that keeps you from dancing?’
‘Oh, well...’ Maud fluttered.
‘Are you telling each other secrets?’
Cameo had considered telling Maud all about her visits to Benedict Cole’s studio. How she wanted to pour out to her friend everything that happened. But she didn’t want to put Maud in such a position. It would be unfair, even though she longed to tell her all about it.
‘I don’t think you could keep a secret from me, could you, Maud?’ George asked. ‘How would I get it out of you?’
Maud giggled.
‘Blast.’ George’s teasing expression changed. ‘Look who’s coming towards us. It’s your new beau, Cameo.’ He raised his voice and gave a nod. ‘Good evening, Warley.’
‘St Clair.’ The man who approached them gave a stiff bow in return and then bowed to Cameo. ‘I hoped you might do me the honour of giving me the next dance, Lady Catherine Mary.’
As she bent a reluctant curtsy in reply her skin crawled, as it always did when she came close to Lord Warley. Still, there was no way to refuse the son of her papa’s oldest friend a dance. She loved her father too much for that.
‘I’m sure she’d be delighted,’ George said with a straight face.
The orchestra struck up another Viennese waltz. Cameo tried to avoid instinctively pulling away as Lord Warley pressed her up against him.
His tongue wet his lips. ‘Delightful evening.’
‘Delightful.’ Cameo dodged his feet landing upon her toes in their white-kid slippers, which offered no protection. He made a sharp turn and she stumbled.
‘Watch your step.’
It had been his fault, not hers. She fumed as he spun her again, nearly bumping into the couple next to them. George gave her a grin as he expertly swept Maud past.
From over George’s shoulder, Maud sent her a look of sympathy. They had made a list of dance partners once, ranked from best to worst. Lord Warley with his groping hands was at the bottom of both their lists. George, of course, was at the top of Maud’s.
Oh, Maud had to say yes to her brother’s proposal tonight. Her friend looked so sweet in her ruffled white ball dress trimmed with pink roses, staring up at George’s smiling face.
From under her lashes, Cameo studied her own dance partner. Often she heard Lord Warley called handsome, but for Cameo his sloping chin spoilt his dark good looks. His eyes were brown, his black hair brushed from his forehead. He had similar colouring to Benedict Cole and was almost as tall.
Benedict Cole.
She was imagining him everywhere.
That kiss. All she thought of was that kiss, that explosive, passionate kiss. Her lips tingled at the memory. Surely such a kiss was something real and rare. Why then had the artist rejected her so coldly and dismissed her from the studio as if she were an inconvenience?
Lord Warley trod on her foot again. ‘So sorry.’
The pressure was so hard it seemed as if he had done it on purpose, to gain her attention.
She looked up sharply. There was no clue on his face.
‘You look very well tonight.’ He glanced down at her lacy white dress and her cameo necklace, tied with a blue-velvet ribbon to match her sash.
‘Thank you.’ She fought her sudden urge to pull up the lace of her low décolletage.
They swept past the pillared alcoves, half-curtained with heavy cream brocade and the scrutiny of the grand society ladies who sat behind the curtains. Her mama sat at one of the tables, no doubt being congratulated on the fine pair her daughter and Lord Warley made. Wickedly, Cameo imagined dancing by with Benedict Cole. What would they think if they found out she’d been kissed by the bohemian artist in his studio in Soho? What would they think if they’d seen the way she responded?
The passionate touch of Benedict’s lips seemed on hers again, the vision so powerful she wanted to close her eyes and just sink into those sensations.
Stop it, she instructed herself. Stop it.
The last strains of the waltz finally played out. With relief she escaped Lord Warley’s hold. ‘Thank you.’
‘Would you care for another dance?’
Pretending to consider, she opened her fan and gave it a dismissive flick. ‘How kind. But I think that I might appreciate a rest.’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ he said smoothly. ‘The terrace?’
Cameo fumed with frustration as he once again took her arm and steered her towards the French windows which opened on to the terrace. He’d cornered her. There was no way she could be rude to a friend of the family. Still, fresh air was preferable to having her feet stamped on in another dance.
Outside, the garden sparkled with candles. Cameo sank down on to one of the wrought-iron chairs laid out on the terrace.
Warley leaned over her, so close that she shrank back against the cold iron of the chair. On his breath was the 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.’
