that’s good, guvnor. Real good.”
The trellised latticework wall bowed inward with each punctuated sigh coming from the woman.
“—questions,” Mr. Rodin finished as he glanced at the heaving wall. He removed his hat and suppressed a grin.
“Perhaps we should leave?” I whispered, as the sounds of the couple’s passion escalated. I’d never heard such noises before. A warm, damp feeling formed at the juncture of my thighs. My palms, too, were moist—indeed, my whole body seemed to come alive listening to their lusty cries.
“Are you quite sure? Just when things are getting interesting?” Mr. Rodin smiled openly.
“I think before they get too much more interesting.” I stood, finding the backs of my knees weak.
“Very well, I could use a good walk myself.”
He offered his arm and we continued to the other end of the breezeway. As we reached the open lawn beyond, I took a deep breath of fresh air. I felt as if all the blood had drained to my toes.
“Are you all right, Miss Bridgeton?” Mr. Rodin patted my hand, still tucked through his arm.
“Yes, I’m—”
A man’s loud groan wafted on the breeze along with the music behind us. Few others were in the area as, by now, most people had taken to the dance floor.
I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m well, thank you. Um…might we resume our conversation? I believe you were about to answer my question regarding other models.” He cast me a side look.
“Of course. Models…Normally, our artists do not employ more than one model at a time. Once a theme is chosen, the artist begins to look for the face that will complete his vision.”
Mr. Rodin eased my arm from his and I felt awkward once more. We strolled together to the pond and watched silently as two swans swam by, gliding effortlessly side by side. I thought about the story of the ugly duckling that my sisters and I were told when we were young, of how the strange little duckling was turned into a beautiful swan. I felt such a complexity of emotions. In the wake of overhearing the couples’ tryst, I was more aware than before of my attraction to Mr. Rodin.
“Perhaps you’d like to see some of my brother’s work?” he asked, his eyes on the birds. “It might help convince you that my intentions are honorable.”
“Oh, Mr. Rodin,” I said, not wanting him to think me immature or indecisive. “I do believe you are being truthful. Please understand that I am interested—very interested. It’s only that my family is not entirely agreeable to the idea of my modeling for an artist—any artist.”
“I could speak with them, if you like,” he offered.
I held up my hand. “Oh, no, that would not go over well, I’m afraid. My family’s opinion of artists is much worse than even Madame Tozier’s.”
He frowned. “That is a problem.”
He looked away and I feared he was about to end our association. “However, perhaps I could meet you at the gallery sometime and you could show me your brother’s work?”
He glanced down, a smile lighting up his face. “Splendid. Yes, that would be most enjoyable.”
I breathed a quiet sigh. “Wonderful,” I replied, offering him a smile in return.
“Can you meet me on Saturday, then?” he asked, removing his hat. A slight breeze lifted an errant lock of hair, blowing it across his forehead. My fingers twitched to brush it from his eyes.
“Oh? So soon?” I fretted over whether I could quickly devise an adequate excuse to get out of my Saturday chores. “I—I’m not sure I can make arrangements on such short notice.”
“Your family?” he asked.
I nodded. He faced me then, and rested his hands on my shoulders. “I cannot deceive you into thinking that the members of the brotherhood are saints. We are flesh and blood, young and sometimes reckless, and we have the same drives as all men.”
He searched my face for a moment. “Please go on, Mr. Rodin.” I was grateful he held me upright, as my knees threatened to buckle.
“But our passion does not make us unsavory characters to fear. It is embracing that passion that gives the world its beauty. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“And do you fear me, Miss Bridgeton?
I considered his question. “No, Mr. Rodin. I hardly know you, but in truth, I am far more afraid of how to explain my absence at dinner tonight to my family when I get home.”
“Meet with me on Saturday. We can visit the Royal Academy gallery and you can judge for yourself whether you think my brother is worthy of your consideration. Afterward, if you are curious to know more, maybe you’d like to see his studio. I would be most happy to oblige the visit on Thomas’s behalf. I think you will find the studio a welcome venue of artistic expression.”
“I am rather a bit of an artist myself in that I write poetry,” I admitted, precariously considering his offer.
“I knew it.” He grinned. “Then I shall see you on Saturday?”
I swallowed, my confidence wavering. “I don’t know, Mr. Rodin.”
“Come. Let me get you a lemonade while you think on it.”
He offered his arm and, for that, I would gladly think on any subject at great length, but I knew that it was getting late and my family would begin to wonder of my whereabouts.
We walked back to the main path near the dance floor where the crowd was thickening as the shops closed for the day and the city dwellers looked for respite from the heat.
I waited as Mr. Rodin approached a vendor, studying from behind how well he carried himself. As he waited in the line of thirsty patrons, a buxom woman with thick blond hair wound haphazardly atop her head touched his shoulder. He whirled in surprise and caught the woman in a great bear hug. They spoke for a moment, and she left. He paid for our drinks and headed back, offering me a broad grin as he handed me the glass. The drink was ice-cold and soothed my parched throat.
“Thank you,” I said, and glanced at the woman now engaged in speaking to another man.
“Someone you know?” I asked lightly, sipping my drink.
“Jealous?” William teased.
“Oh, no, I…of course not.”
He smiled and sat down beside me. “Please, Miss Bridgeton. Forgive my teasing, I meant no harm.” He glanced at the woman and took a long gulp of his lemonade. He made a face as he smiled at me. “And they claim whiskey burns going down.” He smacked his lips and blinked. “The woman’s name is Grace Farmer. She is an old friend, who occasionally models for the brotherhood. An excellent cook and a fine woman, though gravely misunderstood, I fear.”
“Why is that, and by whom?”
“By
