The Beauty Within. Marguerite Kaye

Cressie had thought. She realised now that her contempt had been founded on blissful ignorance.

      Her evenings had therefore been spent making a guilty effort to become better acquainted with a stepmother who made it plain that her company was welcome only in the absence of any other, for Cordelia had hastened to London the day after Cressie’s arrival at Killellan, fearful that either Lord Armstrong or Aunt Sophia might change their minds about her impending coming-out season. Cressie was alone for the first time in the house without any of her sisters for company. She was becoming short-tempered and grumpy with the boys, which in turn made her annoyed with herself, for she wanted to like her brothers as well as love them. She tried not to blame them for the lack of discipline which made them unruly to a fault. Every morning she told herself it was just a matter of trying harder. ‘I fear I rather underestimated the effort it takes to keep such active minds and bodies occupied,’ she said, smiling wanly at the portrait painter. ‘Still, I believe teaching will bring its own reward. At least—I hope it will.’

      Giovanni looked sceptical. ‘You should demand fair payment from your father. I think you would be amply rewarded if you did so, if only by his reaction.’

      ‘Goodness, he would be appalled,’ Cressie exclaimed. ‘The fact is I’m doing this for my own reasons, not merely to accommodate my father.’

      ‘And those reasons are?’

      ‘No concern of yours, Signor de Matteo. You do not like my father much, do you?’

      ‘He reminds me of someone I dislike very much.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘That is no concern of yours, Lady Cressida.’

       ‘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