Page 45 of Seductive Reprise
Except the earl’s, a nasty voice in her head reminded her.Who sent you to London, after all?
Before she could reason with herself, a voice she never thought she’d hear say her name again interrupted her hateful thoughts.
“Rose?” Silas stood a couple arm lengths away, holding a rag covered in Venetian red splotches as if it were an offering. It wasn’t, of course; it was merely something he’d been using to smudge his crayon. But his posture was that of a penitent, his lips half-open, his sharp brows lifted in supplication.
She swallowed and briefly closed her eyes. She had always been—and apparently still was—cowed by a pretty face. Most unfortunate, then, that hers was so plain in that regard. Pressing her lips together, she nodded in his direction by way of acknowledgement.
“I haven’t seen you since…” he started, then trailed off, seemingly realizing he’d have to own his cruel treatment of her if he were to finish that sentence.
One day she’d been in his bed, laughing and sipping from the same bottle of wine and discussing the relative merits of Madox Brown versus Rossetti, and the next day she was suddenly unwelcome, uninvited, unwanted. Turned away at his door with a hard look and a cold explanation. He’d met with a prospective patron, and now he had to “behave.” She’d thought it cruel, and it smarted to be thrown over by someone so droll and with such a nice, thick neck, but she knew she’d manage. Until she wentto Jurgens’ workshop to finish some draperies, where she was informed that she’d been dismissed.
Then she took it personally.
She’d meant to be civilized. But his cowardice rankled. And he likely still took home his monthly pay from Jurgens for filling in backgrounds. Draperies took more talent, in her estimation. And he could never, Rose had decided, ire igniting in her chest.
“Yes. Since you—remind me, how did you put it?” She narrowed her eyes before turning back to her easel. “Ah yes, ‘cut yourself loose.’ And then ‘cut loose’ my livelihood.” She laughed at that, a hollow, angry sound.
Across the room, Miss Sykes shushed.
Rose didn’t bother looking her way, but she did lower her voice to hiss, “Don’t you even think to scare me out of this society. For I will not go.”
His normally friendly eyes widened and he stuttered, searching for an answer. “N—no, it’s not, it’s nothing of the sort. Only I wanted, that is, I’d meant, but Howard told me perhaps not,” he dithered, twisting the dirty rag in his hands.
Rose gave an impatient huff and angrily set her crayon on the easel’s lip. “Spit it out, man!”
“Miss Verdier!” Miss Sykes called out in indignation. “Must we be party to your little lovers’ spat?” She gestured violently at herself and Mr. Schramm, as if he agreed with her on the matter.
“Lovers! I should thinknot!” Rose exclaimed. She was rewarded with a startled look from Silas. It felt good to rankle him, and she watched, attempting to figure just what it was about her reply that struck him so.
Anger raged through her. She truly didn’t care who heard; after all, studios and sketching societies were just glorified rabbit warrens, artists pairing up with whatever model, or fellow artist, would have them. Still, howdareMiss Sykes presume she’d choosehim? Never mind that she had, once.
Rose released a shaky breath, her nostrils flaring.
Mr. Schramm, to his credit, looked from Miss Sykes to his work and sighed. Without speaking he picked up his easel and shifted a few feet to his left, farther from Miss Sykes and her pinched face.
Just like that, the entire scene felt preposterous—Rose being accused of an alliance with Silas by the prudish Miss Sykes, to the annoyance of Mr. Schramm, as the indifferent nude model looked on.
“Should I pause? Is this a good moment to allow for a break, d’you think?” the model asked. She was an older woman with henna-tinted hair, and she was holding a classical sort of pose, with one arm bent over her head and one leg extended elegantly behind her. There were bags under her eyes, which looked longingly across the room at the faded kimono she had slung over a chair.
“No, please, continue,” Rose said, looking back down at her sketch, her cheeks flaming.
Silas shuffled closer and cleared his throat.
“I only meant to invite you,” he murmured.
Thatgrabbed her attention. She pivoted to face him. He stood several inches taller than her, and it felt wrong, tilting her head back to truly glare at him. She’d gotten used to Joseph, she supposed. The thought of him was like a balm, steadying her heart as she recalled the feel of him alongside her, underneath her in the carriage. She could feel her skin prickle at the memory, and she rubbed at the space between her eyebrows as she released a long, calming sigh.
“Invite me?”
“To Agnew’s. They’re displaying my work; I’ve a one-person show. I thought you might like to come?”
Rose gaped at him. The nerve of men! But instead of answering with a volley of indignant questions—namely, whyon God’s green earth would she ever want to swoon over his mediocre little oils?—she just laughed.
Silas looked about anxiously, scratching at the back of his neck. His hair used to curl about his collar, brown and gold, the color of wheat fields. But now it was neatly trimmed and tidy. He looked very much the professional, someone you’d hire to paint your family’s portrait to add to the long gallery at your country estate. Gone were his loose-fitting, second-hand jackets, his long, lopsided bow-tie, and his easy, rakish charm. He’d acquired a new set of well-cut clothes, and a new smile, tight and impatient. Just now he forced it on, his eyes still squinting at the pain this interaction was causing him.
Rose shook her head, done laughing and done with Silas. Perhaps she’d allowed too much for the privilege of his company in the past. She knew she had, in fact. But now? He had no right to expect anything. With a vicious refusal poised on her lips, she stalled.
What would Joseph do, were he in her position?
