The Portrait (8 page)

This time she did as he ordered. This time she picked up her skirts and ran, a blur of pink and white. He heard the door open and slam closed again, heard her steps on the warped boards of the hall, the creaking stairs.

It wasn't until she'd been gone a full five minutes that his rage left him. Without it, he felt sick and hollow.

"I want to know what it's like to be you."

Christ.

Chapter 7

H
e had you paint what?" Katherine Gosney stopped in surprise, creamed peas dripped

from the fork suspended in her hand. "A nude? Oh, good Lord. . . ."

"It's what artists do, love," Thomas interjected quietly.

"Artists yes, but not unmarried young women." Katherine's fine patrician features tightened in distaste. "Dear, shouldn't you have protested? It's so indecent."

Thomas spoke before Imogene could answer. "Whitaker's done more indecent things than that," he said calmly. "Remember last spring, when—"

"Really, Thomas." Katherine threw a glance at Imogene. "That's hardly appropriate dinner conversation."

"Oh, for God's sake. Imogene's a grown woman."

"Her mother would swoon if she knew what you were letting Whitaker teach her."

"I don't have any control over what Whitaker teaches her." Thomas took a sip of wine. "You know I warned Samuel."

"I'm sure he didn't really understand."

Imogene stared down at her plate, letting the conversation pass over her. She was on the outskirts again, letting others discuss her as if she weren't in the room, and after today it felt unfamiliar and strange. After the morning she'd spent with Jonas Whitaker, she didn't feel herself at all. She felt as if she were on the verge of . . . something. Some new and stunning discovery.

"It's all right," she said. "It doesn't matter, really."

Her words brought sudden silence.

Thomas looked startled, as if he'd truly forgotten she was there, and then an embarrassed flush spread over his face.

Katherine's shoulders slumped beneath the violet moire silk of her gown. She sighed, her features softened with real affection. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to exclude you. I'm afraid I was a bit overzealous. It's just that drawing nudes is hardly an appropriate pastime for a young woman."

"A young woman studying to be an artist," Thomas reminded his wife quietly. "Imogene can't waste her talent painting flowers and sunsets. She needs to learn classic forms. Do you know of any artist who hasn't attempted a nude at some point in his career?"

"I'm sure there are some," Katherine said stubbornly. "What about those men who paint landscapes? Those—what do they call themselves? The
Hudson
Valley
painters?"

"
Hudson River
," Thomas corrected with a sigh. "And maybe Imogene's not interested in painting stilted landscapes."

"You only say that because you don't like them." Katherine argued. "Maybe she does."

Imogene sighed. It didn't really matter; she was having trouble concentrating on the conversation anyway.

She could not get Jonas Whitaker out of her mind. Since yesterday, when she'd seen his passion firsthand and felt for herself how exhilarating art could be, all she'd wanted was to feel it again, to taste it, to touch it, to understand it. Peter's story had only added to that fascination, and now not an hour passed that she wasn't thinking about it, yearning for it.

She had wanted that today too, had gone to class hoping it would happen again, praying he would lean over her shoulder and show her how to find that artist's vision again. When he'd asked her to stay after class, she was sure her prayers had been answered, and the excitement that possessed her made her fingers tremble so badly she could barely hold the charcoal. When he'd leaned over her shoulder and started to draw, she'd thought
Yes, oh, yes, let me feel it again
.

Instead she'd felt something completely different.

Instead she'd felt desire.

Imogene's throat tightened at the memory. It had startled her, that desire. His caress, the warmth of his breath against her skin, the curiously invasive way his hair had brushed her cheek. . . . They were the kind of touches she hadn't experienced for a long time, touches she'd convinced herself it was better not to remember, not to expect. Touches that spoke of an intimacy that didn't exist, an intimacy that reminded her of other things. Of tangled sheets and loosened hair and moonlight slanting across bare skin.

Of Nicholas.

It was why she'd jerked away from Whitaker this morning, why she'd run. She could not bear to think of Nicholas, could not bear to feel desire when Jonas Whitaker touched her. Because she knew he was simply teasing her the way the men in her father's circle teased, a flirtation that was insincere and painful when she was the focus. She knew men weren't interested in her that way. She knew it because Nicholas had told her so, and even if he hadn't, she'd seen it every time she'd stammered a coquettish reply or tried to smile, had seen the small smiles that told her more clearly than words that she was nothing more than a charity case, an obligation to fulfill.

But in spite of the fact that she knew all that, Imogene had watched the way those same men were with Chloe, had seen their broad smiles and genuine laughter—and she had wished just once that someone would flirt with her the same way.

Well, she'd got her wish in spades. First with her sister's fiance, and then with Jonas Whitaker. And she'd embarrassed herself both times. Today she should have done nothing more than give Whitaker a knowing smile, should have treated his flirtation as something casual, should have responded as if he'd said nothing more important than "I hope you're feeling well today."

She should not have felt desire.

Lord, what a fool she'd been. His flirtation meant nothing. It was ludicrous—and dangerous—to assume it meant more. Men like Jonas Whitaker did not look twice at women like her, and she told herself it wasn't what she wanted from him anyway. She told herself she wanted an education in art, to understand his brilliance. Anything more was absurd.

She told herself all those things, but still she couldn't get Whitaker out of her mind. His attention had been flattering. It had been . . . more . . . than that. Bewildering. Beguiling. As compelling as his brilliance.

Imogene squeezed her eyes shut. Thank God he had turned on her the way he had. His anger had saved her, had erased her embarrassment, had reminded her of her real purpose—

". . . Dear, what do you think?"

Katherine's voice shattered Imogene's thoughts. She looked up blankly.

"What do I think?" she repeated. "About what?"

"About studying someplace else. Perhaps the Spingler Institute. I understand they excel in teaching young women the basics of art."

Imogene stiffened. She glanced at Thomas, who was watching her carefully, his expression warm and concerned, and then she forced herself to speak flatly, to hide the fact that Katherine's words made her feel sick inside, hot and cold. "You want me to leave Jonas Whitaker?" she asked carefully.

"I'm only worried about your reputation," Katherine said, leaning forward. "If the word were to get out that Whitaker's using life models—well, you would be ruined, Imogene. Surely you realize that."

Thomas shook his head. "It's not quite that extreme, Katherine."

"It could be." Katherine threw a glance at her husband. "I'm sure Samuel didn't understand just how controversial Jonas Whitaker is."

"I think he understood perfectly," Thomas said dryly. He looked at Imogene. "But it's up to you, my dear. If you'd rather study somewhere else, we'll arrange it. I'll explain things to your father."

Imogene looked down at her plate, trying to focus her thoughts, to ease the panic she felt at Thomas's suggestion. Not because of her father—though he would never understand—but because the thought of leaving Whitaker's tutelage made her feel desperate. She couldn't leave him now, not now that she'd realized what he could teach her.

Katherine pushed back her chair, her rosewater scent wafted through the room. "I'll leave the two of you to discuss it," she said in her smooth, cultured voice. "Would you like tea, dear?"

Imogene shook her head. She waited until Katherine left the room before she turned to Thomas. Thomas, who would understand the way he always understood. She opened her mouth to tell him that she didn't want to go, but before she could say a word, he sighed.

"Katherine is worried about you, my dear," he said.

She frowned. "I know."

"She doesn't truly understand about artists." Thomas leaned forward, pressing his elbows into the ivory tablecloth, his expression intense. "But she makes a good point, one I hadn't thought of. Of course it's not so bad for young men to be studying from life, though it's still a bit scandalous. But a woman—an unmarried woman, Imogene—"

"He's brilliant, Thomas," she said, and though she saw her godfather's surprise at her interruption, she didn't stop. "I never really understood what that meant before now. I can't walk away from that. He can teach me so many things."

Thomas looked troubled. He folded his hands on the tablecloth, looked down at his fingers. "But at what price, my dear?"

She studied him carefully. "You mean his madness," she said.

She had startled him, she realized. Thomas sat back in his chair. "Who told you he was mad?"

"Peter McBride."

"One of his students?" Thomas asked heavily.

"Yes," she said, and then when she saw the skepticism in his face, "You don't believe it."

"I don't know." Thomas shrugged. "It depends on what you mean by mad. Do I think Whitaker would hurt someone? No. Do I think he's dangerous? No. No, I don't. I think he torments only himself. But if you're asking if I think he's touched . . ." He sighed. "I think he's a genius, my dear. And I think it takes a bit of madness to have that kind of talent. Maybe more than a bit." He looked up at her. His blue eyes seemed to pierce through her. "Does it frighten you?"

Slowly Imogene shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "No. It doesn't frighten me at all. Two days ago he made me prime a canvas. Over and over again until I got it right. That was why I was late coming home. He wouldn't let me go until I'd at least done one."

Thomas scowled. "I'm not sure I understand."

She regarded him steadily. "I can prime a canvas now, Thomas. It took me two days, but I can do it."

"Forgive me, but—"

"Yesterday was the first day the model was there." Imogene rushed on, trying to make him understand, and the words came tumbling out, too fast to control. "And he made me look at her—really look at her. He made me see things I've never seen before. He made me understand . . ." She took a deep, ragged breath. "Thomas, he asked me if I would do what Michelangelo did—if I would go into the morgues to study. He asked me if I would do that for art."

Thomas was watching her thoughtfully. "And what did you say?"

She laughed shortly, shrugging. "I don't think I knew what to say. It didn't matter. Thomas, don't you see? What matters is the way he made me see. He may be mad, but I think you're right, his brilliance is . . . it's . . ." Her words trailed off in a sigh. "I want to learn from him, Thomas."

That was all. It was so simple, and so very, very difficult to explain.

Thomas was looking at her curiously, and for the first time in years, she couldn't read his expression, didn't know at all what he was thinking. She looked down at her plate, at the whiteness of the veal and the creamed peas, and felt tension knot her shoulders as she waited for his answer.

She heard his sigh. She looked up to see him rubbing his chin with his hand, looking at her with a thoughtfulness and care that made Imogene feel unexpectedly guilty. Guilty because he was worried about her, and she knew if she told him what had transpired between herself and Whitaker today, he wouldn't even be giving her the courtesy of a discussion. But then she thought of yesterday, of Michelangelo, and her guilt disappeared.

"Thomas," she began, hearing the edge of desperation in her voice.

He held up a hand to forestall her. "I understand," he said slowly. "Or at least I think I do. But I'm not entirely sure you're safe, Imogene. I still worry. If you change your mind ..."

Relief washed over her. She shook her head and smiled. "I won't. And I'm safe enough, believe me."

Thomas eyed her thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair. "I hope you're right, my dear," he said in a slow, heavy voice. "I only hope you're right."

"A
h, darlin', yes—ah!" Clarisse's words caught in a moan; she arched against him, digging her nails into his back, tossing her head so the bright red strands of her hair played among the multicolored spatters on the floor. Her breasts jiggled against his chest, her legs tightened about his hips, urging him deeper, deeper while she moaned in rhythm to his thrusts.

She felt good, hot and wet, and Jonas plunged into her over and over again, looking away from her writhing body and focusing on the canvas looming above them. The unfinished courtesan watched with an unforgiving smile, and he grabbed Clarisse's hip with his good hand, feeling the cheap, dirty pleasure course through him, thinking fleetingly of painting the courtesan with spread legs, because between spread legs he could forget so many things.