The Beauty Within. Marguerite Kaye

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the softness of her cheek to her chin. ‘You will help me do that, yes?’

      She stared up at him, her eyes unreadable, and then surprised him with a twisted little smile. ‘Oh, I doubt very much that you’ll be able to make me beautiful. In fact, I shall do my very best to make sure you cannot, for you must know that my theory depends upon it.’

       Chapter Three

      Cressie stood at the window of the schoolroom at the top of the house, and looked on distractedly as James and Harry laboured at their sums. The twins, George and Frederick, sat at the next desk, busy with their coloured chalks. An unusual silence prevailed. For once, all four boys were behaving themselves, having been promised the treat of afternoon tea with their mama if they did. In the corner of the room, a large pad of paper balanced on his knee, Giovanni worked on the preliminary sketches for their portrait, unheeded by his subjects but not by their sister.

      He seemed utterly engrossed in his work, Cressie thought. He would not let her look at the drawings, so she looked instead at him, which was no hardship—he really was quite beautiful, all the more so with the perfection of his profile marred by the frown which emphasised the satyr in his features. That, and the sharpness of his cheekbones, the firm line of his jaw, which contrasted so severely with the fullness of his lips, the thick silkiness of his lashes, made what could have been feminine most decidedly male.

      His fingers were long and elegant, almost unmarked by the charcoal he held. Her own hands were dry with chalk dust, her dress rumpled and grubby where Harry had grabbed hold of it. No doubt her hair was in its usual state of disarray. Giovanni’s clothes, on the other hand, were immaculate. He had put off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt most precisely. She could not imagine him dishevelled. His forearms were tanned, covered in silky black hair. Sinewy rather than muscular. He was lithe rather than brawny. Feline? No, that was not the word. He had not the look of a predator, and though there was something innately sensual in his looks, there was also a glistening hardness, like a polished diamond. If it had not been such a cliché, she would have been tempted to call him devilish.

      She watched him studying the boys. His gaze was cool, analytical, almost distant. He looked at them as if they were objects rather than people. Her brothers had, when first introduced to Giovanni, been obstreperous, showing off, vying for his attention. His utter indifference to their antics had quite thrown them, so used were they to being petted and spoilt, so sure were they of their place at the centre of the universe. Cressie had had to bite her lip to stop herself laughing. To be ignored was beyond her brothers’ ken. She ought to remember how effective a tactic it was.

      She turned her gaze to the view from the window. This afternoon, it had been agreed, Giovanni would begin her portrait. Thesis first, he said, an idealised Lady Cressida. How had he put it? A picture-perfect version of the person she presented to the world. She wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but it made her uncomfortable, the implication that he could see what others could or would not. Did he sense her frustration with her lot? Or, heaven forefend, her private shame regarding Giles? Did he think her unhappy? Was she unhappy? For goodness’ sake, it was just a picture, no need to tie herself in knots over it!

      Giovanni had earmarked one of the attics for their studio, where the light flooded through the dormer windows until early evening and they could be alone, undisturbed by the household. In order to free her time, Cressie had volunteered to take all four boys every morning, leaving Janey, the nursery maid, in charge in the afternoons, which Bella usually slept through after taking tea. Later today, Giovanni would begin the process of turning Cressie into her own proof, painting her according to the mathematical rules she had studied, representing her theorem on canvas. Her image in oils would be a glossy version of her real self. And the second painting, depicting her alter ego, the private Cressie, would be the companion piece. How would Giovanni depict that version of her, the Cressie he believed she kept tightly buttoned-up inside herself? And were either versions of her image really anything to do with her? Would it be the paintings which were beautiful or the subject, in the eyes of their creator? So excited had she been by the idea of the portraits she had thought of them only in the abstract. But someone—who was it?—claimed that the artist could see into the soul. Giovanni would know the answer, but she would not ask him. She did not want anyone to see into her soul. Not that she believed it was true.

      Turning from the window, she caught his unwavering stare. How long had he been looking at her? His hand flew across the paper, capturing what he saw, capturing her, not her brothers. His hand moved, but his gaze did not. The intensity of it made it seem as if they were alone in the schoolroom. Her own hand went self-consciously to her hair. She didn’t like being looked at like this. It made her feel—not naked, but stripped. No one looked at her like that, really looked at her. Intimately.

      Cressie cleared her throat, making a show of checking the clock on the wall. ‘James, Harry, let me see how you have got on with your sums.’ Sliding a glance at Giovanni, she saw he had moved to a fresh sheet of paper and was once again sketching the boys. Had she imagined the connection between them? Only now that it was broken did she notice that her heart was hammering, her mouth was dry.

      She was being silly. Giovanni was an artist, she was a subject, that was all. He was simply analysing her, dissecting her features, as a scientist would a specimen. Men as beautiful as Giovanni di Matteo were not interested in women as plain as Cressie Armstrong, and Cressie would do well to remember that.

      It was warm in the attic, the afternoon sun having heated the airless room. Dust motes floated and eddied in the thermals. Giovanni removed his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. In front of him, a blank canvas was propped on his easel. Across the room, posed awkwardly on a red velvet chair, was Cressie. He had discovered the chair in another of the attic’s warren of rooms and had thought it an ideal symbolic device for his composition. It was formal, functional and yet sensual, a little like the woman perched uncomfortably on it. He smiled at her reassuringly. ‘You look like the French queen on her way to the guillotine. I am going to take your likeness, not chop off your head.’

      She laughed at that, but it was perfunctory. ‘If you take my likeness, then you will have lost, signor. I am—’

      ‘If you remind me once more of your lack of beauty, signorina, I will be tempted to cut off your head after all.’ Giovanni sighed in exasperation. Though he knew exactly how he wished to portray her, she was far too tense for him to begin. ‘Come over here, let me explain a little of the process.’

      He replaced the canvas with his drawing board, tacking a large sheet of paper to it. Cressie approached cautiously, as if the blank page might attack her. All morning, she had been subdued, almost defensive. ‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ he said, drawing her closer.

      ‘I’m not afraid.’

      She pouted and crossed her arms. Her buttoned-up look. Or was it buttoned-down? ‘I have never come across such a reluctant subject,’ Giovanni said. ‘You are surely not afraid I will steal your soul?’

      ‘What made you say that?’

      She was glaring at him now, which did not at all augur well. ‘It is said that a painting reflects the soul in the same way a mirror does. To have your image taken, some say, is to surrender your soul. I meant it as a jest, Cressie. A mathematician such as yourself could not possibly believe such nonsense.’

      She stared at the blank sheet of paper, her brow furrowed. ‘Was it Holbein? The artist who painted the soul in the eyes, I mean. Was that Holbein? I couldn’t remember earlier, in the schoolroom.’

      ‘Hans Holbein the Younger. Is that what you are afraid of, that I will not steal your soul but see into it?’

СКАЧАТЬ