Passion Wears Pearls (14 page)

“You just call down the stairs when you need to change out of it, and I’ll come up. No worries on that account, mind? I’ll just meet you on the landing when you come in mornings, and we’ll get a bit of a routine going so you aren’t always asking and Mr. Escher can save himself a few steps.”

“Yes, Mrs. Escher.” Eleanor nodded dutifully, aware that she’d somehow passed an unspoken test with the woman and earned her help. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Escher left, returning to her kitchens, and Eleanor stole one last glance in the vanity mirror at the odd sight of herself dressed for the opera in the middle of the morning. She nervously reached a hand up to smooth out her hair, tucking in a single stray curl. “He’s waiting, Beckett,” she reminded her reflection. “The sooner we begin, the sooner …” Her bravado faded at the unsettling new thought that she wasn’t sure what would truly happen next, much less what her future would be shaped like after he’d laid aside his paints. She would be independent, that much was certain, but Eleanor had to push away a small burst of fear that the only thing she would possess would be money enough to be alone.

She shyly headed out to return to the stairwell and with each riser she climbed, she gathered her courage.

I feel like sin, walking about in this in the middle of the day.

But if it’s a sin, why is it that all I can think to pray for is Josiah Hastings’s approval?

Escher had brought up more candles, and Josiah was doing his best to arrange them to suit, using a small knife to scrape off some of the wax from the table’s surface. The collection of candleholders and candelabras had taken on a life of their own, and he stepped back to admire the ornate little forest of white and ivory columns created by all the tapers. He could hear Eleanor’s tentative footsteps coming up the stairs and he deliberately didn’t turn, savoring the anticipation of her arrival.

“Mr. Hastings?”

Josiah pivoted to look at her, and almost forgot himself entirely.
Holy mother of
… Desire slammed into him with an unexpected force. His prim Miss Beckett was transformed into a siren, and there was no escaping the power of it.

She put a hand up to her throat. “I have no jewels for it. I hope you don’t mind.”

It was all he could do to nod.

“You hate it?” she asked, misinterpreting his silence.

“No. You don’t need a single thing, Miss Beckett. You’re flawless.”

She smiled at the compliment but didn’t drop her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Hastings. I’m not sure I’ve ever aspired to flawless.”

He knew it was modesty that made her think to cover a bit of her bare shoulders and throat with her fingers, but the gesture only drew a man’s eyes to the creamy expanse of her skin and the forbidden delights she tried to hide.

“Shall I sit as before, then?” Eleanor crossed the room and went around his worktable to the dais by the windows. “Here?”

He could tell she was nervous, so he did his best to damp down the boiling fire in his blood and approach her as professionally as he could. “Just as before, Miss Beckett.”

He busied himself lighting the last of the candles while she settled onto the divan, until he was sure he had reined in the worst of his erotic thoughts. At last, he turned to survey her and take in the striking sight of Miss Eleanor Beckett in red velvet.

I’ll have decided on the pose today, or I’m not worth the wax on the table, because if ever a man were going to be inspired by anything or anyone—there she is.

He approached her as reverently as a priest moving toward an altar, and then knelt on one knee next to her, barely aware of the sweet intake of her breath in surprise at his proximity. “Miss Beckett?”

“Yes, Mr. Hastings.”

“Your hair …”

“I assure you this is the fashion.” Again her fingers instantly sought to smooth any stray curls that may have disobeyed her desire for control.

“I’m sure it is entirely proper, Miss Beckett, but …”

“But? You have an objection?”

He shook his head. “More of a request than an objection. Will you take down your hair for me?”

“Oh,” she whispered. “Truly?”

“Yes, please.”
Please, woman. Because if I so much as remove a single hairpin, I think I’m going to fist those curls in my hands and kiss you past reason. Take it down, Eleanor.

She nodded slowly, and he simply waited and watched as she reached up to gingerly take down the careful, tight-braided structure that restrained the wild mass of her copper hair. It took only a few seconds, but for Josiah, it was a beautiful display that unfolded in a glorious haze of pleasure. Her hair was far longer than he’d imagined, reaching her waist, and the reddish golden fire of it was fanned into life as each plump, satin-textured curl fell across her back and shoulders.

Here was an intimacy that made every part of him ache with hunger.

Here was a vulnerability that made something inside of him mourn a little.

For only a lover or a husband would ever have seen her like this—in a normal world, where poverty hadn’t driven her into his sphere. The pride he so admired couldn’t help but be stung by the act, but his conscience couldn’t keep pace with his need to capture her on canvas—and behold the essence of her in his quest for color and time.

Mine, to look at … but if God is merciful, mine to translate onto that blank white space so that everyone can see what I see. One last time. Please, God. Let there be truth in beauty. Give me the time I need.

“May I?” he asked, holding as still as he could until she indicated her permission with the tiniest nod.

Only then did he reach out to carefully arrange some of the curls to trail over her shoulder, draping her bare skin with the molten fire of untamed tresses. He didn’t want her to look mussed, but instead, like a woman unfettered by convention—unashamed and bewitching to behold.

She shivered in reaction when his fingers brushed against the nape of her neck, her pale skin marbling with what he imagined was a new sensation. It was a siren’s magic that made him linger for a few seconds, absorbing the power of it.

There!

He shifted back a little, openly admiring the woman coming into his view. “Don’t move.”

She bit her lip in protest, but it was as if the restraint of his command took hold before she could even consider staging a rebellion. “Is it too late to point out the immoral implications of me sitting here in a red dress with my hair down, Mr. Hastings?”

“Far too late,” he replied with a wicked smile. “Besides, there is nothing immoral about having lovely hair. If there were, would not people shave their heads and be done with it?”

“You have the irrefutable logic of a rogue, Mr. Hastings.”

“So long as I win most arguments, who’s to say? I could simply be right all the time, Miss Beckett.”

She started to laugh, but then caught herself and sobered. “Or you could simply be wrong, but too clever to see reason?”

“Impossible! But moral arguments aside, what’s troubling you, Miss Beckett? For I swear, if I have my way, I shall paint you as I see you at this very moment.”

She sighed. “It’s foolish to say it, but I … have never liked my hair.”

“Why do women always say that? Is it to elicit compliments, since there isn’t a man breathing who isn’t fascinated by the elusive silk of a woman’s hair?”

She gasped. “I had no idea that all men breathing held such fascinations, Mr. Hastings. I don’t think women know this secret, or we would stop complaining and go about with our hair down all the time, wouldn’t we?”

“To please us?”

“To please ourselves, probably.”

“Would that not be the essence of immorality? Selfishly pleasing yourself? Or was it the quest for admiration that gave you pause?”

“There isn’t a woman breathing who doesn’t wish to be admired.”

“Except you,” he amended.

“Except me.” Eleanor let out a long, slow breath, the last of her nerves fading before his eyes. “I’ve accepted my looks, Mr. Hastings. I overheard a friend of my mother’s offering her sympathy that her only child had inherited some unknown ancestor’s coarse Irish coloring. I have no illusions of being a refined English beauty, Mr. Hastings. But my father always wanted us to strive to improve ourselves and said that a lady is defined by how she acts, not always how she looks.”

“Your mother’s friend was either blind or just jealous that her own offspring were probably piggish little things without a hint of color.” He gently pulled out another long curl, fingering it reverently before dropping it against her upper arm as carefully as he could. “But perhaps I was wrong about one thing.”

“Were you?” she asked in mock surprise. “Truly?”

“Well”—he took a deep breath and retrieved a few of the longer pins she’d dropped on the floor—“perhaps not
wrong
, but let us see if there’s a compromise here between my wishes and yours.”

He stood to move behind her, loosely twisting up the bulk of her hair to pile it up on her head, artfully securing it in an elegant, careless style that allowed a few curls to frame her face and cascade down onto her shoulders.

“There. Now it is not exactly down, so perhaps you’ll not mind it as much.”

She reached up to feel the casual chignon, a bit unsure. “I’m not sure you would qualify as a ladies’ maid, Mr. Hastings.”

He walked back around to face her again, relishing his victory. “No man aspires to such expertise, Miss Beckett. After all, I’d say we look at women’s fashions from a very different angle, and that’s the truth.” He bit off the balance of the thought, which was to confess that the only thought a man generally held when it came to a woman’s clothes was how to remove them.

“I doubt women’s fashions hold any mysteries at all for you, Mr. Hastings, but I shall continue to rely on poor Mrs. Escher.” He could tell she spoke impulsively and without thinking as her words were immediately followed by a telltale blush across her skin.

Are you imagining what a ladies’ maid I might make, my prim Miss Beckett? Did you read my mind and see it in my eye—the wicked turn of my imagination?

“Very well, Miss Beckett. Please don’t move.”

He’d pushed the table with the candles up against the dais, and set up his easel just in front of where she would sit. He was still a good eight or ten feet from her, but he knew it was closer than most of his colleagues would recommend. Even so, Josiah didn’t trust his eyes and he wasn’t about to squint and strain if he didn’t have to.

The blank canvas was set on the floor, leaning against the table, and Josiah knelt to retrieve it, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her and froze.

There. By all that’s holy, there it is.
The inspiration I’d have paid every penny I have to seize.

Without waiting for another breath, he moved into position and took up his pencil to touch it to the primed and ready surface of the canvas. He would paint her like this—like a mortal looking up at beauty. She was a goddess. Adorned with nothing but a crown of glorious copper curls tumbling down from that loose chignon like a woman without cares. And in that red.

He’d lied to her. That red evoked everything she feared it would. She looked wanton and touchable in that velvet. But she also looked so sweet and vulnerable. He had intentions of painting her as if she were nothing less than a grand lady, but the color added drama and lit a man’s imagination so that he looked at her and dreamt of what it would be to possess such a woman.

Her eyes were the most incredible green he’d ever seen. Not emerald, and not jade. They were a shade that defied description. Fey green that he’d already spent a night mixing and remixing variations of green to practice capturing.

For now, he sketched as quickly as he could, a man possessed by the moment.

“Can I talk?” she inquired shyly, after several long minutes of watching him work. It was fascinating to see the strange intensity of his efforts, and she likened it to a dance between the warm fire in his eyes and the confident sweep of his hand.

“You may. Just don’t move.”

A few more seconds spun out between them, and Eleanor was suddenly reluctant to speak at all. After all, conversation was one thing, but this was an odd suspension of every social rule she’d ever known. This was small talk with a man whose every look sent sizzling arcs of heat through her while she sat on a divan in a silk velvet red dress pretending that nothing was extraordinary. Where did such a conversation begin?

“Well?” He stopped drawing and gave her his most
piratelike smile from his place below her. “Was that a question of capability or desire?”

“I was paralyzed for a moment with the freedom to express myself and … wondered if I should have thought of what to say first before asking.”

He shook his head and went back to work. “Say anything you like. You are in no danger of misspeaking here, and I’m sure to be entertained no matter what, Miss Beckett.”

“There is
always
the danger of misspeaking, Mr. Hastings. But, surely you don’t intend to … kneel there? I meant—you are … on the floor, sir.”

“I take it that you are unused to men sitting at your feet?”