for extra money. Luckily Mrs Cotton, the woman who kindly took me in, if you remember, taught me her excellent skills with the needle. It’s come in most useful.’
‘I had almost forgotten the estimable Mrs Cotton,’ Benedict said in a dry voice. ‘So she taught you needlecraft, how fortunate. I shall have to take up your services.’
‘My...services?’
‘Alas. As I am a bachelor, I find many of my shirts require attention I cannot give them.’
In a few long strides Benedict left his easel and went to a chest of drawers near his bed. It seemed bigger than ever today, with its great carved wooden headboard. All too clearly she pictured him in that bed. Her neck and cheeks flushed hot again.
From a drawer he retrieved a white shirt, similar to the one he wore beneath his dark red waistcoat. He came across the room and passed her the shirt, brushing her skin. At his touch, Cameo gave a jolt he surely couldn’t mistake.
If he, too, felt the current that flared between them he revealed no sign. ‘There’s a seam gone, there. Can you fix it?’
Holding the shirt up to the light of the window, she saw a seam had indeed torn across the shoulder, given way in what must have been a powerful stretch.
As she lifted the shirt closer the powerful masculine scent coming from the garment made her giddy. She suppressed her unexpected primitive urge to bury her face in the linen.
‘Well?’
Her head bent, she examined the rip with what she hoped appeared a professional air. ‘This is quite easy to mend. I’ve repaired similar garments.’
‘Have you indeed? Is that your trade?’
‘My trade?’ She was echoing him once more, unable to string a sentence together.
‘Yes, your trade. You mentioned Mrs Cotton brought you up. But what do you do now to earn your keep?’
‘Oh. My keep.’ For a moment her mind went as empty as a blank canvas. ‘Well, I, well, I’m a...governess.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘Oh, well, what I mean is, I’m usually a governess, but the family, the children, they’re away at the moment. In the country. Derbyshire. Yes, Derbyshire,’ she babbled. ‘That’s why I can come here and model for you.’
His expression remained dubious.
Cameo coughed. ‘And while they’re away I take in sewing, too. For extra money. I can certainly fix this. Would you like me to do it now?’
‘No, I’m not expecting you to mend it instantly,’ he said, with an impression of amusement. Relief flooded her. If he insisted, he would soon witness her poor performance at plain sewing. Her fancy embroidery stitches would look most out of place on his shirt.
‘Perhaps you can add it to your mending basket in your lonely nursery, with your young charges away. But I must ask you to promise not to do any more sewing too late into the night. If I’m to complete this painting I must have you fresh-faced.’
As if pulling on her cloak, she assumed the meek manner of Miss Ashe. ‘I’m sorry.’
His sharp glance made her realise he suspected her meekness as much as her mending.
Benedict returned to his easel. Yet another story she’d told him. Part of her was pleased she’d come up with something so quickly; part of her felt sick at having to tell more lies. It was beginning to be hard to keep track of them all. She’d told her mama she was taking extra riding lessons. That explained her absence at home. But all the lies troubled her.
It soothed her mind to watch Benedict at work. He’d moved on from drawing to painting now, using a fine brush tipped with black paint. He painted more slowly than he sketched, more deliberately. His strong fist clasping the paintbrush moved powerfully yet lightly across the canvas. His hands... She recalled the firm yet gentle way Benedict had held her, when his lips had met hers, so different from Lord Warley’s attempted grab at Lady Russell’s ball. The way he’d trapped her...nausea rose in her stomach. If only their fathers hadn’t been such good friends.
Benedict’s irate voice shot across the room. ‘Now you’re making a face. Your mouth is all puckered up as if you’ve tasted a lemon.’
Cameo tried to resume her previous expression and put the interlude at the ball from her mind.
‘You don’t need to pose any more just now, Miss Ashe.’ He sent her a fleeting but intense glance. ‘Sit down by the fire for a moment.’
‘Don’t you need me?’
Reaching for his brush, he dipped it into the black paint pooled on the palette. ‘I just want to get this right.’
Eager to watch his technique from another angle, she crossed the room and hovered behind him.
‘I can’t paint with you at my elbow,’ he snapped without turning his head.
The man was infuriating. Cameo sat down with a thump on the armchair by the fire and cast her eyes around. A book lay on the table among all the papers. The red leather binding appeared new. The Stones of Venice, its gilt lettering spelt out, by John Ruskin. She knew the author’s name, of course, for Ruskin was the famous champion of the Pre-Raphaelite movement who was able to make or break a painter’s reputation with a single review. She flicked the book open and found herself immediately held by the magnificent illustrations. She began to read.
‘I didn’t realise you were a reader, Miss Ashe.’ Like a prowling cat, Benedict had silently moved beside her. ‘But as you are a governess, I suppose it makes sense.’
At his sardonic drawl Cameo glanced up from the pages. She wasn’t sure how long she had been reading as he continued to paint, a companionable silence seeming to settle over them both. ‘It’s a wonderful book.’
He studied her for a moment before he reached across and retrieved it. ‘It’s the first volume.’ He flicked it open with his thumb. ‘It’s only just been published last year. It’s a masterpiece, as is Venice itself.’
‘You’ve been to Venice?’ She was relieved he’d dropped the topic of her role as a governess.
‘You sound surprised.’
‘It’s just the expense.’
‘How can an impoverished artist living in a garret afford it, is that what you mean?’ Benedict’s voice remained light, but his face shuttered closed. ‘I received an inheritance of a sort.’
She didn’t press him on where such an inheritance might have come from. A look of pain, quickly hidden, caused by her innocent query halted any such enquiries.
‘It wasn’t a Grand Tour as such.’ His mouth twisted. ‘But all artists must see the works by the Renaissance Masters, such as Titian, Bellini and Giorgione, who are among the greatest of the Venetian school. It’s an essential part of our training.’
‘My bro—’ She had opened her mouth to tell him her brother, George, had indeed travelled on a mandatory Grand
