The Beauty Within

‘Touché, signor.’

‘You do not much like your father either, do you?’

‘You ought not to have to ask such a question. And I ought to be able to answer positively.’ Cressie grimaced. ‘He enjoys making things difficult for me. And I him, if I am honest.’

The mixture of guilt and amusement on her face was endearing. The wind whipped a long lock of hair across her face, and without thinking, Giovanni made to brush it away at the same time as she did. His gloved hand covered her fingers. The contact jolted him into awareness, just as when he had kissed her hand, and the arrested look in her eyes made him aware that she felt it too. Her eyes widened. She shivered. The sun dazzled her eyes, and the moment was gone.

Cressie wrapped her arms around herself as the wind caught her again. She had come out without even a wrap. ‘We should go inside,’ she said, turning away, thrown off balance not just by the tangle of her gown, which the breeze had blown around her legs, but by her own reaction to Giovanni de Matteo’s touch. She was not usually a tactile person, but he made her acutely conscious of her body, and his. She did not want him to see the effect he had on her, though no doubt he had the same effect on every female he encountered. ‘I should take you to meet my brothers now. My stepmother does not like me to leave them with the nursery maid for too long.’

‘Let them wait a little longer. I would like to see something of the house in order to find a suitable place to set up my easel. Lady Armstrong cannot object to you assisting me, can she? And you, Lady Cressida, you cannot object to my company over your brothers’, even if we seem to disagree on almost every subject.’

She couldn’t help laughing, and her laughter dispelled her awkwardness. ‘After the morning I have had in the schoolroom I assure you I would take almost any company over my brothers’, even yours. I most certainly do not object. Come, follow me.’

The portrait gallery ran the full length of the second floor. Light streamed in through windows which looked out over the formal gardens. The paintings were hung in strict ancestral sequence on the long wall opposite. ‘I thought you might wish to set up your studio here,’ Cressie said.

Giovanni nodded approvingly. ‘The light is good.’

‘The yellow drawing room and music room are through these doors, but neither are much used for Bella, my stepmother, prefers the smaller salon downstairs, and since Cassie—Cassandra, my second sister—left home some years ago, I doubt anyone has touched the pianoforte, so you will not be disturbed.’

‘Except by my subjects.’

‘True. I do not know how you prefer to work, whether they must sit still for hours on end, but …’

‘That would be to expect the impossible, and in any event not necessary.’

‘That is a relief. I was wondering whether I would have to resort to tying them to their chairs. Actually, I confess that I have been wondering whether I must resort to doing just that in order to keep them at their lessons. I had hoped that my primer—’ Cressie broke off, tugging at the knot of hair which she had managed to tangle around her index finger, and forced herself to smile brightly. ‘My travails as a teacher cannot possibly be of interest to you, signor. Let us look at the paintings.’

Though her determination to shoulder the blame for her brothers’ failings intrigued him, there was a note in her voice that warned Giovanni off from pursuing the subject. He allowed her to lead him from portrait to portrait, listening while she unravelled for him the complex and many-branched Armstrong family tree, enjoying the cadence of her voice, taking the opportunity to study, not the canvases, but her face as she talked animatedly about the various family members. There was something deep within her that he longed to draw out, to capture. He was certain that beneath the veneer of scientific detachment and tightly held emotions, there was passion. In short, she would make a fascinating subject.

He must find a way of painting her portrait. Not one of his idealised studies, but something with some veracity. He had thought the desire to paint from the heart had died in him, but it seemed it had merely been lying dormant. Lady Cressida Armstrong, of all unlikely people, had awakened his muse.

But tantalising glimpses, mere impressions of her hidden self would not suffice. A certain level of intimacy would be required. In order to paint her he needed to know her—her heart and her mind, though most definitely not her body. Those days were past.

And yet, he could not take his eyes from her body. As she moved to the next painting he noticed how the sunlight, dancing in through the leaded panes in the long windows, framed her dress, which was white cotton, simply made, with a high round neck. The sleeves were wide at the shoulder as was the fashion, tapering down to the wrists, the hem tucked and trimmed with cotton lace. With a draughtsman’s eye he noted approvingly how the cut of the gown enhanced her figure—the neat waist, the fullness of her breasts, the curve of her hips. In this light, he could clearly see the shape of her legs outlined against her petticoats. One of her stockings was wrinkled at the ankle. The sash at her waist was tied in a lopsided knot rather than a bow, and the top-most button at her neck was undone. She employed no maid, Giovanni surmised, and she had certainly not taken the time to inspect herself in the mirror. Haste or indifference? Both, he reckoned, though rather more of the latter.

He followed her to the next painting, but the pleasing roundedness of her fondoschiena, the tantalising shape of her legs, distracted him. He wanted to smooth out the wrinkle in her stocking. There was something about the fragile bones in a woman’s ankle that he had always found erotic. And the swell of a calf. The softness of the flesh at the top of a woman’s thighs. He had tasted just enough of her lips to be able to imagine how yielding the rest of her would be.

Giovanni cursed softly under his breath. Sex and art. The desire for both had been latent until he met her. Painting her was a possibility, but as for the other—he was perfectly content in his celibate state, free of bodily needs and the needs of other bodies.

‘This is Lady Sophia, my father’s sister,’ Lady Cressida was saying. ‘My Aunt Sophia is—you know, I don’t think you’ve been listening to a word I’ve said.’

They were standing in front of the portrait of an austere woman who bore a remarkable resemblance to a camel suffering from a severe case of wind. ‘Gainsborough,’ Giovanni said, recognising the style immediately. ‘Your aunt, you were saying.’

‘What were you really thinking about?’

‘Is there a painting of you among the collection?’

‘Only one, in a group portrait with my sisters.’

‘Show me.’

The painting had been hung between two doors, in the worst of the light. Lawrence, though not one of his best. There were five girls, the eldest two seated at a sewing table, the younger three at their feet, playing with reels of cotton. ‘That is Celia,’ Lady Cressida said, pointing to the eldest, a slim young woman with a serious expression and a protective hand on the head of the youngest child. ‘Beside her is Cassie. As you can see, she is the beauty of the family. Cordelia, my youngest sister who makes her come out this Season, is very like her. Caroline is beside her, and that is me, the odd one out.’

Giovanni nodded. ‘You certainly have very different colouring. What age were you when this was painted?’

‘I don’t know, eleven or twelve, I think. It was before Celia married and left home.’

‘I am surprised that your mother is not in this painting. Lawrence would usually have included the mother in such a composition.’

‘She died not long after Cordelia was born. Celia was more of a mother to us than anyone.’ Lady Cressida’s voice was wistful as she reached out to touch her sister’s image. ‘I haven’t seen her for almost ten years. Nor Cassie, for eight.’

‘Surely they must visit, or you them?’

‘It is a long way to Arabia, signor.’ Obviously sensing his confusion, Lady Cressida hastened to explain. ‘Celia married one of my father’s diplomatic protégés. They were in Arabia, sent on a mission by the British Ambassador to Egypt, when Celia’s husband was murdered by rebel tribesmen. I remember it so well, the news being broken to us here at Killellan. We were told that Celia was being held captive in a harem. My father and Cassie and Aunt Sophia went to Arabia to rescue her only to discover that she didn’t want to be rescued. Fortunately for Celia, it turned out that her desert prince was hugely influential and fantastically rich, so my father was happy to hand her over.’

‘And your other sister—Cassie, did you say?’

‘When she narrowly escaped a most unfortunate connection with a poet, our father packed her off in disgrace to stay with Celia. He should have known that Cassie, a born romantic, would tumble head over heels in love with the exotic East. When he found out that he had lost a second daughter to a desert prince he was furious. But this prince too turned out to have excellent diplomatic connections and was also suitably generous with his riches, so my father magnanimously decided to be reconciled to the idea.’

‘Such a colourful history for such a very English family,’ Giovanni said drily.

She laughed. ‘Indeed! My father decided two sheikhs, no matter how influential, was more than sufficient for any family. I think he fears if any of us visit them, the same fate would befall us, so we must content ourselves with exchanging letters.’

‘And are they happy, your sisters?’

‘Oh yes, blissfully. They have families of their own now too.’ Lady Cressida gazed lovingly at the portrait. ‘It is the only thing which makes it bearable, knowing how happy they are. I miss them terribly.’

‘But you are not quite alone. You have your stepmother.’

‘It is clear you have not been introduced to Bella. My father married her not long after Celia’s wedding. I think he assumed Bella would take on Celia’s role in looking after us three younger girls as well as providing him with an heir but Bella—well, Bella saw things differently. And once James was born, so too did Papa. His only interest is his male heirs.’

‘Sadly, that is the way of the world, Lady Cressida.’

‘Cressie. Please call me Cressie, for no one else here does, now Caro has married and Cordelia has gone to London. I am the last of the Armstrong sisters,’ she said with a sad little smile. ‘I think you have heard more than enough of my family history for one day.’

‘It seems to me a shame that there are no other portraits of you. May I ask—would you—I would like to paint you, Lady—Cressie.’

‘Paint me! Why on earth would you want to do that?’

Her expression almost made him laugh, but the evidence it gave him of her lack of self-worth made him angry. ‘An exercise in mathematics,’ Giovanni replied, hitting upon an inspired idea. ‘I will paint one portrait to your rules, and I will paint another to mine.’

‘Two portraits!’

‘Si. Two.’ An idealised Lady Cressida and the real one. For the first time in years, Giovanni felt the unmistakable tingle of certainty. Ambition long subdued began to stir. Though he had no idea as yet what this second portrait would be, he knew at least it would be his. Painted from the heart. ‘Two,’ Giovanni repeated firmly. ‘Thesis and antithesis. What better way for me to provide you with the proof you need for your theory—or the evidence which contradicts it?’ he added provocatively, and quite deliberately.

‘Thesis and antithesis.’ She nodded solemnly. ‘An interesting concept, but I don’t have the wherewithal to be able to pay you a fee.’

‘This is not a commission. It is an experiment.’