I’m sorry. I . . . I will try to do better. It’s just that when you look at me that way . . . I am so afraid of what you must think.”
Madelene smiled. “You should take control of the space around you.”
“What?”
“It’s something my cousin Henry talks about. He talks about concentrating only on the space around you, and yourself within it. Not about anything beyond it.” She waved her hand toward the door. “It doesn’t matter who is looking at you. What matters is what you yourself are doing inside your space.”
Benedict blinked at her. “Your cousin Henry must be an unusual person.”
She smiled at this. “He’s an actor.”
“That explains a great deal.” But before he could say anything else, the church bells began their low, deep, ragged ringing over the rooftops.
“The hour,” Benedict said. “Your friend will be here soon.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve done very little today.”
“I disagree.” Madelene met his gaze. This time it was much easier. “I think we’ve done a great deal.”
“Will you come back?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And next time I will not be late.”