The Stepsister's Triumph (7 page)

Benedict watched, stupefied and terribly, horribly annoyed, as his subject grabbed up her skirts and ran down the length of his studio.

Stop her!
cried the part of him that was still human
. She won't come back!

Panic seized him. “Wait!” he cried. “Miss Valmeyer, please wait.”

She stopped, her hand on the door. She was taut as a bowstring, quivering with her need to run.

“That was my fault,” Benedict said. “Please, accept my apology.”

“No, it's my fault. I . . . I don't like being looked at.” He knew this was the truth, but that wasn't what was driving her away from him now. There had been no bashfulness in that one heated look, the look he could not help but return.

“I'm so horribly nervous,” Madelene was saying. “It's shameful.”

“There's no shame in being shy,” Benedict said, as gently as he could. He wanted to put his arms around her. He wanted to stroke her hair, which was the same red gold as sunrise. He wanted to murmur words of comfort to her until she stopped trembling. Then he would murmur other words, until she looked at him with that same burning need he'd glimpsed a moment before.

“But I'm not just shy,” she told him. “It's worse. It's . . . it's like an illness. Some days I'm afraid it's madness.”

Benedict cast about for some pleasant remark to turn this whisper aside.
You know how to do this.
You used to be good at it.
But social finesse and flattery had left him long ago. All that remained was honesty.

“You are not mad,” he said. “If you are afraid, then there must be some reason for it. I only wish I knew what it was.”

“Why should you even care?”

She'd asked him that before. What had happened to this girl, that she could not comprehend someone might actually care about her?

“Because I want to take that fear away,” he said. “Because I want to make sure it will never return.”

Madelene lifted her eyes mutely, and Benedict felt his heart tip over. Her longing shone in her eyes, as vivid as sunlight. But her fear burned just as bright. Benedict felt his own heart swell with old, familiar need. He wanted to hold her close, keep her safe, protect her from the entire world. He wanted . . .

He turned away, his hands tightening to fists.

“Lord Benedict?”

“I'm sorry,” he whispered harshly. “I . . .”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” he cried. She winced, and he held out his hand toward her, a pleading gesture he was powerless to hold back. “No,” he said, more softly. “Please believe me, this is not because of you. I . . .”

The door opened. Benedict lifted his head. Lady Adele stood on the threshold. She did not look pleased.

“I apologize if I am late,” she said tartly. “I see you are already finished for today.”

“Yes,” Benedict said. “We are.”

*   *   *

Benedict stood by the door and waited until the sound of footsteps on the stairs faded into silence.

Then, slowly, methodically, Benedict Pelham began to curse. He cursed himself, he cursed his creditors and his landlady who so unreasonably expected her rent every month. He cursed all manner of man's folly and weakness.

He never should have agreed to this commission. He should have turned away from Miss Valmeyer, and from Windford, and from the whole of the world. He never should have come back from Switzerland. He should have stayed in the mountains. He never should have begun painting again, let alone allowed himself to finish
The Prelude
. He never should have acknowledged Miss Valmeyer when he saw her looking at it.

What on earth had he been thinking? This was impossible. He had known it would be. But the minute he saw Madelene clearly at the exhibition, his heart had begun to hammer in his chest. He couldn't even say he hadn't realized what was happening in that moment. He had deliberately moved too close to her. As ludicrous as it might be, he'd wanted her to hear his heart. He'd wanted her to know that she was the reason for its maddened, insistent,
living
beat.

He should have left the gallery right then and shut himself away until the cold slowed his heart and dulled his blood. But he hadn't, and now, his heart pounded, hard. His face burned. So did the rest of him.

Benedict cursed again. Oh, he wanted to see Madelene again, but the high-minded artist who longed to know her heart and soul wanted to know far more than that. He wanted to know her touch, her desire, and her delight.

And she wanted to show him. He'd glimpsed it for that one instant. She'd been thinking of something pleasant. He'd been working quickly, trying to catch the shift in her face as her expression softened and her attention drifted from the flowers to whatever it was she saw in her mind's eye. He'd been so intent on line, shadow, and shape that he'd missed the moment when her dreamy reverie had slipped into desire.

The sight had hit him harder than he would have believed possible. The room quite literally spun. The charcoal in his hand had snapped in two. For one mad moment, he'd seriously considered tossing the broken stick aside and instead taking Madelene into his arms.

But of course he didn't. He'd fumbled for calm, and a fresh piece of charcoal, and enough composure to return to work. But all the while, he'd wondered who she'd been thinking about during that heated moment.

Had it been him?

Please, yes
, he pleaded to the image of Madelene's eyes on the page in front of him.
Please, no.

Wonder and fear yanked him in opposite directions. He became strongly conscious of the sketches on his easel, and the sight of those gray and white eyes brought back to him the memory of the real thing. How was he ever going to capture the vivid color of them? How could he even begin to recreate the hidden strength of the woman beneath the bashful girl?

Strength.
He touched the sketch with fingertips that remembered far too clearly the living touch of Madelene's hand. He wanted to reach beneath the surface and discover the true Madelene. He wanted to know all her secrets and make her understand they, and she, were safe with him.

She'd asked him why he cared twice now.

This time, though, he'd been able to answer her, and it was an honest answer.

Because I want to take that fear away. Because I want to make sure it will never return.
He let his fingers graze the swiftly drawn curls and touch the corner of the mouth that had so briefly smiled at him.

Because I want to fall in love with you, Madelene, and I do not dare.

Dearest Cousin Madelene:

You will forgive an aging thespian his dramatic language, but I was thrilled beyond words to hear from you again. I had no idea you were acquainted with the delightful Miss Sewell. She and I were friends once, oh, many years ago in my lost youth (for a lady such as Miss Sewell, you know, remains forever young).

I should be most happy to meet your friends, and even more happy to see you again. Since you say Miss Sewell has already given permission, I shall write her at once to say I will call at No. 48 at eleven o'clock this Wednesday.

I am all impatience to hear about this grand secret scheme of yours. You and your friends may be assured of my absolute discretion.

Yr. Faithful,

Cousin Henry

*   *   *

“Madelene!”

Henry Cross strode boldly into the green parlor of No. 48, both arms stretched out in front of him. Madelene leapt to her feet, entirely disregarding manners and decorum, and incidentally scattering many of Helene's papers. They'd been laboring over guest lists for their party a minute ago, but Madelene forgot it all in an instant as she ran to greet her cousin. Henry grasped both Madelene's hands but did nothing so prosaic as kiss her cheek. Instead, he spun her in a tight circle, just as he had when she was small. She was so delighted by the sight of him she entirely forgot to be embarrassed.

Henry Cross had always seemed a friendly giant to Madelene, but strangely graceful for a man of his size. His hair was the same shade of strawberry blond as Madelene's own, although it was just beginning to turn gray at the temples, and his eyes were as bright and blue as she remembered, and his smile as warm and merry. His clothing was of better quality than it had been when she'd seen him last. His jacket of blue superfine wool had silver buttons, and his Hessian boots shone bright as mirrors.

Cousin Henry had never failed to make her and Mother laugh with his stories and antics whenever he visited, an event that inevitably occurred when Father was away from home. Father said, repeatedly and loudly, that Mother should not have any connection to an actor, whether he was a relative or not. Mother replied that if Father approved of the money he ought not scorn the family that brought it.

The arguments that followed these remarks left behind far less pleasant memories.

When Henry finally released his cousin, he turned at once to their hostess. “My dear Miss Sewell! How magnificent to see you again!” He made as elegant a bow as the confines of the parlor allowed. “I am enchanted by your latest work. Scandalized, of course, but enchanted nonetheless.”

“It is very good to see you again, Mister Cross. Let me introduce you to my other protégés.” As she did, Helene bobbed a calm and correct curtsy.

“I thought your King Henry was simply marvelous, Mister Cross,” breathed Adele. She looked slightly stupefied but was rallying. Madelene couldn't help but smile. Cousin Henry had that effect on people who weren't used to him, especially women.

“Thank you so much, Lady Adele,” Henry replied as they all settled themselves in their places and Miss Sewell rang for the coffee. “It was a privilege to be allowed to portray my infinitely more noble and worthy namesake. And here, if I have heard correctly, you three are readying for your own Saint Crispin's Day?” He cast his eye over the stacks of lists and cards that covered the coffee table. “My dear cousin tells me that a grand gathering is being arranged under the auspices of your excellent chaperone?”

There was a change in Henry's voice at this, the casual cheerfulness becoming so slightly forced. Madelene glanced at Miss Sewell to see if she noticed, but Miss Sewell seemed to be fully occupied by directing her maidservant where to set the coffee things, since the usual table was full of papers.

“Well, yes, we do mean to give a ball,” Madelene said, to cover the awkwardness. “I know it won't sound like much to you, Henry, but . . .”

Henry waved this away. “My dear, if it has moved you to contact your lonesome cousin after all this time, it is the whole of the world to me.” He was looking at Miss Sewell as he said this. “Tell me all.”

“Do you still take two spoons of sugar with your coffee, Mister Cross?” Miss Sewell replied.

“I do,” he answered. This time Madelene knew she was not imagining the change in his voice.

No, don't be ridiculous. You're overly sensitive, after what . . . happened with Lord Benedict.

After what did and didn't happen.

“The party is Helene's idea, really,” Madelene said quickly, before the spark in Adele's eye could lead to any pointed questions about Miss Sewell, or her.

“Lady Helene shall have the floor, then.” Henry accepted the coffee cup and saucer Miss Sewell handed him and raised it in salute. “Lady Helene?”

So, Helene told him about their plans for the season, with Adele filling in any gaps. Cousin Henry was a treat to watch when he was listening. His eyebrows were better than most comedies, rising and falling and wriggling in such exaggerated expressions that Madelene could not help but smile. Helene frowned at him, obviously uncertain whether she was being mocked. But by the time she finished, Henry was entirely sober.

“Very well, ladies.” Henry set his empty cup down on the round table at his elbow. “I am engaged.”

“That's what Miss Sewell said when she took us on,” Adele remarked.

“Is it? She always has been a woman of great wit.”

“And you a man of great flattery,” Miss Sewell replied tartly.

“Guilty, madame.”

“Do you mean it?” Madelene breathed. “You will come to our party?” Relief rushed through her, and she knew why. If Cousin Henry agreed, she wouldn't have to finish the portrait. They wouldn't need it. She'd never have to see Lord Benedict again. She'd never have to put herself through that confusing, shameful tangle of emotion and imagination, or anything like it, again.

Cousin Henry laid his hand on his breast and gave a solemn, seated bow to them. “I will be there at the hour you appoint, and I will speak or be silent about my acceptance of the invitation as you command. However”—he raised his hand to forestall their thanks—“you must be ready to pay my price.”

“Price?” Helene said sharply.

“You are engaging me in a professional capacity. You wish me to expend my trained and professional wit, charm, and, dare I say, panache in your service. I am willing, but I expect to be compensated.”

Madelene's heart plunged. She hadn't anticipated this. It was . . . crass. Not that she'd entirely believed Henry would be willing to return to her life after she had cut him for so long. But she had hoped for a courteous refusal at least.

Helene, however, remained undeterred. “Will this be on an hourly basis or a set fee for the entire evening?”

Henry threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, nothing like that, I assure you. My price is that my dear cousin come have luncheon with me. I have engaged a private parlor for us in Matheson's Coffeehouse in the square and . . .” He consulted his pocket watch. “Yes, we are just in time. I took the liberty of assuming we would go from here to avoid . . . awkwardness.” He rose and extended his arm. “Cousin?”

Of course she agreed at once.

*   *   *

A very short time later, Madelene found herself seated in a pleasant and sunny room upstairs at Matheson's Coffeehouse. The landlady and three serving boys bustled around them, laying out a luncheon of cold roast fowl, fresh bread, salads, and cakes. All of them wore the same slightly stunned and bashful expressions that Adele had displayed earlier. It was very strange, Madelene thought, how the one person she felt truly comfortable with was the one who could make everyone else trip over their own feet.

They ate, and the food was all very good and fresh. Henry kept up an easy flow of conversation, mostly about his travels, laced with little gossipy anecdotes about the famous actresses he had played beside, such as Mrs. Siddons and Mrs. Jordan. At last, after Madelene had declared she could not eat another slice of the sugar-topped cake and Henry had allowed her to refill his teacup once more, he changed the subject.

“Now, Madelene, I have an important question for you.” As he spoke, Henry regarded her with the steady, perceptive gaze that had been known to make grown theater managers stammer like schoolboys.

“Oh.” He was going to say something about her stepmother. Or that he'd heard about Lewis and his gambling. Could he know something about Benedict? Had he heard about her meeting him in the gallery? About the portrait? No, surely it was too soon for that news to have gotten out. All the same, fear squeezed Madelene's heart, and she tried to cover it up with a gulp of tea.

“What is it you really want from your cousin?”

Madelene swallowed too quickly and had to set her cup down. “I don't understand. I thought . . .”

“Yes, yes, the ball.” He waved his hand. “I approve of the plan, as I said, and I am perfectly willing to serve as your crowning ornament for the occasion. By the by, I'm very glad to see you with Miss Sewell.” He swirled his tea, watching the sunlight play across the amber liquid. “Very glad for a number of reasons. She's a good woman, and you can trust her.”

“Then you do know her . . . well?”

“I did.” He sighed. “When we were both much younger, and I was a bigger fool than I am now. Yes. But, to my question.” He pointed one finger at her. “What is it you really want of this season of yours? You cannot seriously be mounting such an effort for the sake of getting some attention from a lot of fat cats in the drawing rooms.”

“Cousin Henry!”

“Is a terrible rude creature as actors often are and he's shocked you. A pox upon him!” He slammed his great hand down on the table, rattling the dishes. “But more seriously, Madelene. I've thought about you often, and I've kept an eye out on you as best I could. Tried to contact you a few times.”

“I didn't know.”

He smiled ruefully. “I didn't make a very good job of it. But I did try. Please.” He leaned forward. For a moment, the cheerful countenance that was all part of his charming and public face slipped, and Madelene saw the man underneath. She also saw a deep affection and a concern that could not have been anything but genuine. “Won't you tell me how I can really help you?”

Madelene rubbed her hands together.
You've already done it. Now that we have you, we don't need the painting. I don't have to go back. I don't have to see Lord Benedict again. I don't have to look at him. I don't have to want him.

Except she did. Every night. Every time she saw a man in the street with chestnut hair and a lean frame, she remembered Benedict and wanted to see his dark eyes looking at her, as they had looked in that one burning moment. She wanted to feel him near her. She could not endure it, but she could not stop it.

“Madelene?” Henry said gently. “What is it, my dear? You can tell me anything.”

Not this.
She bit her lip. But she must tell him something. So she told him the other truth.

“I'm afraid, Henry,” she said. “All the time. I'm scared of my own shadow. When I'm in a crowd sometimes I can barely breathe. I can't . . . I can't talk. I can't think.” She lifted her eyes.

“I want to stop being afraid. I want a life of my own. A . . . soul of my own.”

“You have a soul, Madelene,” he whispered, and the affection in his voice caused tears to prickle in the corners of her eyes. “A bright and brilliant one.”

“I doesn't feel that way. It feels like . . . like I'm hollow inside. Like if I try to resist . . . anything, I'll just break. I told my friend Helene this season is about my . . . my freedom, and it is. But I'm going to make an absolute fool of myself at the ball if I can't control my fears. I'll ruin everything.”

He leaned back and touched his finger to his lip. “And that's what you want? Not to ruin things for your friends?”

“Yes. That. But it's more than that. Unless I stop being afraid, I can't ever be free to live or do . . . or do anything . . .”

“Like love?” Henry murmured.

No.
Madelene expected the shameful blush to burn her cheeks, but nothing happened. There was only Henry, looking at her with all the kindness she remembered. “Yes,” she heard herself say. “Like love.”

He nodded. He also folded his arms. “Is there someone in particular?”

She bit her lip and looked in the pot to see if there was any tea left. There wasn't.

“What's his name, Madelene?” Henry asked softly.

“Lord Benedict Pelham.”

Henry let out a very long breath, and Madelene felt her heart sink.

“Do you know him?” she asked.

“Slightly. Artists and actors may be expected to move in similar circles.”

“Did you . . . Do you . . . approve of him?”

“I never knew him well enough to approve or disapprove. He has some excellent friends, which always speaks well of a man.” He paused. “But an artist can be very strong drink, Madelene.”

“Oh yes,” she murmured. As she spoke, she remembered the heat of Benedict's gaze washing over her. Strong drink? Her cousin had no idea.

Henry was silent for a long time. She waited for him to tell her to forget Benedict. Perhaps he might even forbid her to see him again. It would be a relief. Then it wouldn't be her decision anymore. She'd have to obey, because she couldn't risk angering her cousin, who was essential to her friends' success and futures. With his disapprobation to bolster her, she couldn't be tempted to try to set aside her fears and her doubts and go back to Benedict's studio.

“Well,” Henry said, “I wish you the very best of luck with him.”

Madelene's head jerked up to meet her cousin's shrewd gaze.