The Stepsister's Triumph (6 page)

He laid down the book and the pencil and went over to his writing desk to take up his pen instead.

Windford,

You may tell Lady Adele I would be honored to accept her commission.

Yrs.

Benedict Pelham

“I can see her,” he said to the letter, to the paintings and sketches, to his heart, which seemed to have migrated to his throat. “I can speak with her. Paint the portrait, help my friend and his sister. That can do no harm. I'm not a boy anymore. I won't . . . I wouldn't . . .” Benedict grit his teeth and did not allow himself to finish that thought.

“This is a mistake,” Madelene whispered as Adele's coachman placed the step and helped her down onto the cobbles.

“No, it's not,” Adele answered. “It's an hour of your time. That's all.” She took Madelene's arm and squeezed it gently. “If you want to change your mind about anything . . .”

Madelene sucked in as deep a breath as her stays allowed. “No. I have said I will do this, and I will.”

“We're all with you.”

Except you won't be. That's the whole point
, thought Madelene, torn between laughter and panic as they mounted the steps of the half-timber house.

She still could not believe she had contrived all this herself. She, Madelene Valmeyer, Madelene the mouse, had conceived of a plan to spend one hour alone in the company of an unmarried man. An unmarried artist, no less, with a striking face and chestnut hair who set her whole body alight with one glance from his dark eyes and one soft, solemn whisper.

Adele thought it was a marvelous lark. Madelene had known she would, which was why she'd asked Adele to come with her rather than Helene. Helene thought nothing was occurring today beyond the initial sitting for Adele's portrait. She was Madelene's best friend, but she was as protective as a mother hen. Helene would not have agreed to let Madelene have this moment alone with Benedict, even though it was her planning that had inspired the idea.

Helene would not appreciate knowing that, either, even though nothing at all was going to happen.

And that's true, really. Nothing is going to happen. It's just a pleasant hour, as Adele says.
Madelene made herself repeat those words as Adele knocked on the freshly painted door.
An hour, that's all.

The address Marcus had given Adele proved to be a sprawling edifice, several times larger than its neighbors. It was taller, too, with a third story under its broad eaves, when the other houses around had only two stories at most.

Adele applied the brass knocker again. Somewhere a flute was playing. The music stopped and started again.

Finally, the door was opened by a small, round-faced, white-haired woman in a neat black dress and ruffled cap.

“Yes?” She squinted up at them. “What is it you want?”

“Miss Valmeyer to see Lord Benedict Pelham,” announced Adele.

“Oh yes!” The old woman nodded vigorously. “His lordship told me to be expecting you. If you'll be pleased to just step inside.”

They stepped into a dim but neat entrance hall, and the landlady took their cloaks and bonnets and proceeded to lead them up two flights of stairs to the attic landing. She knocked on the door, and a voice called out in answer.

Is it you?
Benedict's words echoed in her mind, and Madelene's heart skipped a beat as the landlady pushed the door open and stood aside so the girls could walk in.

Benedict's studio was a long, low room, but it was airy and far more clean and spacious than she would have thought. Madelene had conceived a notion that an artist, even a successful artist, must live in isolation surrounded by careless disorder. The room in front of her looked as if it had been freshly cleaned.

It was also immediately apparent why he'd chosen this attic and this house. The northern wall held a series of large diamond-paned windows, as well as a pair of French doors that led onto the sort of tiny balcony commonly known as a widow's walk. All the rest of the walls had been recently whitewashed, and the waiting shelves were filled with jars of liquids and oils and boxes, neatly labeled in grease pencil. Prepared canvases leaned against the wall in one place, empty frames in another, and what she assumed were finished canvases had been wrapped in oilcloth in another. There were trunks and boxes and worktables. The tang of turpentine filled the air. The place held an atmosphere of industry and expectation.

Lord Benedict himself was arranging an easel in front of a small dais. He turned around, and Madelene felt her heart stutter, stop, and start again.

“Lady Adele. Miss Valmeyer. Thank you for coming.”

He bowed politely. He wore a plain, old shirt and breeches and his black cravat. An artist's long gray smock would protect his clothing from the worst of the paint. His hair was pulled back in its queue. He did nothing extraordinary. He did not look extraordinary, and yet Madelene felt a shivering and a tingling all down her spine. She was here, this was happening. Benedict was smiling at her, only politely to be sure, but that didn't matter.

“Thank you for agreeing to take our commission. My brother says you're very busy,” Adele said, a little too loudly. Madelene realized she should have been the one to speak, and she blushed.

Lord Benedict made a polite gesture. “I only hope I may create something that will suit.”

“Oh, I'm sure you will,” Adele told him breezily. She faced Madelene and took her hand. And she winked. Merciful Heavens! What was she thinking? Lord Benedict would see!

Why didn't I bring Helene?

“Now, Madelene,” Adele said. “I'm so sorry to do this, but I have an urgent summons to the modiste about our new gowns. I know, Lord Benedict, that since you are a friend of my family that Madelene will be quite safe with you for the next hour.” She leveled a long look at the artist that rivaled one of her brother's for its intensity. “One hour, no longer,” she said, sounding for all the world like a nanny with potentially rebellious charges.

Lord Benedict bowed again. “Then we'd best get started as soon as possible. If you don't mind, Lady Adele, Mrs. Cottswold will show you to the door.”

Adele agreed, of course, and said farewell and turned to follow the landlady back downstairs. Madelene wanted nothing in the world so much as to run after her friend and beg her to stay.

No
, she told herself as firmly as she could.
It's only one hour. You can manage for one hour. It was, after all, your idea. Wicked girl.
The words rose up in her mind, and she could not hold them down.
Shameful.
And worst of all:
Ridiculous.

But Adele was gone, and it was too late to call her back. Madelene faced Lord Benedict and with an effort managed to lift her eyes from the recently swept floorboards. His gaze met hers, and Madelene felt it again—that keen sympathy that had taken hold of her in the gallery.

Lord Benedict blinked quickly, and the moment broke. He turned away to go stand beside his easel.

Retreated
, Madelene thought, then,
No. Surely not.

“If you'd please to sit down?” Benedict selected a stick of charcoal from the easel's tray and used it to gesture toward the chair on the raised platform. “We'll begin with some simple sketches. I'll build the painting from there.”

“All . . . all right.”

The chair was a plain one with a rush bottom, and it was angled so that she would be faced toward the windows in a three-quarter profile from Lord Benedict's point of view.

“Now, Miss Valmeyer,” he said briskly. “All you need to do is relax and keep your eyes on the flowers.” He gestured toward the pot of bright yellow primroses on the windowsill. “That's right. Perfect. Hold still.”

They were very nice flowers. She'd always liked primroses. She heard the rustle of paper and the quick scratch of charcoal.

“Lift your eyes, please,” Lord Benedict murmured.

“I'm sorry.” She'd lowered her gaze to her hands without even noticing. “It's a habit.”

Lord Benedict made a noncommittal noise and began drawing once more.

Say something
, Madelene ordered herself.
You arranged to be alone with this man. You said you wanted to become acquainted with him.

She had also, however, assumed he would lead whatever conversation they were to have. That was what always happened to her. Everyone else spoke, and she listened. Lord Benedict, however, showed no sign of being interested in anything beyond the movement of his own pencil—oh, and where she was looking.

“Keep your eyes on the flowers, please.”

Madelene concentrated on the flowers. There were four blossoms and a bud. The leaves were a little browned around the edges. They were in the sun too much. Some flowers did best in the shade.

What do I say? What do I do?
She moistened her lips.

“I . . . I know this is to be a classical picture,” she said. “But no one's told me who I'm to be.”

“When I am done, you will be Selene, goddess of the moon, driving her chariot across the night sky.” He paused. “You're frowning.”

“I'm sorry.” Madelene forced a smile onto her features.

“And that's worse,” he said. For the first time, Lord Benedict's bland politeness faltered, replaced by irritation. “What's the matter?”

I can feel your gaze like a hand on my skin, and I don't know what to do about it.
“I don't feel like a goddess.”

“What you feel is less important than what I see,” he said flatly.

“You see a goddess?”

“I do, and when I'm done, the whole world will see her.”

He couldn't mean it. It was flattery, meant to get her to smile.

“You're frowning again,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

What would Helene say?
“I'm surprised you would care if something was wrong,” she said, lightly, she hoped. “You dismissed my feelings readily enough just a minute ago.”

Lord Benedict made a wry face. “I did, didn't I? Well, please believe that I want nothing more than for you to be happy and comfortable during our hour.”

“Because you are so concerned for your delicate subject?”

“Because you will sit still more patiently.”

Oh. Yes. Of course.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“Don't be. Find your place again. The flowers. Very good.”

Madelene sat still. She was good at this. She could do it for hours on end. She had sat still in ballrooms, in drawing rooms, in parlors, in carriages. But that was when she wished to be unnoticed. Now, this once, she wanted to be seen, and that made all the difference.

Don't
, she told herself.
He's already made the situation plain. He wants a subject for his painting. Anything else was your imagination. You wanted to know, and now you do.

Madelene waited for her bashfulness and shame to take hold. Those feelings might be unpleasant, but they were familiar, and she knew what to do with them. But they did not come. Instead, there was a restlessness and an awkward consciousness of growing boredom. There was also the nagging desire to watch whatever Benedict might be doing, and to delight in watching him just as she had before.

Don't. Think of something else.

But nothing else would come. Her mind filled with the memory of seeing Benedict work last winter—the line of his body, the swift and graceful movement of his hands. She remembered how tense his shoulders had been, how he seemed able and willing to sit perfectly still, surveying his grand work.

What does he see now? What is he thinking?

Benedict glanced up from his sketch, frowned, and told her what he was thinking.

“Look. At. The. Flowers. Please.”

“I am.”

“You're not. You're looking at me.”

“I'm not.” He raised his eyes and met hers. “I am,” she murmured. “I'm sorry.”

She stared at the flowers, trying to keep her growing misery from showing in her expression. This wasn't at all what she'd thought it would be. She'd entertained dozens of different fancies since Adele told her Lord Benedict had agreed to take their commission. She'd lain in bed at night and imagined she'd suddenly gain all a belle's skills. She'd dreamed how she'd laugh and flirt and make him smile. Benedict's smile would be . . . would be . . . Her imagination failed her. She had not yet seen Lord Benedict return a smile, a genuine smile, not just a polite curve of the lips.

That didn't stop her more outrageous fantasies from forming. In those, he put down his pencils and his papers and came to stand in front of her. He lifted those graceful hands to her brow, and one by one, he pulled the pins from her hair.
It's better this way
, her imaginary Benedict murmured as he lowered her curls to her shoulders and let his fingers brush her skin.
This way, and this.
His warm, gentle touch trailed across her shoulders, her arms.

Madelene didn't hear Benedict's pencil moving. Her eyes flickered sideways. He wasn't drawing now. He was staring, his dark eyes wide, his face tight with astonishment, and something else.

Need.

It was unmistakable. She'd never had a man look at her with such naked desire, but her woman's heart recognized it instantly and leapt in delight.

Then Lord Benedict dropped his gaze. “I, ah, I apologize,” he muttered. “My charcoal snapped. I . . .” He groped on the easel's tray for another stick. “Look at the flowers. Please.”

Madelene did. Her heart was thundering in her chest, and she was conscious of a new plummeting feeling that chilled and deadened her previous delight.

Disappointment.

Was this all she was going to gain from her careful arrangements? All the hoping and . . . other things . . . in the dark. This was it? One heated glance and a stiff neck from sitting for so long?

The sound of Benedict's pencil against his paper became louder, harsher, as if it was whispering angrily at her.

“Look at the flowers, please,” he said.

“Look at the flowers, please . . .”

“Damn it, woman, look at the flowers!”

The shout was so loud and so sudden, Madelene froze. She felt the press of tears against her eyes, and the shame of them.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I can't do this. I knew I couldn't.”

She leapt off the dais and hurried toward the door.

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