opened the window.’ Still scrutinising her, he backed away and pulled a stool into position behind the easel.
‘That’s it.’ He crossed his legs in front of him in an easy, practised manner. ‘Now you must hold still while I do my initial drawings. Can you do that?’
‘Yes.’ Why, from now on she vowed not to move an inch. She’d keep her attention on the reason why she’d come.
Painting lessons.
A chance to see a real artist at work.
A thrill ran through her whole body.
From where she sat with her head towards the interior of the studio she had a perfect view of exactly what Benedict Cole was doing. He wore no paint-splotched cover shirt today, just a loose white shirt with the neck open and a paisley waistcoat carelessly buttoned down to dark brown woollen trousers, his feet clad in well-polished boots.
Taking up a large sheet of paper, he propped it against the easel. Holding a stick of charcoal, he flexed his muscled arm and made strong, bold strokes, glancing back and forth at her all the while. Soon she became transfixed by the way he held her in his sights, put his head down to draw, then came intently up again in a single movement, like a breath. More than once he impatiently pushed back the black lock of hair that fell over his forehead, down towards two lines that creased between his eyebrows as he frowned in concentration.
You think you’re watching me, Mr Benedict Cole, when in fact I’m watching you. She smiled inwardly.
How fast he drew. Perhaps lack of speed was her first mistake with her own work. She was too tentative, too slow. She considered each line before she put it down. He sketched with an assurance she envied, rapidly completing one drawing, putting it aside and just as quickly picking up another piece of paper, skimming across the page with a strong sweep of his arm.
On and on he drew. How long she sat there she wasn’t sure, but surely one hour passed, then another. Her neck locked and ached. She hadn’t realised how difficult it was to hold one position without moving. The muscles of her tight neck wanted to roll, her stiff legs to stretch.
To keep her mind off it she continued her survey of the studio. There were things she hadn’t noticed yesterday. The canvases propped about the room appeared to be in various stages of progress. One seascape looked particularly good, but most of them were faced to the wall, their subjects hidden from her assessment. There were frames and odd pieces of wood, too, stacked to one side. It appeared chaotic at first glance, but she discerned an order beneath the chaos. He seemed to know exactly where to find what he needed with speed and ease. He reached for his tools on a cluttered painting table beside the easel without a sideways glance. There were strange objects on the table, too. A pile of stones, a bird’s feather and some oddly shaped shards of smooth glass.
Peeking to her left without moving her head, she spotted a huge bed with a carved wooden bedhead in the corner of the room. She hadn’t really noticed it yesterday. Why, she’d come not only to Benedict Cole’s studio, but also to his bedroom. Her cheeks felt hot.
He had left the bed unmade, she noted in amazement. The white sheets were rumpled and the pillow dented. The thought of him lying there sent an unexpected thrill through her body. Hastily, she focused on the carved bedhead above, with its intricate patterns of blackberries and leaves engraved into the glowing dark wood.
Next to the bed stood a washstand with a mirror, a thick white-china jug and bowl on its veined marble top, his brush and razor lying carelessly to the side. She pictured him shaving, the sharp blade sliding through the soap along the skin of his strong jaw. He’d use the same smooth strokes as when he drew, she imagined.
Would he be bare-chested? The question popped into her mind, startling her. Why, Lady Catherine Mary, she reproved herself in her old nanny’s voice. What a thing to think. But the intimate image of him shaving persisted, the muscles of his shoulders rippling beneath his olive skin as he leant over the water basin, his face dripping with water as he splashed off the soap.
Unable to hold still, she wriggled on her seat.
Benedict’s voice shot across the room. ‘Don’t move.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I told you that you’d have to hold still for long periods of time,’ he snapped, not raising his head.
‘I will be quite able to if you give me a moment to rest.’ The man was a tyrant. She had no intention of being bullied by him.
He tossed down the charcoal. ‘Yes, of course.’
With relief Cameo stretched her taut body. She knew Benedict Cole kept watching her as he leaned against the edge of the stool.
‘You’ve done well. Not every model can keep up with me.’
‘Thank you.’ Surprised at how much his praise pleased her, she stepped towards the easel.
‘Have you always painted?’
‘I can’t not paint.’
At last. He did understand. ‘I know just what you mean,’ she said impulsively, then bit her tongue. She momentarily forgot he must never suspect she, too, was an artist, or wanted to be. How wonderful it would be to reveal her true self and all her secret longings. But she had to pretend at home and here in the studio, too.
‘Watching you draw, I can see that it’s part of you,’ she said at last. ‘It seemed to come from somewhere within you.’
He studied her closely. Too closely. Had she revealed too much? ‘You’re observant. Yes, when I paint or draw it sometimes feels as if there is another hand guiding me. I’m doing what I’m meant to do. I’m driven to do it. There’s no alternative.’
‘May I see the sketches?’
‘I don’t show most of my models my first drawings. They’re not always flattering.’
‘I’d still like to look at them.’
‘If you insist,’ he said eventually, though she suspected he’d been about to refuse. ‘I started some of them yesterday.’
‘You drew me straight away?’
Collecting the sketch papers from the easel, he made no answer, just passed them to her before leaning back again, his arms crossed.
Cameo held up the first drawing, then the next and the next. They were simple head studies. Yet in each sketch was the mark of a true artist.
‘You—you’ve seen me.’ Her gasp escaped from her lips. ‘I mean, you’ve really, really seen me.’
He uncrossed his arms. ‘When an artist looks at his model he’s not just seeing the exterior. He must discern more.’
The smell of turpentine, soap and another more masculine scent she’d noticed the day before reached her as he moved closer and pointed to the drawings. ‘When I look at you it’s the line of your chin that reveals the determination of your character. But there’s something else. There’s wistfulness in your eyes, as though you’re longing for something.’
Instantly she dropped her lashes. ‘You saw this in my eyes?’
