An Experienced Mistress (3 page)

“I am sorry,” she said. “I don’t recall meeting you.”

She was quite certain that she hadn’t. She wouldn’t have forgotten him.

“No—you didn’t. I took the liberty of inquiring after you.”

“Liberty” indeed. Men were not supposed to visit unmarried women without proper introductions. But as she didn’t have an inordinate amount of respect for society’s rules, she found herself more intrigued than offended. This handsome gentleman made inquiries about her. But what sorts of inquiries?

Did she imagine the hunger in his gaze as it traveled down her form? Or the intensity with which his eyes met hers again?

But of course she imagined it. She wasn’t used to being in exalted company, and it made her foolish. A man like him could never take a romantic interest in a bohemian spinster.

“Perhaps the gentleman would like some tea,” Flory murmured.

Genevieve grew flustered. “Yes, I—would you, Mr.—”

“Creighton. Yes, thank you.”

Genevieve regained her composure as the maid pattered off. “Do sit down,” she said, taking a seat herself. What was the matter with her, that a surprise visit from a man made her light-headed? Heaven knew she was too old for such girlish idiocy.

She’d have hoped she was also too wise.

“I shall speak directly to the point,” her visitor said. He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees.

Genevieve was acutely aware of the shortening distance between them. As correct and formal as his manner was, she sensed something behind it, a barely contained force. Her breath shook. He nearly frightened her.

“I apologize for having paid such an unexpected visit, but I have a proposal that I believe might be beneficial to both of us.”

“Indeed?” This became stranger by the moment.

“Yes.” His intelligent brown eyes held hers in his gaze. “I understand that your—arrangement with Micajah Visser is at an end. Am I correct?”

Genevieve swallowed. She’d been sure that very few people knew of the arrangement to begin with, let alone its dissolution the other night. How the gossip flew in the art world! And who was this gentleman, that he’d already gotten wind of it? Clearly, he was an art lover himself.

Perhaps he wished to commission something! Her friend Percy Wentworth had told her it was fashionable for these young men to buy a new painting or two, to mix in with the ones they inherited from their fathers.

“That is true. Mr. Visser and I no longer have an agreement. I find myself an independent woman again.”

When he did not reply, she added, “I hope you will not think too ill of me, now that you know my secret.” What she and Cage did was hardly honest, after all. “It can be very difficult for a woman—”

“No need to explain,” he said quickly. “I would never judge. Indeed, I am in no position to judge...” He broke off as Flory entered with the tea-tray.

The maid’s hand wobbled as she handed the cup to the gentleman. He reached both hands up to steady the saucer.

“Oh, dear—your hand,” Genevieve blurted out. “Whatever happened to it?”

As soon as the words escaped her mouth, she regretted them. “I beg your pardon—I should not have mentioned it,” she said, even as the man opened his mouth to reply. She took the teacup from Flory’s tray. “So rude of me. You must tire of people asking about it.”

“No. No one asks about it.” He looked surprised, but not angry. That was some relief, at least. She’d never aspired to much in the way of social niceties, but she didn’t wish to cause anyone real discomfort.

Or he was uncomfortable, even offended, and too much of a gentleman to say so? Ashamed at her tactlessness, Genevieve stared down at her tea.

“Truly, you needn’t trouble yourself.” The straightforward tone of his voice encouraged her to meet his eyes again. “It happened in the war. Frostbite.”

“You were in Crimea?”

Terrible images flickered through her brain: men dying of cholera, the bodies of the cavalry soldiers slaughtered in the Light Brigade. “Good gracious, how you must have suffered!”

“You know something about it?”

“I read all of Mr. Russell’s stories in the
Times
. As everyone else did, I imagine.”

“I do not believe everyone read them.”

“But I’m certain they must have.”

His lips twisted in a cynical smile. “I daresay that many people of my acquaintance find the Society pages more entertaining.”

Genevieve gave an unladylike snort of disapproval. “I have never found them to be so.”

“I suppose that for someone in your—profession, exclusive balls and parties are not of much interest.”

“Exactly.” The man understood her, it seemed. “Well, what I read about the war was terrible. And I should guess the papers didn’t tell the half of it.”

“I suspect you are correct.”

Her blood warmed again, thinking of what she read. Mysterious as her visitor was, every instinct told her that he was decent and honorable. The idea of his being in the midst of such horrors made her heart ache. “It was shocking, the way you were treated...not enough food, not enough blankets. It made me ashamed of England. You deserved so much better.”

Mr. Creighton looked away, an odd expression on his face.

Oh, dear, perhaps she’d made him uncomfortable by her display of emotion. Or even worse, maybe she offended his patriotism.

“But then, I don’t know anything about it,” she said by way of retreat. “I suppose I don’t need to bore you with my opinions.”

“No. I appreciate hearing them.” He cleared his throat. When he turned back to her, the look in his eyes was unguarded, as though he’d allow her to see deep inside him, if she wanted to. “I appreciate it very much.”

Genevieve didn’t know what to say. Briefly, she imagined getting up and throwing her arms around him.

Good Lord, what was wrong with her? She must stop staring at him.

“Perhaps we should return to discussing my proposition.” His voice sounded controlled again. “My understanding is that you gave Mr. Visser...lessons, of a sort.”

“Yes, I did.” Again she was surprised by what this gentleman knew. Her mind turned to the subject of painting. “I do not say he was hopeless before I instructed him...but his technique did leave something to be desired.”

“Indeed.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “You are very candid with your assessments, Miss Bell.”

“I don’t mean to be too hard on him.” Her visitor probably knew that Cage was respected in the art world, and she didn’t want to sound harsh. “Before long, he became very proficient.”

“Well—that’s good then. Anyway, as I was saying, since I’ve been away for two years, you can imagine that I might want to enjoy myself.”

“Absolutely.”

“And since your services are not otherwise engaged at the moment...” The amused spark in his eyes both attracted and confounded her. “I was thinking I might induce you to give some lessons to me.”

“Of course!” Genevieve warmed with delight. The idea of teaching this handsome, intelligent man how to paint...? She would have done it for free! Well, she wouldn’t offer that, of course, but it was true. “I had no idea you would be interested in that.”

“No?”

“Truly, you quite surprise me.” Perhaps this was why she felt so inexplicably drawn to the man. He might have an artistic temperament, similar to her own.

“So,” she asked, “are you a complete novice?”

“No,” he said, with some emphasis. “Though as you can surmise, it has been rather a while.”

“Of course. Well, no matter. Some of it will come back to you, I’m sure.”

“I have no doubt of that,” he said wryly.

“And I am confident I can teach you much more than you ever knew.”

“I hope that you can.”

Why was he looking at her so intently again? He really did seem passionate about art.

“I should explain that this will not be a permanent arrangement,” he told her. “At some point, I shall get married. And I will not continue at this after I’m a married man. But I find that I do not intend to marry just yet. For the present time, I just want to enjoy myself.”

“I see,” Genevieve said, a little disappointed. He was not truly serious about painting, but only a dilettante, it seemed. And the thought of him marrying, even far in the future, was somehow a melancholy one.

“Ah, well,” she said. “I suppose there might be some wives who would think it improper for me to instruct you.”

“Yes.” Just the trace of a dimple showed in his cheek, which Genevieve found charming. “I believe there are many wives who would think that.”

He leaned forward again. “And I suppose this goes without saying, but I would want this to be a completely private affair. I would need assurance of your utmost discretion.”

“Oh.” A little strange. Then again, many people felt shy about trying to create. Maybe he feared that others would demand to see his work, and then mock his beginning attempts. Certainly he should be able to work on his painting without everyone else prying into his business.

“I care about no man’s opinion, but I have a younger sister who is quite innocent. I would not like her to hear of it.”

Was it so scandalous for a woman to teach a man how to paint? She supposed that in his world, it was. “I certainly won’t discuss it with anyone—and my maid is absolutely discreet. And of course there aren’t many people to take notice, out here in the country.” That made her think of something. “You will come out here, won’t you? I suppose I could come to London...or wherever it is you live...”

“I do live in London, for now.”

“Yes. Well, I could come there, but it wouldn’t be nearly as private,” she said.

“That is precisely what I was thinking, Miss Bell.”

“Besides, I already have everything set up perfectly here.” Genevieve didn’t relish the idea of lugging canvasses and brushes on the train to some gentleman’s quarters.

“I see.” Mr. Creighton looked bemused.

“Well, perhaps we should discuss times, and fees, and so forth.”

“Fees?” For some reason Genevieve could not guess, he seemed to find her choice of words surprising. He really was a strange man, though she liked him.

“Well, then,” he said. “This is what I propose. We can meet once a week, on whatever evening is convenient for you. I can give you thirty pounds this week to begin, and then thirty pounds at the beginning of every month.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Surely he didn’t mean to pay her that much for such a small amount of work?

“Very well, forty,” he said. “Is that agreeable to you?”

Good heavens! The man had just tripled her regular income!

“That is certainly agreeable—most generous of you, I’m sure,” she managed to stammer.

“Excellent. My banker will send you the money directly. Which evening would you prefer?”

“Whatever evening is good for you, Mr. Creighton,” she replied, a little breathlessly.

They settled on Tuesdays, seven o’clock. “I do thank you,” she said as she showed him to the door. “I can assure you that you won’t be disappointed in my instruction. If you’ll pardon me for saying it myself, I am quite a good artist.”

“Artist?” he repeated, looking momentarily confused. His puzzlement confused her too.

Then he gave a slight smile. “Oh, yes—I’m sure you are. Quite proficient in the art of love—I have no doubt.” He inclined his head toward her, then turned away and opened the door. “Until Tuesday night.”

The very breath stopped in her lungs.

The art of love?

Surely he didn’t think...

He did. He hadn’t been talking about art lessons at all.

What had she done to deserve such an insult?

True, she wasn’t an untouched virgin. But that didn’t mean that she was a piece of property, either, to be purchased and used by any gentleman who had the inclination to do so.

Shaky with indignation, she opened her mouth to tell him that he’d made a terrible and a very offensive mistake.

But she couldn’t think of what to say. She stood there, staring at his back as he sauntered toward his carriage.

What had she done?

Genevieve closed the door, put her hands against her burning cheeks and sat down. She realized that Flory was in the room, but the maid kept a tactful silence.

Genevieve scarcely believed it. Propositioned like that in her own home—like a common prostitute!

Well, not exactly a common prostitute. More like a high-class mistress. But then again, what was the difference?

She supposed the difference was quite a few pounds.

Inside she groaned. How excited she’d been when he named his fee. How easy things would be with that money! But more than that, the idea of commanding such a price made her feel that she began to be respected as an artist in her own right.

She should have known better. Men thought women good for only a few things, and painting wasn’t one of them.

“I don’t see how he could have believed I was like that with Cage,” she said aloud to Flory. A horrible thought occurred to her. “Good gracious, might other people think that too?”