the window on legs that were also unsteady.
‘Take off your coat and your bonnet.’ His impatience was barely concealed. ‘I need to see your face.’
With effort she bit down the sprightly retort that sprang to her lips. Removing her pearl-tipped hat pin, she dropped her bonnet along with her grey woollen coat on to a faded brocade chaise longue pushed up under the window.
He gave a sharp intake of breath.
‘Is this what you...?’
‘Be quiet,’ he snapped. ‘I need to look at you, not listen to you.’
He must be the most insufferable man she had ever met. No one had ever spoken to her in such a way. Cameo fumed as he stared at her with increasing intensity.
‘Take down your hair.’
Her gloved hands flew protectively to her head.
He responded with an impatient shake of his own. ‘How can I see you as you should be when your hair is in that, how can I put it...’ He gave a dismissive wave. ‘Overdone style? I must see it loose. The painting will require it.’
An overdone style. Her mama’s French maid had done it in the latest fashion, with ringlets down both sides, that morning.
‘What’s the matter now? Did you come here as a model or not?’
His words renewed her purpose. One by one, she took the pins from her hair and dropped them on to the chaise longue, sensing Benedict Cole behind her watching each move. She slipped out the last hairpin. Curls whispered at her neck as strands of long, black curls loosened from their ringlets and loops, tumbling about her shoulders, foaming down her back.
Twirling towards him she met his dark eyes. She couldn’t break his gaze even if she wanted to.
At last he spoke. His voice had become husky. ‘This is extraordinary. I’ve been thinking of a painting for many months now. I imagined a woman with hair and eyes in exactly your colour. I began to think I may never find her and that perhaps I imagined such shades. You’re precisely the model I’m looking for.’
Cameo clasped her fingers together as a thrill raced through her. ‘You want me in your painting? Me?’
As if she were no longer in the room, he turned away. She heard him mutter to himself, ‘Yes, I can do it.’
‘Do what?’
He spun around with a scowl. ‘You must keep silent if you model for me.’
‘I will keep silent when I’m modelling, but I’m not modelling now.’ She reached to pick up her bonnet. ‘Nor do I wish to do so if you’re going to be quite so rude.’
‘Wait.’ He made an apologetic gesture and sent her an unexpected smile. ‘You’ll have to forgive the moods of an artist. I’m not one for social niceties when I’m painting. You need to understand that.’
‘I do understand that,’ Cameo retorted. ‘But you have to understand. If I am to be your model, I will require them.’
‘You require social niceties?’ He studied her for a long moment with an expression impossible to fathom. He moved over to the fireplace and indicated a chair. ‘Come and sit down. There are a few questions I need to ask you.’
Cameo’s stomach lurched. She’d almost given herself away. Her temper mustn’t get the better of her.
This was her only chance.
Trying to appear subdued, she followed Benedict Cole to the fireplace. Papers and books lay on each available surface, even on the armchair.
‘Just move those,’ he said irritably.
She placed the pile of books on a gateleg table and sat. Horsehair poked out in tufts on the arms of the chair and, judging by the hard feel of it beneath her, there wasn’t much left in the seat either.
With one hand, he dragged a straight wooden chair opposite her after dropping more papers on the floor with an easy, casual gesture. No wonder his studio was so untidy. It was unimportant to him. His surroundings took second place to his work, while she spent most of her painting time spreading sheets and tidying away.
His face was half-shadowed and he didn’t speak for a long moment. Unnerving enough when he stood staring at her, now he was seated, his closeness became even more alarming.
Cameo’s heartbeat quickened.
‘So you want to be an artist’s model?’
‘Ah, yes.’
He gave her another of his long-considering examinations. ‘Forgive me. You’re different from the other girls I’ve seen who want to be models.’
He suspected her already, she realised with dismay. ‘Different? In what way?’
‘Your voice suggests you’ve been raised a lady,’ he said bluntly. ‘As does your request for social niceties. As do your clothes.’
‘I wore my best to see you.’ With trembling fingers she smoothed her foulard skirt, a mix of silk and cotton. Did she dare try to put on an accent? No. She’d never make it work and it seemed horrid, too. ‘This is my finest gown.’
His dark eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me, why is it you’re seeking employment?’
‘I have little choice in seeking employment.’ She put her hand to her forehead. ‘I’ve fallen on hard times.’
‘Have you indeed?’
‘Yes. I’m alone in the world and I have few options for an income.’
Crossing one long trousered leg over the other, he leaned back. ‘Tell me more about yourself. First, what’s your name?’
There was no way she could supply her real name. She cast a quick look down at her dress. The colour? Too obvious. ‘My name is Ashe. Miss Ashe. With an e.’
‘With an e,’ he drawled. ‘And your first name, if I may enquire?’
Surely it was safe enough to use her nickname. ‘It’s Cameo.’
His head reared. ‘Cameo? I’ve never heard of a girl named Cameo before.’
‘I was a foundling.’ She pointed to her necklace. ‘I was found with this necklace, so I was called Cameo.’
His intent gaze fell to the neck of her dress, where the stone nestled. He seemed to take in more than her necklace. ‘It’s a fine piece.’
Her cheeks burned. ‘Yes. It is very fine.’
‘You say you were found with it. Your mother must have been a person of quality.’
‘My mother may have been of quality. She may have been a lady.’ Cameo found she was quite enjoying making up a new life story, her indignation driving her imagination. ‘Though perhaps my father was a gentleman,
