Benedict Cole.
She was imagining him everywhere.
That kiss. All she thought of was that kiss, that explosive, passionate kiss. Her lips tingled at the memory. Surely such a kiss was something real and rare. Why then had the artist rejected her so coldly and dismissed her from the studio as if she were an inconvenience?
Lord Warley trod on her foot again. ‘So sorry.’
The pressure was so hard it seemed as if he had done it on purpose, to gain her attention.
She looked up sharply. There was no clue on his face.
‘You look very well tonight.’ He glanced down at her lacy white dress and her cameo necklace, tied with a blue-velvet ribbon to match her sash.
‘Thank you.’ She fought her sudden urge to pull up the lace of her low décolletage.
They swept past the pillared alcoves, half-curtained with heavy cream brocade and the scrutiny of the grand society ladies who sat behind the curtains. Her mama sat at one of the tables, no doubt being congratulated on the fine pair her daughter and Lord Warley made. Wickedly, Cameo imagined dancing by with Benedict Cole. What would they think if they found out she’d been kissed by the bohemian artist in his studio in Soho? What would they think if they’d seen the way she responded?
The passionate touch of Benedict’s lips seemed on hers again, the vision so powerful she wanted to close her eyes and just sink into those sensations.
Stop it, she instructed herself. Stop it.
The last strains of the waltz finally played out. With relief she escaped Lord Warley’s hold. ‘Thank you.’
‘Would you care for another dance?’
Pretending to consider, she opened her fan and gave it a dismissive flick. ‘How kind. But I think that I might appreciate a rest.’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ he said smoothly. ‘The terrace?’
Cameo fumed with frustration as he once again took her arm and steered her towards the French windows which opened on to the terrace. He’d cornered her. There was no way she could be rude to a friend of the family. Still, fresh air was preferable to having her feet stamped on in another dance.
Outside, the garden sparkled with candles. Cameo sank down on to one of the wrought-iron chairs laid out on the terrace.
Warley leaned over her, so close that she shrank back against the cold iron of the chair. On his breath was the faint whiff of claret.
‘Can I fetch you refreshment?’
‘I am thirsty. Thank you.’
Enjoying the momentary respite, she breathed in the scent of jasmine and roses. There was no one else on the terrace, though perhaps George and Maud were somewhere in the garden. Why, he might even be proposing at that very moment. How lucky they were, while she was here with Lord Warley. Under her skirts she stretched out her painful toes. He didn’t seem to have done any permanent damage.
Something near to despair filled her. These evenings were supposed to be enjoyable, but they exhausted her more than sitting for Benedict Cole. Modelling was hard work. But being forced to play a society role was hard work, too. Not the kind of work to complain about. How could she complain about having to go to a ball? It sounded spoilt. Never complain, never explain. That was what her mama advised.
Too soon Lord Warley returned with two glasses of iced punch.
‘Thank you.’ Cameo took a sip.
He sat down on the chair opposite and hoisted one leg over the other. ‘My pleasure.’
Silence fell. It wasn’t the same kind of silence as when Benedict Cole painted her; that silence didn’t bother her at all.
‘I’d love to try to capture those roses,’ she said at last, studying the white tea roses that were tumbling down the trellis closest to them.
‘Capture them?’
‘Paint them, I mean. What do you think of the latest style of painting? The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and the other new painters?’
‘Ridiculous.’ He shocked her with his vehemence. ‘They make far too much of themselves, like all artists. They should get decent occupations.’
‘Art’s a passion!’ Cameo protested.
‘Art’s a fuss about nothing. Who can’t slap a bit of paint on to some canvas, I ask you? Of course I go to the opening of the Royal Academy of Art at the start of the Season, one’s got to. And we’ve got some fine Old Masters in our long gallery at Warley Park. Not that I care for them that much. It’s all a waste of time.’
‘How can you say that?’ She sipped her punch to quench her anger. It didn’t help.
‘That’s right—you enjoy that kind of thing, don’t you?’ He emptied his punch glass. ‘You do a few watercolours, I seem to recall. I’m surprised your father allows it. Well, good for you young ladies to have something to do, isn’t it?’
Cameo drank more punch. ‘It’s more than just something to do for me.’
‘Perhaps when you come to Warley Park you’ll allow me to show you the Old Masters in our gallery. You haven’t forgotten you and your parents are coming to stay at my estate, have you?’
She had forgotten. She’d forced the engagement from her mind. A dance with Lord Warley was penance. A long visit would be intolerable. Yet there was no chance of talking her parents out of it and she had to be polite. ‘I’m sure it will be most pleasant.’
‘Your presence will make it so, Lady Catherine Mary.’
She didn’t remind him that all her friends and family called her Cameo. She’d never invited him to, yet she gave the pet name to Benedict Cole without thinking.
Lord Warley smiled. It was his smile that made her uneasy, she reflected. It never reached his eyes. In contrast, Benedict Cole’s eyes had searched her soul.
Would Benedict Cole ever leave her mind?
Lord Warley pulled off his gloves, revealing each of his fingers in turn. Without warning, he leant forward and imprisoned her hands. ‘How pleased I am to have this moment alone with you.’
‘Lord Warley!’ Desperately she tried to extract her fingers, but his grip was too tight.
He squeezed them tighter. ‘You must allow me to make my addresses. I’m sure your parents will not object.’
Cameo wrenched her hands away.
‘Your addresses?’ Her stomach sank. His intentions were more serious than she’d feared.
‘Indeed.’ Putting his fingers together in a steeple, he said, ‘Our families are well connected. You will recall, of course, that your father was good friends with my own, God rest his soul.’
The late Lord Warley, the current earl’s father, had died while she was still in the schoolroom, studying under a governess with Maud. He’d been dark-haired like his son. But his eyes had been different—kind, although sad. Cameo remembered that.
‘My father thought most highly of yours,’ she vouchsafed. If it wasn’t for the family friendship she wouldn’t be forced to associate so closely with him against all her instincts. It made it all very difficult.
‘When I inherited Warley Park—you must know that it’s one of the greatest houses in England—I took on a great responsibility. I shall enjoy showing you the estate on your visit. You will be an ornament to it.’ Once more he glanced towards her bare décolletage.
Cameo wished yet again for a shawl to cover her upper body. She didn’t want to be an ornament to anything, even Warley Park,