Page 33 of Portrait of a Lady
Those thoughts were too dangerous to even contemplate, let alone speak aloud. He wasn’t supposed to think of her this way, not when she was only meant to be his last keeper. He needed her money and enjoyed her company, that was all there was. Besides, it would be foolish for him to think she was as infatuated with him as he had become with her. She’d hired him to warm her bed, nothing more. If she happened to enjoy his company, too...well, that was something else she was paying for, wasn’t it?
“I do not know how long our courtship will last,” Hugh added. “Perhaps it is best not to grow used to the idea of her as my muse.”
“My boy, did I ever tell you about the time I spent studying abroad?”
“Of course,” Hugh replied. “You told me of the ruins you studied, sculptures you were allowed to sketch, the artists you apprenticed under…”
“Ah, but did I tell you aboutSignoraAlessandra Bianchi?”
Crosby laughed at Hugh’s shocked expression. He’d never heard the man mention a woman, thinking of Crosby as the solitary sort of artist.
“Our relationship was not likethat,” the older man insisted. “Though, I did indulge in my share of affairs in my youth. No, Alessandra was simply...perfect. Sublime. The sort of face and form that inspire men to lust, love, grief, joy...all of it dependent upon the quirk of her mouth or set of her brow. I spent months using her as a subject, painting her as Venus, Aphrodite, and Diana, sculpting busts of her, drawing her in various states ofdéshabillé. This was decades ago, of course, and even now I look back upon what I created with her to inspire me as some of my greatest work.”
“She must have been quite a woman,” Hugh remarked.
“She was,” Crosby agreed. “Our association ended when it came time for me to leave Italy, but I learned so much about myself, and my art, with her serving as my muse. Others have come and gone, and each has left their mark upon me. You’ve been given a unique opportunity, Hugh. Do not allow worry over how long something might last to hold you back. If those sketches in your book are any indication, you’re on the verge of something very exciting, and that thing might make the difference between earning your place in the Exhibition, and being forced to sit things out for another year.”
At that moment, Crosby’s students for the afternoon began filing in, their voices echoing from the high ceiling, their excitement palpable. They would have the opportunity to sketch a live subject today, thus the reason for the elaborate staging.
“Think about what I’ve said,” Crosby said before turning to begin greeting his students.
“I will, thank you.”
Hugh gathered his satchel and weaved his way through the students filing in, picking up the pace once he was out in the corridor. It was early yet, and he was not due at Evelyn’s house until evening. But, he felt the need to go to her now, if for no other reason to apologize for his behavior after the encounter with Marcus. His personal problems had never before bled over into his life as a courtesan, and he couldn’t allow it to happen now. While he had thought leaving her for the night would be the best thing in the moment, he now saw it as the blunder it was. He was supposed to be at her beck and call, which meant that what she wanted should always take precedence over whatever mood he might be in on any given night.
It couldn’t wait. He needed to go to her now and apologize, make things right. There was also the need to see her again, to be near her, which could not be denied. Part of him knew he shouldn’t allow himself the luxury of such feelings, but another part of him latched on to Crosby’s words and clung to them. Perhaps there was no need to worry about what would happen or what would be. For now, he was pleased with the way things were. Best for him to enjoy it for however long it would last.
Chapter 7
“I had the opportunity to visit Gunter’s in Berkeley Square a few days past, to taste the newest flavor taking London by storm. One would not think of parmesan as an appropriate ice flavor, but I assure you, it had a most pleasing taste. Of course, while I was there, I happened to notice quite a few debutantes enjoying their ices in the company of their male escorts. Here are my predictions for which of these pairings will find themselves hitched by Season’s end…”
-The London Gossip,19 March 1819
“Everything will be all right, my dearest Regina,” Sir Antony rasped, his words coming out between labored breaths.
The battered knight lay upon the hard-packed earth of the moors, his head rested in her lap. The rain had finally let up, the black clouds receding minute by minute to allow through a beam of growing sunlight. Several yards away, Baron Redgrave lay dead from a wound through his belly, swimming in a pool of his own blood. But, Regina could not spare him another thought as her knight, her one true love, lay battered and broken in her arms.
The man who had ridden through the storm to come to rescue her had been wounded. Before meeting his end, the baron had sunk a dagger into Sir Antony’s side and broken his arm. Tears streamed down Regina’s face in hot streams as she stroked the heavy locks of golden hair back from her knight’s face.
“Oh, Duncan, my poor love,” she wept. “It will not be all right. You’ve been hurt, and it is all my fault. I shall never forgive myself!”
Sir Antony raised his uninjured arm, cupping her face with one bloodstained hand. “You mustn’t blame yourself for the villainy of Redgrave. It is only a wound, one that will heal in time. It is far less than I would have suffered, to have you returned to me unharmed. I would have endured a thousand wounds and died as many deaths for you, my love...all for you.”
Evelyn heard the creak of the door being pushed open, but kept her head lowered over her work. She’d now come to the end of her tale and was determined to finish what remained of Sir Antony and Regina’s reunion today. Nothing would distract her from it. If Joseph had a message to deliver or had come to announce a visitor, he would simply have to stand by and wait until she had finished.
Heavy footsteps fell against the rug, but Evelyn wrote on, scratching her quill over the page in a frenzy. So close, she was so very close.
The scent of flowers mingled with clove and sandalwood wafted up her nostrils just before a hand fell onto her shoulder.
“Just what are you writing to put such a look of determined focus on your face?”
She jumped at the sound of Hugh’s voice breaking through the quiet of the morning room and she glanced up to find him standing over her, an amused smile gracing his face and a bouquet held in one hand.
“Hugh!” she exclaimed, leaping to her feet and swiveling to face him.
Angling her body to block his view of her manuscript, she forced a shaky smile.
“What are you doing here?”
