River Of Fire (11 page)
From his voice, Rebecca knew he had been both of those men at different times in his career. As a youth he had found the courage, as an experienced officer his luck had held, and the forge of battle had tempered him into what he was now. He was utterly different from anyone she had ever known, and that difference fascinated her. She wanted to lean back against him, to absorb his warrior power and determination.
Mouth dry, she pulled out the second drawing. "The second picture is the defense of the Chateau de Hougoumont." The fight for the chateau had become a vicious battle-within-a-battle, with a small number of allied troops withstanding two and a half French divisions. Her father had chosen the moment when the French had broken into the courtyard and the defenders were fighting savagely to push them out before it was too late. "He wanted a scene of furious hand-to-hand combat."
"Soldiers at their most primal. it's a fitting companion to the grandeur of the cavalry picture."
She nodded, impressed. Not only was he a warrior, but he was very perceptive about paintings.
Her father looked over from the
Wellington
picture. "Do you think this series will tell the story of
Waterloo
?"
To Rebecca's relief, the captain moved away from her.
"It says as much as four pictures can," he replied.
"I hear a reservation in your voice," Sir Anthony said shrewdly. "I've done the beginning, the end, the infantry, and the cavalry. What other scenes do you think should be included?"
"If I were you," Wilding said hesitantly, "
I
would do two more. The next would be
Wellington
shaking hands with Prince Blucher when the British met up with the Prussians near La Belle-Alliance. The
Waterloo
campaign is the story of many nations standing against a common enemy. If the Prussians hadn't arrived late in the day, the victory would not have been decisive."
"Mmm, an interesting possibility," Sir Anthony mused. "And what would be as the final painting?"
"Show the price of victory," the captain said flatly. "Show exhausted, wounded soldiers sleeping like the dead around a campfire. In the darkness beyond them, show the tangled corpses and broken weapons. Show how all the victims of battle lie together in the democracy of death."
There was a long silence before Rebecca said softly, "You have a vivid way with words, Captain."
"And a good mind for pictures," her father added. "I shall consider what you have suggested. Indeed I shall."
In the pause that followed, a surge of desire swept through Rebecca, the most powerful emotion she had felt in months. She must possess Captain Wilding, capture his essence so that something of him would always belong to her.
Beyond caring for propriety, she crossed the room and touched his cheek, her fingertips skimming along the scar. It was smooth and hard to her touch. "I surrender, Captain," she said huskily. "I'm afraid that I simply must paint you."
"Rebecca's words and light, sensual touch startled Kenneth so much that all he could manage was a feeble, "I beg your pardon?"
"I've been yearning to have you for a model since you came here." She moved back a step. "You're quite irresistible."
The words would have sounded suggestive coming from most women. Rebecca Seaton, however, looked more like a frugal housewife eyeing a chicken and deciding it would do nicely for Sunday dinner. Dryly he said, "Should I be honored or alarmed?"
"Oh, certainly alarmed." She glanced at her father. "Do you mind if I borrow Captain Wilding for an hour or two a day?"
Sir Anthony smiled. "I understand perfectly—in fact, I'm tempted to repaint the sergeant in my prebattle scene to look like Kenneth." His keen gaze went to his secretary. "They say a soldier's eyes show how much combat he has seen. Everything I wanted to say about that sergeant is in Kenneth's face. But you can have him first, if he's willing."
Rebecca asked, "Are you willing, Captain?"
Kenneth shifted uncomfortably under the twin scrutiny of fattier and daughter. These damned artists saw too much. However, he'd wanted more time with Rebecca and this opportunity was too good to pass up. "Your wish is my command, Miss Seaton."
"Then come along to my workroom."
"Give me a few minutes." He indicated the disordered studio. "First I must detail a maid to clean up before the spilled paint ruins the carpet and furniture."
"Make sure whoever you send works quietly," Sir Anthony ordered. He got a tablet and pencil, then sat and began to sketch with swift, sure strokes.
Kenneth opened the door for Rebecca. As she passed, he noticed that her knot of hair was starting to come unmoored from its pins. The silky auburn strands didn't take kindly to discipline. The tousled result made her look as if she had just emerged from a bed.
For the hundredth time since entering Seaton House, he reminded himself to concentrate on business. He checked on the servants to see what had transpired while he was out and sent Betsy, the most careful maid, to Sir Anthony's studio. Then he went up to Rebecca's sanctum sanctorum.
He knocked and entered when she called permission, looking around with interest. Where Sir Anthony's studio had the elegance of a drawing room, Rebecca's lair had whitewashed walls, slanted ceilings, and the casual comfort of a farmhouse kitchen. The windows that faced the street were the usual size, but large, open windows across the back wall of the house admitted a soft, even north light. An artist's light.
And everywhere, there were paintings. Some were hung, others were unframed canvases tilted against the walls. The lavishness of image and color stunned him.
Rebecca was curled up in a large chair, a sketchbook in her lap and a pencil in her hand. She waved at the sofa opposite. "Make yourself comfortable, Captain. Today I'll just do a few studies. I need to decide how best to portray you."
"If we're going to be in each other's pockets every day, you really should call me Kenneth," he said as he took his seat.
She gave him a swift smile. "Then you must call me Rebecca." The hazel of her eyes was flecked with green, giving her penetrating gaze a feline quality.
"I've never modeled before. What should I do?"
"For now, just relax and try not to move your head."
As her deft fingers sketched, his gaze went to the paintings within his field of vision. Her style had some of her father's classical precision, but with a softer, more emotional quality. Many pictures portrayed women as famous figures from history and legend. Without moving his head, he could see half a dozen paintings that equaled the splendid Boadicea hanging downstairs. "Have you ever exhibited at the
"Never," she said without looking up.
"You really should submit your work." His gaze went to a powerful Judith and Holofernes. "Show them what a woman can do."
"I feel no need to prove that," she said coolly.
Silence reigned for a time, broken only by the faint scratch of her pencil. After admiring the paintings within view, Kenneth's attention went to Rebecca. Her wrists were delicate, almost fragile, yet there was strength in her long, supple fingers. She was twisted sideways in her chair, which hitched her muslin gown several inches above her ankles. They were as slender and shapely as her wrists.
Though Rebecca lacked Maria's voluptuousness, she was every bit as sensually alluring. Whenever she bent her head over her sketchbook, he got a tantalizing glimpse of her nape. The pale skin seemed almost translucent next to her richly colored tresses. He wondered what she would do if he kissed her there. Probably tell him to sit down so she could finish her sketches.
The room seemed warmer than could be accounted for by the small coal fire. Shifting his gaze away from her didn't help; he was as conscious of her body as if she were nestled in his lap. Under the scents of linseed oil and coal smoke, he detected a light floral fragrance. Rosewater, he thought. Elusive, feminine. Not unlike the lady herself.
What would she look like wearing nothing but rose-water and a shimmering veil of auburn hair? His heart-beat quickened and perspiration began to film his forehead.
Damnation! He was unused to idleness; no wonder his imagination was spinning erotic fantasies. It didn't help that it had been months since he had lain with a woman. He had found the lightskirts of
Paris
much like French pastries: sweetly enjoyable and quickly forgotten. Rebecca Seaton would be a very different dish.
Knowing he must distract himself before he started to smolder, he commented, "Sir Anthony in a rage is an alarming sight. I don't blame you for being frightened."
"I wasn't afraid," she said with mild surprise. "Father would never hurt anyone. I just don't like shouts and flying objects."
Her faith in her father was rather touching, but Sir Anthony's outburst had convinced Kenneth that the painter was capable of doing grievous harm. Had Helen Seaton challenged her husband about his mistress and become a victim of the kind of fury displayed today? What kind of woman had Helen been?
Now seemed a good time to learn more. He asked, "How did your mother like being surrounded by mad artists?"
"She loved it." Without looking up, Rebecca tore off a page of her sketchbook and set it aside, then resumed drawing on the sheet below. "Friends called her the queen of the
London
art world. Every poor artist in the city knew she could be relied upon to lend a few pounds to keep starvation at bay."
"Did they ever pay her back?"
"Occasionally." Rebecca smiled reminiscently. "Some painters repaid her with specimens of their work. Usually bad ones, since first-rate artists are less likely to need loans."
"That explains the dreadful landscapes in my room. She must have been trying to hide them."
"Very likely," Rebecca agreed. "If they offend you, something better can be found. Heaven knows there are plenty of paintings in this house."
"Could you lend one of yours?" He scanned the ones he could see. "Perhaps that marvelous picture opposite me. Diana the Huntress, I think." The goddess was standing quietly, her hand on a bow as tall as she, and a pensive expression on her face. It reminded him a little of Rebecca.
