ColorMeBad (3 page)

John Rushmore glanced from the painting to the woman and
back. The blanket she was clutching around her was only a shade away from the
impossible green of the tunic in that painting of her as a girl. He’d stared at
that portrait for years now, wondering how on earth the artist had gotten that
shade of green to stay so vivid when every other artist’s colors went black and
dark with age. Hecuba green it was called, and decades later it was still as
rich and lustrous as the day C. F. Jones had first raised a hand and put brush
to canvas.

And Miss Jones had been there to see it happen.

John was hit by a wave of envy so strong that he had to
clench his teeth against the force of it. “Tell me about her,” he said, greedy
for anything he could learn about the artist he’d idolized for so long. The
fact that C. F. Jones was a woman did nothing to change the fact that she was
also a genius.

The artist’s daughter looked at him in surprise then
shrugged and took a seat on a nearby ottoman. In the firelight she appeared
mysterious and otherworldly, a Delphic oracle or Pythian priestess come forth
to utter strange truths. He waited like a proper supplicant until she began to
speak. “Her name was Cynthia. Her aunt had paid a tutor to teach her
watercolors, like any genteel debutante, but my mother convinced him to teach
her oils as well. She loved painting people but my grandparents considered
female painters shocking and scandalous—they would have cut her off if she
painted from life, as other female painters have. Her landscapes became rather
fashionable at one point and sometimes she had to ask my father to act as a
go-between with galleries and would-be patrons. They made a game of it, but you
could see it hurt her that she couldn’t claim her work openly without risking
scandal and penury.”

The ghost of the little girl she’d been passed briefly over
her face. John heard an echo of his brother’s laughing voice.
At least it
wasn’t one of your landscapes.
“I know something about how she must have
felt,” he said quietly.

She met his eyes then and smiled, her expression warm and
open. John took a quick gulp from his glass—the whisky was a less dangerous
intoxicant than a smile from Hecuba Jones. He watched a raindrop slide from her
hair to her neck, the droplet gleaming like a gem in the firelight. The memory
of their kiss slipped through him and left echoes behind like ripples of wind
on the surface of a formerly still and untroubled lake. The green blanket had
slipped off one shoulder to show the curve of her upper arm and the ivory strap
of her chemise. His fingers itched to slide beneath it, to pull it down her
arm, to slide both chemise and blanket down and bare the breasts he’d felt
against him when he’d waltzed with her in a gallery surrounded by the paintings
of other men…

Whereas now she sat in a room surrounded by her mother’s
most intimate portraits—and they belonged to someone else.

John lurched to his feet and pulled
Henry VIII
from
the wall. He walked to the desk, rummaged in a drawer for a knife and sliced
the canvas from the frame, just as she’d done the other night. His cravat, once
untied, was just long enough to knot around the rolled-up canvas to keep the
painting inside safe and hidden from sight.

Then—because he was an artist and couldn’t resist a bit of a
flourish—he walked back across the study, went to one knee on the floor and
with both hands outstretched presented Miss Jones with her own portrait as
though it were a victor’s trophy.

She took it with one hand, the other holding the blanket
closed at her neck. For one brief, blinding second he could see this moment as
he would paint it—the shadows of drapery, the warmth of fire on her skin and
the halo of light around her brilliant hair. It was all he could do not to drag
her up to the north attic where he’d begun a new and secret set of paintings.
No one knew about those canvases—not his brother or sister or any of his
society friends. They’d so dismissed his earlier work that he couldn’t bear to
tell them he’d taken it up again, especially when he was still fighting his way
through the darkness. Painting had become a slow and painful process, not at
all like the brash fire he’d felt when younger, and he was starting to worry
that neglect had burned out whatever talent he’d had, like a candle left alone
too long in an empty room.

But now he felt all the old urgency return. The vision in
his head was clawing its way out through his flesh and every moment spent
not
painting was a moment wasted. He forgot every mocking thing his brother had
said, every worry he’d nursed about failure, every ambition he still cherished
despite the obstacles. He forgot that he was still down on one knee before a
strange woman who’d stolen secretly into the house in the dead of night. The
only thing that mattered was this moment. He stared openly, committing to
memory each fold of cloth, the angles of her face in firelight, the way her
still-damp hair curled close against the luster of her skin, the shadows that
threatened her on every side. All of it soaked into him like water in the
desert and still it was not enough.

And then, slowly, Miss Jones bent down and pressed her mouth
to his.

The kiss blazed through him, soft though it was, and all
thoughts of painting fled at the rush of pure physical need. John raised one
hand to touch her cheek, to thread his fingers through that lustrous hair…

And his hand bumped the roll of canvas she still held.

The spell was broken and the kiss followed suit. John sat
back on his heels while Miss Jones blinked down at him in surprise and, he
could see, dismay. But this felt too important to get wrong and he was getting
it wrong.

John surged to his feet and took a few hasty steps back. Her
lips were still slightly parted and when she licked them the action was enough
nearly to drive him back to his knees. But instead he dredged up all the dusty
moral rectitude he had left and said, “I propose a bargain.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What kind of bargain?” she asked. He
couldn’t blame her for being wary. This was all highly improper and she had no
reason to trust him. John only hoped that because he’d kept her secret for
nearly a day, she’d be willing to grant him a hearing.

The idea was only half sketched in his mind and he hurried
to put words around it. “I’ll trade your mother’s paintings for the opportunity
to paint her daughter’s portrait. Your portrait.”

Miss Jones widened her eyes but considered it. “All four of
Mother’s for one painting of yours?” she asked.

John took a risk. “A one-to-one exchange. Your mother’s
paintings for four of mine.” He waited on tenterhooks while she considered his
offer. He could easily paint a dozen portraits of this woman—a hundred—but that
would be highway robbery, thoroughly unscrupulous of him to demand. Besides,
she’d never agree to so steep a price.

“A few more trifling questions,” she said. John braced
himself at the steel in her tone. “Are these for public display or your
personal collection? How long will sittings take? Where are they to occur? What
kind of garments will I be wearing? Because, Mr. Rushmore, I have no intention
of posing in the nude.”

She hadn’t rejected him entirely. He took heart from that
and answered her as best he could. “The portraits will remain secret. I don’t
know precisely how long each painting will take, but probably no more than one
night each—I can always fill in the details on my own. We’ll be working in the
north attic, where I’ve set up a studio with plenty of light during the day and
plenty of mirrors for reflecting candlelight during evening sessions as well. I
assume that late nights and clandestine hours would suit you more than mornings
or afternoons?” She nodded and he went on. “I have painted nudes in the
past—what artist hasn’t?—but that’s not what I want from you.”

She tilted her head to one side, considering. “What
precisely
do
you want from me?” she asked.

He looked at her again, sitting proud and tall in the
firelight. “I want the spark,” he said bluntly. She remained silent and he felt
emboldened to explain further. “Every gesture you make, every unconscious pose
you strike, makes me think of a painting. Everything—your voice, your hands,
your hair, the way you stand, the way you frown. I’ve never felt this…this
lit
up
before and I’m unwilling to dismiss it or try to ignore it and hope it
goes away. I don’t want it to go away, though it’s not precisely comfortable. I
need to capture just a little bit of that on canvas, because if I don’t at
least try I will regret it for the rest of my life.”

“It’s not just because I’m my mother’s daughter?” she asked.

“It’s because you’re
you
,” said John. “I think your
mother was a skilled enough painter to recognize a muse when she saw one.”

For a long while Miss Jones was silent, merely watching him,
clearly trying to gauge the level of his sincerity and her own willingness to
go along with what appeared to be the project of a desperate, lonely lunatic.
He felt strangely exposed, as though every word had stripped a garment from him
and now he stood naked before her. He clenched his hands at his sides to keep
his arms from folding defensively across his chest.

Then Miss Hecuba Jones nodded again with an air of finality.
“Your bargain is a fair one, I think,” she said. “We are agreed.”

She set the rolled painting aside and put out her hand to
seal the compact.

It was so formal, so businesslike a gesture that John almost
laughed. Instead he held out his hand and shook hers.

He didn’t want to let go.

He
should
let go. Even though she had agreed to sit
for him, she still didn’t trust him completely. But her palm was warm and
slightly calloused and he was already imagining how it would feel on his bare
skin. Desire blazed up again and threatened to burn away what scraps of
conscience still remained to him.

John stared down at her, caught between letting her go and
letting
himself
go, until her hand tugged impatiently in his. He dropped
it at once and retreated until the desk bumped into the back of his upper
thighs. He was breathing deeply, as though he’d thought to climb a mountain
unprepared and been forced back by the chilly thinness of the air around the
peak.

By God, if he could get through a single portrait of Hecuba
Jones without throwing himself at her feet and begging her for mercy it would
be a miracle.

She brushed her hand idly along the soft nap of the blanket
on her knee. He wondered whether she was enjoying the softness against her skin
or whether it was a nervous habit she had. “There is something I want to tell
you, Mr. Rushmore,” she said. “Since we have already ventured somewhat beyond
the pale.”

His brain refused to work. He nodded dumbly.

Her gaze met his again. “I am concerned about my
reputation,” she confessed, “but not about the actual fact of my virtue.”
John’s breath left him in a rush of surprise. She pressed on. “I have put aside
the idea of marriage, quite decisively. I have other plans for my future.
Nevertheless there is something appealing in the notion of a discreetly enjoyed
affair. So…without going so far as to yield entirely, I must admit that I am somewhat
susceptible to your attentions. Improper though they may be.”

She was going to kill him, really she was. “I am quite glad
to hear that, Miss Jones.” If she looked below his waist, she would see
precisely
how
glad.

She took a deep breath, the blanket rising and falling. “You
mentioned wanting to capture a spark, Mr. Rushmore. For the past two days I’ve
been fighting a spark of a different sort.” She reached for her whisky, drained
the glass and set it aside. “I’m speaking of attraction, of course. Physical
desire.” He couldn’t look away from her face, which was as serene and composed
as if she had this sort of conversation every day. Fire flickered over her lips
as they shaped her next words. “This impulse is getting increasingly difficult
to ignore, Mr. Rushmore, so I’ll ask you quite frankly—what do you plan to do
about it?”

John did laugh at that. It was the only thing he could do.
“I’d planned to do nothing, Miss Jones,” he said, “but it seems I keep losing
control and kissing you. For the past few minutes I have been struggling to
remember that I am a gentleman.” It was shocking to be speaking these words.
Flirtations were supposed to be couched in delicate euphemisms, sideways
language and subtle allusions. One was never supposed to simply
admit
one
was attracted. It was appalling—and more than a little thrilling, as John
acknowledged to himself. “But your confession does place this…susceptibility in
a new light. So I would ask in return—what should you like me to do about it?”

“Well,” she murmured. She smiled at him again and this time
her smile was sly. “If it’s up to me…”

Miss Jones rose to her feet and dropped the blanket.

Green wool puddled at her feet. John very nearly did the
same. Her chemise and drawers were of fine lawn, and the firelight behind her
showed him the curves of her figure beneath them.

So much for moral rectitude.

In three steps he was across the room and his mouth claimed
hers. Her lips parted and her tongue slid boldly against his, but through the
haze of arousal he forced himself to go more slowly than his body demanded. She
was still a maiden, after all—a clever, larcenous and frankly sensual one, but
a maiden nonetheless.

If he died from this kiss, it would be worth it.

She tasted like whisky warmed by firelight, but when John
trailed one hand along her cheek and into the hair at her temple, his fingers
grew damp and cool with rainwater. She shivered a little as droplets fell on
her shoulder. He couldn’t resist the urge to trace his mouth over the skin
where those raindrops landed. She shivered again and pulled his mouth back to
hers, her own fingers clutching the front of his shirt and sliding into the
neck where his absent cravat left him open for exploration. His whole body was
hard and ready and trembling from the effort of holding back, so when she
scraped one gentle fingernail over the sensitive skin of his chest he gasped in
shock and knew he was about to lose the battle against his own desire.