Enticing Benedict Cole. Eliza Redgold

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СКАЧАТЬ faint whiff of claret.

      ‘Can I fetch you refreshment?’

      ‘I am thirsty. Thank you.’

      Enjoying the momentary respite, she breathed in the scent of jasmine and roses. There was no one else on the terrace, though perhaps George and Maud were somewhere in the garden. Why, he might even be proposing at that very moment. How lucky they were, while she was here with Lord Warley. Under her skirts she stretched out her painful toes. He didn’t seem to have done any permanent damage.

      Something near to despair filled her. These evenings were supposed to be enjoyable, but they exhausted her more than sitting for Benedict Cole. Modelling was hard work. But being forced to play a society role was hard work, too. Not the kind of work to complain about. How could she complain about having to go to a ball? It sounded spoilt. Never complain, never explain. That was what her mama advised.

      Too soon Lord Warley returned with two glasses of iced punch.

      ‘Thank you.’ Cameo took a sip.

      He sat down on the chair opposite and hoisted one leg over the other. ‘My pleasure.’

      Silence fell. It wasn’t the same kind of silence as when Benedict Cole painted her; that silence didn’t bother her at all.

      ‘I’d love to try to capture those roses,’ she said at last, studying the white tea roses that were tumbling down the trellis closest to them.

      ‘Capture them?’

      ‘Paint them, I mean. What do you think of the latest style of painting? The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and the other new painters?’

      ‘Ridiculous.’ He shocked her with his vehemence. ‘They make far too much of themselves, like all artists. They should get decent occupations.’

      ‘Art’s a passion!’ Cameo protested.

      ‘Art’s a fuss about nothing. Who can’t slap a bit of paint on to some canvas, I ask you? Of course I go to the opening of the Royal Academy of Art at the start of the Season, one’s got to. And we’ve got some fine Old Masters in our long gallery at Warley Park. Not that I care for them that much. It’s all a waste of time.’

      ‘How can you say that?’ She sipped her punch to quench her anger. It didn’t help.

      ‘That’s right—you enjoy that kind of thing, don’t you?’ He emptied his punch glass. ‘You do a few watercolours, I seem to recall. I’m surprised your father allows it. Well, good for you young ladies to have something to do, isn’t it?’

      Cameo drank more punch. ‘It’s more than just something to do for me.’

      ‘Perhaps when you come to Warley Park you’ll allow me to show you the Old Masters in our gallery. You haven’t forgotten you and your parents are coming to stay at my estate, have you?’

      She had forgotten. She’d forced the engagement from her mind. A dance with Lord Warley was penance. A long visit would be intolerable. Yet there was no chance of talking her parents out of it and she had to be polite. ‘I’m sure it will be most pleasant.’

      ‘Your presence will make it so, Lady Catherine Mary.’

      She didn’t remind him that all her friends and family called her Cameo. She’d never invited him to, yet she gave the pet name to Benedict Cole without thinking.

      Lord Warley smiled. It was his smile that made her uneasy, she reflected. It never reached his eyes. In contrast, Benedict Cole’s eyes had searched her soul.

       Would Benedict Cole ever leave her mind?

      Lord Warley pulled off his gloves, revealing each of his fingers in turn. Without warning, he leant forward and imprisoned her hands. ‘How pleased I am to have this moment alone with you.’

      ‘Lord Warley!’ Desperately she tried to extract her fingers, but his grip was too tight.

      He squeezed them tighter. ‘You must allow me to make my addresses. I’m sure your parents will not object.’

      Cameo wrenched her hands away.

      ‘Your addresses?’ Her stomach sank. His intentions were more serious than she’d feared.

      ‘Indeed.’ Putting his fingers together in a steeple, he said, ‘Our families are well connected. You will recall, of course, that your father was good friends with my own, God rest his soul.’

      The late Lord Warley, the current earl’s father, had died while she was still in the schoolroom, studying under a governess with Maud. He’d been dark-haired like his son. But his eyes had been different—kind, although sad. Cameo remembered that.

      ‘My father thought most highly of yours,’ she vouchsafed. If it wasn’t for the family friendship she wouldn’t be forced to associate so closely with him against all her instincts. It made it all very difficult.

      ‘When I inherited Warley Park—you must know that it’s one of the greatest houses in England—I took on a great responsibility. I shall enjoy showing you the estate on your visit. You will be an ornament to it.’ Once more he glanced towards her bare décolletage.

      Cameo wished yet again for a shawl to cover her upper body. She didn’t want to be an ornament to anything, even Warley Park, that great country estate in Sussex. It was even larger than the one belonging to her family in Derbyshire, which George was to eventually inherit.

      ‘It will be wonderful to see the Old Masters at Warley Hall.’ That was true at least. ‘I’m sure I’ll like them. But you may not find you like me. For a start, I’m most attached to painting.’

      His smile became supercilious. ‘You’ll soon outgrow your childish hobbies.’

      ‘I assure you I’ll never outgrow painting,’ she said through gritted teeth. Why was it that women’s passions were considered so insignificant, as though they could easily be put aside for polite society? Did no one understand the passion that drove her?

      Benedict Cole’s face flashed again into her mind.

      He was a man who understood painting.

      And passion.

      Down deep her stomach rippled.

      ‘You’re young.’ Lord Warley licked his lips. ‘There’s nothing you could be sure about at your age.’

      He had only been a few years ahead of George at school. ‘I might be young, but I do know my own mind.’

      ‘I appreciate spirit in a girl.’

      Before Cameo moved he was on his feet. Looming over her, he pressed her backwards, hard, into the wrought-iron chair, banging her head against the trellis.

      No! He meant to kiss her. She couldn’t bear it. Not with the memory of Benedict’s lips still burned on to hers. In a surge of strength she pushed him away.

      Leaping to her feet, she seized her necklace as if it were a talisman. ‘I’d like to go into the ballroom.’

      ‘Yes, СКАЧАТЬ