Читать книгу Gallant Officer, Forbidden Lady - Diane Gaston, Diane Gaston - Страница 11

Ariana descended the stairs at the boarding house on Henrietta Street where she and other actresses and actors lived. The rooms were comfortably furnished and the company, excellent. The landlady of the establishment was an accommodating woman, a stickler for propriety, if one desired, or equally willing to ignore propriety completely.

Today Ariana chose propriety. Betsy, the maid, had announced that Lord Tranville had called. Had he not been funding Drury Lane’s production of Antony and Cleopatra, selecting her to play Cleopatra, she would have refused to see him. She kept him waiting in the drawing room a full ten minutes to discourage any notion he might have about how far her gratitude might reach.

She had no doubt her mother had told him where she resided. Her mother believed in patronage above all things.

Ariana wrinkled her nose.

What was her mother thinking? The gentleman was old enough to be her father, at least fifty years old, ten years older than her mother, even.

She swept into the drawing room. ‘Lord Tranville. What a surprise.’ She extended her hand, thinking he would shake it.

Instead he grasped it and brought it to his lips, actually placing a wet kiss upon it. ‘My dear Miss Blane.’

She grimaced and pulled her hand away as soon as she could. Gone was any hope his interest was confined to her acting ability. She sighed. It would require skill to remain in his good graces while discouraging his advances. She’d managed it with other gentlemen; she could do it with him.

She made no effort to look at him directly. ‘I am astonished you are here. Have you come on theatre business?’

He smiled wide enough to show all his white teeth. At least he had teeth, one point in his favour. ‘I hoped my desire to gaze upon your loveliness would be reason enough to call upon you.’

With effort she kept her expression bland, staring blankly at him, as if waiting for him to stop spouting nonsense.

He fiddled with his watch fob. ‘My—my visit does involve the theatre. In a manner of speaking.’

‘Oh?’ Only then did she gesture for him to sit. He chose one of the sofas. She lowered herself on to a chair, making a show of brushing off an invisible piece of lint from her sleeve.

Finally she looked at him again. ‘Do tell me why you have called.’

He leaned towards her. ‘I have a notion to advertise your role in Antony and Cleopatra.’

She lifted a brow.

He went on. ‘If you are agreeable, an artist will paint you as Cleopatra. We shall have engravings made that can be printed for advertising. In magazines. On handbills. It will increase your success, I am certain.’

She looked at him with a wary eye. ‘Who will pay for all this?’ Surely not the theatre.

Mr Sheridan had run Drury Lane Theatre into terrible debt. Kean’s performances, so very popular, helped to ease the burden, but that did not mean the theatre would expend money on behalf of a new actress whose popularity had not yet been established. Her performance had been barely mentioned when the critics gave Romeo and Juliet a very unfavourable review, greatly criticising Kean’s performance.

‘I will pay for everything,’ Tranville said. ‘And, if it pleases you, I will make the portrait my gift to you.’

She wanted no gifts from him, but she did need this play to be a success.

He tilted his head in a manner he probably thought charming. ‘If it is convenient, the artist can see you this afternoon to discuss the painting. I will be honoured to escort you.’

She had no plans for the afternoon. ‘Where is this artist?’

‘On the corner of Adam Street and Adelphi.’

‘Near the Adelphi Terraces?’ It was only a few streets away.

‘Yes.’

A good enough address and nearby. ‘Who is the artist?’

He leaned even closer to her. ‘His name is Jack Vernon.

Ariana gaped at him, ‘Jack Vernon!’

Tranville looked apologetic. ‘I realise he is not as fashionable as Lawrence or Westall, but he did have some paintings in the Royal Exhibition, I’ve heard tell.’

How well she remembered. She’d used her admiration of Vernon’s paintings to brazenly approach the tall, handsome, solitary young gentleman whose inner struggle of some sort had fascinated her. Sadly, she had never learned who he was.

She resisted another sigh. What good was it to dwell on what was gone? Here was an opportunity to meet the artist and be painted by him.

‘I will do it, my lord,’ she told Tranville. ‘But there is no need for you to escort me such a short distance. Merely give me the exact direction and tell me the time I am expected.’

His lower lip jutted out. ‘I would be delighted to escort you.’

Her hand fluttered. ‘Do not trouble yourself.’

‘But—’

She gave him a level look. ‘I prefer going alone. It is daylight. The streets are full of people. No harm will come to me.’

‘I insist.’ He persisted.

Her brows rose. ‘Is your escort a condition of this agreement? I will not do it if there are conditions to which I must comply.’ Ariana knew better than to make herself beholden to any man.

‘No, no conditions—’ he blustered.

‘Good.’ She rearranged her skirt. ‘Tell me when I am expected.’

An hour later Ariana stood at Mr Vernon’s door, her heart thumping with anticipation. She looked down at herself, brushing off her cloak, pulling up her gloves, straightening her hat. She took a quick breath and knocked.

Almost immediately the door opened.

Framed in the doorway was the handsome gentleman she’d met in Somerset House, the one she’d thought she would never see again.

‘You!’ She gasped. T—I have an appointment with Mr Vernon.’

He looked equally surprised. It took him several seconds before he stepped aside.

As she brushed by him she felt a flurry of excitement. She’d found him, the man who’d so intrigued her at the Summer Exhibition. He was taller than she remembered, and his sheer physical presence seemed more powerful than it had been in the crowded exhibition hall. In the light pouring through the windows, his brown eyes were even more enthralling and every bit as beset with private demons.

‘Is Mr Vernon here?’ she asked.

He slowly closed the door behind her. ‘I am Vernon.’

‘You are Vernon?’ The breath left her lungs.

His frown deepened. ‘I—I did not know you would be coming.’

He did not seem happy to see her. In fact, his displeasure wounded her. ‘Forgive me. Tranville said I was expected at this hour.’

He stiffened. ‘Tranville.’

She began to unfasten her cloak, but stopped. Perhaps she would not be staying. ‘Did you desire him to accompany me?’

His eyes were singed with anger. ‘Not at all.’

He confused her with his vague answers. She straightened her spine and put her hands on her hips. ‘Mr Vernon, if you do not wish me to be here, I will leave, but I beg you will simply tell me what you want.’

He ran a hand through his thick brown hair and his lovely lips formed a rueful smile. ‘Tranville told me to expect an actress. I did not know it would be you.’

His smile encouraged her. ‘Then we are both of us surprised.’

His shoulders seemed to relax a little.

He stepped forwards to take her cloak, and as he came so close she inhaled the scent of him, bergamot soap and linseed oil, turpentine and pure male.

He seemed unaware of her reaction and completely immune to her, which somehow made her want to weep. Only once before had she wanted to weep over a man. He took her cloak and hung it upon a peg by the door, moving with the same masculine elegance that had drawn her to him when she first caught sight of him. He had been the first man to ignite her senses in years, a fact that surprised and intoxicated her even now.

He faced her again, and she hid her interest in a quick glance around the studio, all bright and neat, except for where an easel stood by the windows, a paint-smeared shirt hanging from it. She removed her hat and gloves and placed them on a nearby chair.

He did not move.

So she must. She walked to him. ‘Let us start over.’ She extended her hand. ‘I am Ariana Blane.’

He shook it, his grasp firm, but still holding something back.

Her brows knit. ‘Why did you not tell me, that day, that you were the artist? That you were Jack Vernon?’

He averted his gaze. ‘I intended to, but the moment passed.’

‘Come, now.’ She tried smiling and shaking her finger at him. ‘You allowed me to rattle on for quite a long time without telling me.’

He turned his intense brown eyes upon her. ‘I wanted your true opinion of my paintings. You would not have given it, had you known I had painted them.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, yes, I would. I am never hesitant to say what I think.’

Indeed, she had half a mind to ask him why he scowled when looking at her. He made her senses sing with pleasure. She longed to feel the touch of his hand against her skin, but he seemed completely ill at ease with her.

There had been no unease between them in that first, fleeting, hopeful encounter.

She cleared her throat but disguised her thoughts. ‘What happens now, Mr Vernon? This is my first time having my portrait painted.’

He walked over to a pretty brocade upholstered chair and held its back. ‘Please be seated, Miss Blane. I will bring tea.’

She sat down, very aware of his hands so near to the sensitive skin of her neck. When he released her chair, she swivelled around to see him disappear behind a curtained doorway to a small galley in the back. A moment later he returned, tray in hand.

He placed the tray on a small table in front of her chair.

She touched his arm and his gaze flew to her face. ‘Allow me to pour,’ she murmured, as affected by the touch as he appeared to be. ‘How do you like your tea? Milk and sugar?’

He lowered himself in the chair on the other side of the table. ‘I grew accustomed to going without both on the Peninsula.’

‘You were in the war?’ she asked as she poured his tea and handed him the cup.

His gaze held. ‘In the infantry.’

Her voice turned low. ‘Now I comprehend why your history painting had such authenticity.’

He looked away.

Ariana poured her own tea, adding both milk and sugar. She gazed at him when she lifted the cup to her lips. A barrier had risen between them, one that had not existed when they had met at the exhibition. That conversation had been exhilarating; this one dampened her spirits.

She placed her teacup on the table. ‘So, how do we proceed with this portrait?’

A crease formed between his brows. ‘I need to know what you would like it to be.’

She waved a hand. ‘I have no notion. I first heard of this idea an hour ago.’

He glanced away and his brooding expression intensified. ‘I first heard this morning.’

‘Lord Tranville has been busy,’ she murmured, taking a sip of tea.

He made a sound of disgust, pausing before looking back at her with shrouded eyes. ‘I did not expect you to come alone. If you desire it, I shall ask my sister to be present. She is but a few doors away.’

What maggot had taken up lodging in his brain? ‘Why did you think that?’ Actresses did not require chaperons.

He continued to stare at her. ‘Tranville is not with you. Perhaps you would like another woman to be present.’

‘Tranville?’ Why did he persist in bringing up Tranville? He wasn’t her father. Who else would care if she were chaperoned?

Suddenly her brows rose. He thought Tranville was her lover.

Jack Vernon would be surprised to know she’d had only one lover, a long time ago. Yes, she’d been deceived once, even though she ought to have learned of men’s fickle natures at her mother’s knee. Never again. In fact, she’d not even been tempted—until meeting the mysterious stranger at the Summer Exhibition.

In spite of his present behaviour, he still tempted her with his sorrowful eyes holding wounds of the past.

She gave herself a mental shake and made an effort to retrieve their conversation. ‘I require no chaperon, Mr Vernon. No one expects propriety from actresses. There is some freedom in that.’

He merely sipped his tea.

She took a breath and tried again. ‘Shall we discuss the portrait?’

‘You and I must decide how you are to appear as Cleopatra.’ He spoke as if all emotion had been leached out of him.

Except from his eyes.

‘I am not at all certain how to do that,’ she murmured.

He shrugged. ‘We try different poses. I sketch you, and we select the best image.’

This struck her as insufficient, like trying to prepare for a play by guessing one’s lines.

‘Have you read the play?’ She rubbed one finger on the arm of the chair. ‘It might provide you with some ideas.’

‘Not since school days.’

He glanced at her hand, and she curled her fingers into her palm. ‘I have my copy in my rooms. Let us get it so you can read it.’

He blinked. ‘There is no need. Bring it tomorrow.’

‘Then we will be delayed another day. My residence is nearby. It will take no time at all.’

He stared at her and the moment stretched on. ‘Very well,’ he finally said.

He went into another room to get his top coat, and a minute later they were outside in the cool, breezy air.

She took his arm and glanced at the street ahead. ‘Which of the “few doors away” is your sister?’

‘Not far.’ As they passed, he pointed to it. ‘This one.’

‘And is there a wife behind those doors, as well?’ Please say no, she thought.

He shook his head. ‘I am in no position to marry. My sister lives with my mother in those rooms.’

Her heart skipped a beat.

‘You have seen my sister,’ he said to her as they walked on.

She glanced at him in surprise. ‘I have?’

‘Hers was the painting you admired at the exhibition.’

She stopped. ‘Of course it was. Now I understand.’

‘Understand what?’

She met his eyes. ‘Why it was such a loving portrait.’

His colour heightened and she sensed him withdrawing from her again.

And they’d almost returned to the comfort between them at the exhibition.

Ariana asked more questions about his sister, hoping she’d not lost him again. She asked his sister’s age, her interests, how she’d been educated, anything she could think of that seemed safe. The short walk, a mere few hundred yards to her residence on Henrietta Street, was by far the most pleasant she’d had in an age.

When they entered the house, he turned towards the open drawing-room door.

She pulled him back. ‘Come up to my room.’

His brows rose. ‘To your room?’

She waved a hand. ‘No one will mind, I promise.’

She chattered to him about how she came to live at this place, about the other boarders who lived there as well, anything to put him at ease, to put her at ease, as well.

When they entered the room, Ariana pointedly ignored the bed, the most prominent piece of furniture and the one that turned her thoughts to what it might be like to share it with him. It unsettled her that he could so quickly arouse such dormant urges in her. If she’d learned anything from her former lover, it had been that her senses were not always the best judge of a man’s character.

She took off her cloak and flung it over a chair. He removed his hat and gloves, but not his top coat.

He glanced about the room. ‘Where is your copy of the play?’

‘On the table.’ She pulled off her gloves and gestured to a small table by the window.

He picked up the small, leather-bound volume. ‘I will have it read by tomorrow.’

He opened the book and flicked idly through the pages. Quickly snapping it closed, he slipped the book into a pocket of his top coat.

Which passage had caused that reaction? she wondered. Antony’s line, perhaps?

There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch; Without some pleasure now.

He seemed to gain no pleasure from her company. ‘I should return to my studio.’

She had not moved from the doorway. ‘When should I come and sit for you tomorrow?’

‘At the same time, if it is convenient.’ His manner was stiff.

‘Tomorrow, then.’ She nodded.

He strode towards her. As he passed, she caught his hand. ‘I would greatly desire our time together to be pleasant. We started as friends. May we not continue that way?’

Again that mysterious distress flashed through his eyes. What bothered him so?

He stared into her eyes. ‘’Til tomorrow, Miss Blane.’

She released his hand and he hurried out of the door. From the hallway she watched him descend the stairs and walk through the front door, not even pausing to put on his hat and gloves.

When Jack reached Adam Street he was still reeling with the unexpected pleasure of being in Ariana’s company again, as well as the crushing knowledge that she was Tranville’s actress.

Jack walked with his head down against the chilly wind from the river. It was even more appalling that Tranville had chosen an actress young enough to be his daughter.

Instead of going back to the studio, Jack called upon his mother. He found her alone in her sitting room doing needlework by the light of the window.

She looked up as he entered. ‘Jack, you are back again.’

He glanced around the room. ‘Where is Nancy?’

‘She and our maid went to the market.’ His mother’s smile was tight. ‘I fear Nancy finds these four walls tedious. She takes every opportunity to venture out of them.’

He did not respond, but stared blankly at the carpet.

‘Sit, Jack.’ She indicated a chair. ‘Tell me why you are here.’

He wandered over to the mantel, absently moving one of the matched pair of figurines flanking a porcelain clock.

Finally he looked at her. ‘Did Tranville tell you that his actress is almost as young as Nancy?’

She stabbed her needle through the cloth. ‘That is no concern of mine, and ought to be no concern of yours, Jack.’

‘No concern!’ He swung away, then turned back to face her. ‘Does it not trouble you? How can it not? How are you able to insist I paint this portrait?’

Her eyes creased in pain. ‘It is what he wishes.’

He felt his face flush with anger. ‘You do not have to do what he wishes, Mother. He treats you abominably.’

Her expression was stern. ‘That is your opinion. In my opinion he has enabled me to live in comfort, to rear my children in comfort, to give them an education, a future.’

He gave a dry laugh. ‘I could debate what sort of future he’s provided Nancy with, but, that aside, have you not more than paid him for what he has done for you?’

She merely pulled her needle through the cloth.

Jack paced before walking to her chair and crouching down so that he was at eye level with her. ‘Mother, I will make a living as an artist. I will earn more commissions. If we economise I will have enough to care for you and Nancy. You do not need to accept another shilling from Tranville. You can tell him to go to the devil.’

She gazed directly into his eyes. ‘I will not do that.’

He blinked. ‘Why not? I promise I can take care of you.’

She went back to her sewing. ‘I am certain you will be very successful, my son, but I still will not spurn Lionel.’

Jack stood. ‘He has spurned you. In the most insulting way.’

She gazed up at him again. ‘I do not need to explain myself to you and I have no intention of doing so. I will not change my arrangement with Lionel.’

It was no use. Where Tranville was concerned his mother was blind and deaf.

‘Do you stay for dinner?’ she asked, breaking the silence. ‘It is not for a few hours yet, but you are welcome to stay. If you are hungry now, I’ll send for tea and biscuits.’

He shook his head. To sit down at dinner and pretend this day had not happened would be impossible. ‘Do not expect me for dinner. I have much to do tonight.’

She smiled wanly. ‘You are still welcome if you change your mind.’

He walked over and kissed her. ‘I must go.’

She patted his cheek, but her eyes glistened with tears. ‘I hope we will see you tomorrow.’

Once he stepped back out into the winter air, he hurried to his studio and let himself in. He leaned against the door with visions of Tranville hopping from his mother’s bed into Ariana’s.

Throwing down his gloves and hat, he crossed the room to a bureau where he kept paper. Pulling out several sheets, he grabbed a piece of charcoal and began sketching.

The lines he drew formed into an image of Ariana.