The Stepsister's Triumph (8 page)

“You're not . . . going to forbid me to see him?” she asked.

Cousin Henry quirked one brow. “Did you want me to? Ah. I see that you did. Why?”

“Because it's all in my head.”

“You mean your heart.”

Her treacherous heart at that moment fluttered, almost as if mocking her. “No, no, not that,” she said to him and herself. “I mean, he, Lord Benedict, doesn't feel anything for me, and it's . . . awful to sit in a room alone . . .”

“Alone?” For the first time, Henry sounded genuinely surprised. “You were alone with him?”

“I wasn't meant to be. Lady Adele came with me, but, well, I asked Adele if she . . .”

“I see. And when you were there in his company, you felt a great deal for him, and he, as best as you can tell at this time, felt nothing for you.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Therefore, you now desire your beloved and forceful cousin to provide the excuse for you not to go back and face him again?”

Madelene did not answer.

“Well,” Henry said, “I won't do it.”

“Why not?” The words were out before she could even think of censoring them. Cousin Henry just smiled.

“Because, Madelene, unless Lord Benedict was an actual blaggard toward you, you should go back. You should sort out for yourself what you and he feel.” His smile faded, and he wasn't looking at her anymore. He was looking toward the window and the square beyond. “If you try to hide from him, what you wonder and what you feel will continue to stand in your path. This freedom you desire, this life you want to live, it will only have another stumbling block.”

“You sound very sure.”
And I sound very peevish.

But Henry did not seem to notice that. “I am sure, my dear,” he said. “To my own sorrow, I'm positive.”

“But what if . . . he doesn't care for me?”

He shrugged, shaking off her words and his own abstraction with the one gesture. “Then you will know, and you will grieve and you will move on with your own life.”

He spoke so casually. How could he? He didn't really understand. Or maybe he did.

“I will tell you this.” Henry leaned forward and planted one finger on the tabletop. “This Lord Benedict had better treat you honorably, or he and I shall have an exchange of . . . words.” He smiled coldly, and Madelene felt as if a shadow had passed over the sun. “Now, Madelene.” With those two words, the cold hint of danger vanished entirely from her cousin's manner. “I ask you again, how can I really help you?”

This much she knew. She'd been thinking it over since she'd written him, but now that it came to the point of speaking out loud, it seemed unbearably silly, nothing at all like Helene's neat and methodical plans.

But she took a deep breath and said it anyway. “You can teach me to act like I'm not afraid,” she said. “If I can just pretend I'm not, then maybe, one day . . .”

“It will become real,” Henry finished for her. “Yes. That can happen. I've seen it.”

“You have?”

“I have, and one day I'll tell you about it. The real question is where to begin. Such lessons cannot be too broad, or they will overwhelm. Is there something particular you'd like to gain confidence at? Pouring out tea, for example?” He gestured toward the pot. “Conducting yourself at the table?”

“Teach me to dance,” she said at once. “I can't dance. I forget the steps, and that makes me nervous, and when I get nervous, I get so shy and I hate it and that makes me nervous all over again. But I remember how when I was little we used to dance in our parlor, and you dance so often on stage. It's not just the dancing, of course, it's everything around it, how to behave and not show how I'm . . .” She looked away and took a deep breath. “I know I'm not making any sense . . .”

“
Au contraire
, my cousin, you are making perfect sense. The bard tells us all the world's a stage! Why should we not treat it that way? We shall craft the very scene of the party, and I shall direct! And dancing lessons are the perfect place to begin.”

“Oh, thank you!” she cried. “I've been so afraid. I waltz like a plank.”

“And if you ever again see the vile monstrosity who told you that, you will point him out to me so that I may strike him down on your behalf.”

“It was my father.”

“I stand by my promise,” Henry said soberly. “Madelene . . . I was not going to say this yet. I could not say it before, because you were too young, but, well, now it's hardly less awkward because you have grown into such a lovely young lady and I remain an old bachelor, and people are suspicious . . .” Madelene stared. It could not be that Cousin Henry was growing red in the face. “But, if you find things have become too difficult for you in your father's house, you can always come to me.”

Madelene's heart constricted. He was offering her the one thing she'd never had, the one thing she'd longed for: a refuge. Henry was family.
Family.
The word was like an embrace. Her friends were wonderful, they were kind, she loved them, but with Henry she had that extra bond that was blood and history and the kind of affection that came from nowhere else.

But more to the point, the fact that he was a blood relation meant she could visit him without chaperonage, or even live with him, as long as the house was properly staffed. It was within the accepted bounds. Especially next year, when she came of age. Then even father wouldn't be able to drag her back.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Truly. That is very kind. But you're right. If I went now . . . there would be talk, and I couldn't risk it. Any scandal when we are just about to send out the invitations would endanger the entire plan. I couldn't do that to Adele and Helene.”

“I understand, but I have laid down the invitation, and I will honor it. If you have need of a place to go, you have one.”

“Thank you,” she said again. Then a thought struck her. “Henry, could you keep something for me? Just, just for a little while.”

His expressive brows rose. “Of course. May I know what it is?”

“It's . . . Well, it's a painting.” She could have kept
The Prelude
at No. 48, of course, but somehow the idea of leaving it with Cousin Henry appealed. It seemed like a favor one should be able to ask of family.

She waited for him to ask about the painting. She braced herself for some teasing insinuation, but none came. “You may send it to me as soon as you will. I will see it's properly stored. And now”—he pulled out his watch—“I have a rehearsal, and if I am late, my director will hand me my head. Let me return you to your friends.”

She smiled at her cousin. The ache inside her that had grown so horribly familiar eased a little further. Maybe that was all she needed.

No. Not all. But for today at least, it was enough.

Madelene stood on the stoop of the house in Lincoln's Inn Fields and watched Adele's carriage roll away.

She almost didn't go to the second sitting. She thought a dozen times about writing a note to say she'd changed her mind; she wouldn't be continuing with the portrait. Staying home, though, had become insupportable. Lewis was in a raging temper, and she knew as soon as his head cleared he'd be demanding more money. Glorietta and Maude were sniping over ownership of a bonnet. Mama was presiding over them all with her chill compliments that were somehow worse than any open insult could ever be.

Nothing had been made any easier by the arrival of Phineas Thorpe. Mr. Thorpe was the head of the board that managed Madelene's trust. He usually visited her once a month, but he'd requested a special interview. He'd sat in her stepmother's stiff burgundy drawing room and laid the latest series of bills before Madelene—bills for dresses, bills for hats and gloves, not just for her, but for Glorietta and Maude, and Mama, of course. Last of all came the letter requesting an extra draft for Lewis.

“It is an excessive amount, Miss Valmeyer.” Mr. Thorpe had a long, narrow face and long, narrow hands. He pushed the bills a little closer with his manicured fingers, as if he thought she hadn't noticed them. “Even more than usual.”

“I know, Mister Thorpe. I do know. I just, it's an extraordinary time and I need . . .” She'd stopped.
I need to keep Mama and Lewis happy. I need to keep them occupied with their own affairs so they don't notice how often I am gone, or all that I'm spending on my own account.

Mr. Thorpe had shaken his head. He had talked a little about her late mother, and how he had always had the deepest respect for her, not to mention sincere admiration for her judgment, which was so unusually sound for a woman. Madelene sat on the pink sofa, her tea growing cold in its cup while she listened. In the end, however, Mr. Thorpe had agreed to advance the extra sums, but it would take a few days. It was a relief to know the funds were coming at all. Until they actually arrived, however, Madelene knew she would be treated to an endless round of black looks and sniping comments about her carelessness and how she should have been more attentive to her spending.

She might have gone to No. 48, but there was nothing to distract her there. Helene was attending a lecture today, and Miss Sewell was at the library. Adele would just want to know why Madelene had decided against continuing with the painting, and Madelene didn't know what she could possibly say. She couldn't tell Adele it was because she was too afraid. She'd had a hard enough time persuading Adele that she not only really did want to go, but that she wanted to go alone. Her friend was convinced that Madelene's hesitations had come about because Lord Benedict was guilty of some shocking liberty.

“You did say you were attracted to him, Madelene,” Adele reminded her. “But artists . . .”

Madelene shook her head. “I may have been attracted to Lord Benedict, but it is not an attraction he returns.”
Never mind that look we shared, or I thought we shared. He retreated from me. He all but ran away from me.
“Which is for the best. He is, after all, a figure of some controversy, and as Miss Sewell pointed out, we do not need any controversy associated with our conduct at this time.”

“No,” Adele agreed slowly. “But are you certain you want to go alone, Madelene? I'm glad to come with you.”

And pass the session directing pointed looks and pointed remarks at Lord Benedict, because you're afraid he hurt my feelings.
Madelene had smiled and pressed her friend's hand. Adele would only act that way because of their friendship. Like Helene, Adele was more than ready to stand as Madelene's champion. What neither of them had yet realized was that Madelene did not need another champion. She needed to know she could face Benedict, and her feelings, on her own.

But that didn't mean she had to face either one in public.

Adele had accepted this explanation and let her go, promising as before that she would be back in exactly one hour.

Now, Madelene stood in front of the door, frightened of her decision and regretting that she'd ever let Adele leave.

I want to take that fear away
, Lord Benedict whispered from her memory.

Was it possible he meant it? Madelene must have asked herself that question a hundred times. He meant something, certainly, but probably it was only light flirtation. He was accustomed to painting the ladies of society and surely had become expert on how to flatter them and keep them . . . What had he said? Completely relaxed and happy.

Perhaps he'd even done more than that.

No. Benedict had been a married man. Madelene did not want to believe he would betray his wife so lightly and easily.

But what did she want to believe about him? About what he'd said to her and the way he'd behaved? Part of her believed his aloof and mysterious manner was caused by some secret hurt. But perhaps she was just being a hopeless romantic and wanted to cover Benedict's erratic behavior with a gloss of artistic drama.

Back and forth Madelene went. Looked at one way, all the things Benedict said, all the looks they exchanged, and that sense of sympathy between them seemed as if it had to amount to real feeling. Looked at another way, Madelene was behaving like a naive and foolish little girl who was so desperate for affection that she was making up stories about the first romantic figure to cross her path in . . . ages.

Back and forth went Madelene's thoughts. Back and forth.

In the end, though, it was the practicalities that decided her. She could not be seen standing in the street like this. Madelene turned to face the door. She raised her hand, steeled her nerve, and plied the brass knocker.

Mrs. Cottswold arrived and led Madelene up the stairs, chatting comfortably about how beautiful the weather had turned and not pausing for reply, or breath. Madelene was grateful. She didn't trust her voice. Her heart was hammering so hard beneath her breasts, she could almost believe it was that sound that made Benedict open the door rather than his landlady's knock.

“Good morning, Miss Valmeyer.” Benedict bowed. Madelene curtsied. “Will you come take your place, please?” Lord Benedict gestured Madelene forward as impersonally as if he'd been a footman in a great house.

Madelene told herself she had no business being disappointed at this brisk, efficient reception. She wanted to know the truth of matters between them. Here, surely, was her answer. She was the source of his latest commission, nothing more and nothing less.

Madelene kept her eyes fixed straight ahead of her as she walked through the studio to the little stage. The rush-bottomed chair was still at its same angle. This time, though, the flowers had been set on a smaller stool in front of it, with two lengths of butcher's twine tied around the pot.

“If you'll just take these.” Benedict picked up the strings and held them out to her, at arm's length.
He doesn't want us to touch
, she thought.

“Why?” she asked him aloud and in her own thoughts.

“As I told you during our last session, you are to be Selene in her chariot. These”—he shook the strings—“are your reins. Hands are among the most difficult pieces of the human form to recreate, so it helps if they can be seen in the correct pose.”

“Oh.” Feeling mildly silly, Madelene seated herself and took up the strings. Benedict positioned himself behind his easel, selected a fresh pencil, and began to draw.

This time, Madelene vowed, she would keep her mouth closed and her eyes fixed on the proper point. She would meditate on Helene's growing guest list for the ball and on the results of the latest fitting. She would look forward to Cousin Henry's visit to No. 48 and the dance and deportment lessons he'd promised. She would think about the season, about anything and everything except Lord Benedict. She was resolved. If,
if
, he felt anything for her, it was up to him to make it known clearly this time, not with any muddled words or confusing behavior.

So far, all Benedict was making clear was that any such feelings, if they had ever existed, had now been brought fully under control. He was on the other side of his easel, and she was here, holding two strings and looking at primroses. If she dared to push or probe for any hint of what she thought she'd seen or heard before, she would only succeed in making herself ridiculous. That she must not do under any circumstances. Therefore, she must not bring up the last session. She certainly must not feed her over-heated imagination by looking at him, no matter how beguiling he appeared with that one unruly lock of hair falling down across his shoulder.

She wondered what it would be like to draw her fingers through his hair and feel the warm strands slide across her skin. He was imperfectly shaven this morning, she noted. His jaw would be rough to the touch. And his hands . . .

“Miss Valmeyer? The flowers, if you please.”

Benedict's words grated harshly against her ears. Madelene blushed furiously.
What's the matter with me? Why can't I behave like a grown woman for even five minutes? I have people depending on me. I can't waste the money we're paying or court any kind of scandal.

Madelene stared at the flowers on their stool. She thought about how the sunlight was warm and pleasant against her face. She and the other girls might go out for a walk later. Helene was very much in favor of venturing into Hyde Park during the fashionable hour. She maintained that the practice at being out among people did Madelene good, and besides, she got some of her best ideas while walking. That was where the idea for the afternoon salon had come from, and the supper party and the alligator and the cat and . . .

“Miss Valmeyer!”

“What? Yes? Oh.”

“You were dozing off.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Only the sunlight is so warm.”

A muscle high in Lord Benedict's cheek twitched. He looked from her to his sketchbook. “It happens sometimes. Many subjects find it dull to sit still for so long.”

“So what do you generally do with your subjects?” The instant Madelene spoke the words, a fresh blush rose in her. Her words sounded insinuating, almost flirtatious.

Thankfully Lord Benedict didn't seem to notice. “Talk can help.”

“Talk about what?”

He paused rather longer than necessary, and Madelene had the feeling of something being hidden away. In the end, however, Lord Benedict merely shrugged. “Anything, as long as you keep your eyes on the flowers.”

She dutifully lowered her gaze toward the primroses. “I'm not very good at small talk.”
Especially to potted plants.

“What do you talk about in the drawing rooms when you're paying calls?”

“Nothing, really.”

“But you must say something.”

Madelene wound the string around her fingers. “No one cares to hear what I have to say.”

“What makes you think that?” This time there was no mistaking his tone. He was annoyed, and that annoyance sent a strange liquid thrill sliding through her veins. She'd touched him, and it felt like a success. It made her ever so slightly bold.

“Do you want to hear what I have to say, Lord Benedict?” she asked softly.

For a moment, she thought he had not heard her, but his pencil stilled once more. “And if I said yes?” he said huskily. Lord Benedict raised his dark eyes to meet hers. “What then?”

“I . . . I'm not sure,” she stammered, and had to suppress a groan.
I sound like such a child!
“I mean, that is, the usual topics of polite conversation are the weather and the roads and everybody's health.”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Benedict began to chuckle. Madelene blanched. “What have I said?”

“I'm sorry.” He shook his head and brushed the one stray lock of hair back from his shoulder. “I can't help thinking that if those are our possible topics,
I'm
going to doze off.”

Madelene smiled and instantly covered her mouth with her hand. “I think that would be most detrimental to our progress.”

“There, we agree.” He stared hard at the page, and then at her.

“I wonder,” he said quietly. “What you would say if no one was listening?”

Madelene at once shifted her gaze toward the false reins in her hands and the flowers she was beginning to hate. She had to look at something, because she could not look at him. The gentle, thoughtful expression on his face threatened to make her blush, badly.

“I don't understand you. Are you teasing me?”

“No. I'm not. I just . . .” She heard Benedict set his pencil down. “You don't like to talk, but your face . . . your expression speaks volumes. I can see it, but I can't understand it. I can't read it.” He was talking more to the page than to her. “I don't understand
you
, Miss Valmeyer.”

“But you painted that other picture.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “I painted a frightened girl. I understand fear. That's simple. But that's not . . . you.” He stopped and glared at the page. “The longer I sit here, the longer I look, the more contradictions I see and the less I understand them.” He stopped and he swallowed. Madelene had the sudden impression he was literally swallowing the words he'd meant to speak. “You want to be seen, but you're afraid to be seen. You don't like to speak, but you're transported when you think someone's finally unearthed your meaning. How am I supposed to paint that?”

“I thought you were just supposed to paint my face.”

“I could. It would be lovely, but you don't really want me to just show your face.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You're lying.” His eyes snapped, and the words fell hard from him. “You want to be
seen
. That's why you came back. You want the world to see you, the real you.”