Was there just the lightest hint of irony in his voice? Could this artist actually be mocking his patron? ‘They are very good-looking,’ Cressie conceded, ‘but they are most certainly not charming. In fact, you should know that they have a particular liking for practical jokes. Their governess has recently left without notice as a result of one such, which is why I shall be taking her place, their reputation being—’
‘You!’
Cressie stiffened. ‘As I have already informed my father, I am perfectly capable of teaching the rudiments of mathematics.’
‘That is not what I meant. It is merely that the Season is almost upon us. I would have thought you would have had parties to attend—but forgive me, it is none of my business.’
‘I have already experienced several Seasons, signor, and have no wish to endure another. I am six-and-twenty, and quite beyond dances and parties. Not that I ever—but that is of no account.’
‘You have no wish to find a husband, then?’
The question was extremely impertinent, but the tone of his voice was not, and Cressie was, in any case, eager to vent her spleen now that the real object of her wrath had departed. ‘There are some women whom marriage does not suit. I have concluded I am one of them.’ Which was not quite a lie, but more like putting the truth through a prism. ‘Until I am at least thirty and saying my prayers, however, my father will not accept that. His gracious permission to excuse me this year is more to do with ensuring I do not intrude on my youngest sister’s chances of making an excellent match. Once she is safely betrothed, I am to be wheeled back on to the market. My role as governess is merely a temporary expedient.’
Her frankness had obviously perplexed him. It had taken her aback too. A small frown marred that perfect brow of his, and confusingly there was also a hint of upward tilt of that far too perfect mouth. Was he laughing at her? Cressie bristled. ‘It was not my intention to provide you with a source of amusement, signor.’
‘I am not amused, merely—interested. I have not before met a lady so determined to boast of her unmarried state and the fact that she understands more than the—er—the rudiments of mathematics.’
He was mocking her. ‘Well, now you have.’ Indignation and anger made Cressie indiscreet. ‘And I do understand considerably more than the rudiments, if you must know. In fact, I have published a number of articles on the subject, and even reviewed Mr Lardner’s book, Analytical Treatise on Plane and Spherical Trigonometry. I have also written a children’s geometry primer which a most respected publisher has shown an interest in printing, and I am currently writing a thesis on the mathematics of art.’
So there! Cressie folded her arms over her chest. She had not meant to blurt out quite so much. Having done so, she waited for Signor di Matteo to laugh, but instead he raised his brows and smiled, not a condescending smile, but rather as if he was surprised. His smile made her catch her breath, for it transformed his beauty from that of a haughty statue to something much more human.
‘So you are a published author.’
‘Under the pseudonym Penthiselea.’ Cressie had just betrayed yet another jealously guarded secret without meaning to. What was it about this man? He had her spilling her innermost thoughts like some babbling child.
‘Penthiselea. An Amazonian warrior famed for her wisdom. It is most—apt.’
‘Yes, yes, but I must urge you to discretion.
If my father knew …’ Cressie took yet another deep breath. ‘Signor, you must understand that in my position—that is to say— my father thinks that my facility for mathematics is detrimental to his ambition to marry me off, and I must confess that it is my own experience too, by and large. Men do not value intelligence in their wives.’
Signor di Matteo’s smile had a cynical twist to it now, his dark eyes seemed distant, turned in on some unpleasant memory. ‘Blood and beauty rule supreme, signorina,’ he said. ‘It is the way of the world.’
It was a stark little expression, which said more precisely than she ever could exactly what Cressie herself believed. Beauty was this man’s business, but she wondered what he knew of the burden of pedigree. She could not find a way of framing such a personal question without inviting offence.
He put an end to her attempts, with a question of his own. ‘If you are studying the relationship of mathematics to art, you must have read the definitive work by my fellow Italian. I refer to Pacioli, his De Divina Proportione?’
Pleased to discover that he was not the type of man to assume her sex prevented her from understanding such an erudite work, Cressie was at the same time distracted by how lovely the title of the book sounded when spoken by a native Italian. ‘You have read it?’ she asked foolishly, for he obviously had.
‘It is a standard text. You agree with what he says, that beauty can be described in the rules of symmetry?’
‘And proportion. These are surely the basic rules of any art?’
Signor di Matteo began to prowl restlessly about the room, frowning. ‘If painting was simply about getting angles and proportions right, then anyone could be an artist.’
‘How did you learn to paint so well?’ Cressie countered.
‘Study. Of the Old Masters. In the studios as apprentice to other painters. Practice.’
‘So it is a skill. A craft, with rules which can be learned. That is exactly my point.’
‘And my point is that art is not simply a craft.’ There was anger in his tone now.
‘I don’t understand what I’ve said to upset you, signor. I was paying you a compliment. The primary purpose of art is to adorn, is it not? And if it is to adorn, it must be beautiful. And if it is beautiful, then it must conform to what we know is beautiful—to the mathematical rules of symmetry and proportion which we see in nature, as your countryman Signor Fibonacci has shown us. To be reckoned the best, not only must you have mastered the technical skills of the draughtsman, but you must obviously have the firmest grasp of these underlying rules.’
‘So I paint by rote, that is what you are saying?’
‘I am saying that you are a master of the rules of nature.’
‘Yet nature has created you, my lady, and you hardly conform to those rules. By your process of deduction, you cannot then consider yourself beautiful.’
The cruelty of his words was like a slap in the face. She had been so caught up in propounding her theory that she had unwittingly insulted him, and his response, to turn her own plainness against her, was much more painful than it ought to be. The light of intellectual conviction died from her eyes, and Cressie tumbled back down into harsh reality. Signor di Matteo possessed the kind of looks which made women cast caution to the winds, though most likely the caution they cast was physical rather than intellectual. ‘I am perfectly well aware, signor, that I am not beautiful.’
‘There is beauty in everything if you know how, and where, to look.’
He was standing too close to her. She was acutely aware of his brooding physical presence. Cressie got to her feet, intending to push him out of the way, but he caught hold of her arm. His fingers were long, tanned and quite free of paint, she noted absently. Her head barely reached the broad sweep of his shoulders. This close, there was no mistaking the strength which lurked underneath that lithe exterior. Being so near to him made her breathing erratic. It was embarrassment which was making her hot. Every propriety must be offended. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Unhand me at once.’
He ignored her, instead tilting her chin up and forcing her to meet his piercing gaze. She could escape quite easily, and yet it did not occur to her. ‘It is true,’ he said softly, ‘that your nose is not perfectly straight and so spoils the symmetry of your profile.’
Cressie