‘Whether you accept it or not you are a woman, not a man, and I wish to paint you as one. Something else you are hiding under those terrible dresses you favour,’ he said, tracing the line of her throat with his fingers, brushing lightly over her breasts.

She caught her breath as he touched her. Without being conscious of it she stepped towards him, wanting his hand to cup her, yearning in the purest, most thoughtless of ways for him to satisfy the craving she had been feeling for days. It was nothing to do with aesthetics. She knew that. It was elemental—purely carnal.

‘You have the most delightful curves. Did you know that this is what your English painter Hogarth called “the line of beauty”?’ His fingers slid down, brushing the underside of her breast, to the indent of her waist and round, to rest on the curve of her bottom and pull her suddenly hard up against him. ‘You, Cressie, have the most beautiful line.’

His eyes were dark. She was trembling and in absolutely no doubt that this time he would kiss her. Nor in any doubt at all about what she wanted.

About the Author

Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise. Instead, she carved out a career in IT and studied history part-time, gaining a first-class honours and a master’s degree. A few decades after winning a children’s national poetry competition she decided to pursue her lifelong ambition to write, and submitted her first historical romance to Mills & Boon®. They accepted it, and she’s been writing ever since.

You can contact Marguerite through her website at: www.margueritekaye.com

Previous novels by the same author:

THE WICKED LORD RASENBY

THE RAKE AND THE HEIRESS

INNOCENT IN THE SHEIKH’S HAREM† (part of Summer Sheikhs anthology) THE GOVERNESS AND THE SHEIKH† THE HIGHLANDER’S REDEMPTION* THE HIGHLANDER’S RETURN* RAKE WITH A FROZEN HEART OUTRAGEOUS CONFESSIONS OF LADY DEBORAH DUCHESS BY CHRISTMAS (part of Gift-Wrapped Governesses anthology) *Highland Brides

and in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:

THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER

THE HIGHLANDER AND THE SEA SIREN

BITTEN BY DESIRE

TEMPTATION IS THE NIGHT

CLAIMED BY THE WOLF PRINCE** BOUND TO THE WOLF PRINCE** THE HIGHLANDER AND THE WOLF PRINCESS** THE SHEIKH’S IMPETUOUS LOVE-SLAVE† SPELLBOUND & SEDUCED BEHIND THE COURTESAN’S MASK FLIRTING WITH RUIN AN INVITATION TO PLEASURE

**Legend of the Faol †linked by character

and in M&B Castonbury Park Regency mini-series THE LADY WHO BROKE THE RULES

and in M&B eBooks: TITANIC: A DATE WITH DESTINY

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

AUTHOR NOTE

When I wrote my Princes of the Desert historical mini-series a couple of years ago, it was published with the strapline ‘Where English Roses meet Desert Sheikhs.’ The English Roses referred to were sisters, Lady Celia and Lady Cassandra, the eldest daughters of Lord Armstrong, a distinguished British diplomat. There were five Armstrong sisters in all, and it was always my intention to tell each of their stories eventually.

I had always envisaged Cressie as the bookish, intense sister (being the eldest of four sisters myself, I know how readily labels such as this are applied!). In an age where such bluestocking traits were not only discouraged but frowned upon, especially in young women of marriageable age, Cressie is an intellectual with a serious hang-up about her looks. Giovanni is a brooding and fatally attractive Italian artist, touched by genius, with a sordid and shameful past. Hardly the most obvious of matches, but definitely one which will generate a lot of sparks.

Cressie and Giovanni’s story touches on a number of seemingly conflicting concepts—truth versus beauty, science versus art, logic versus instinct, duty versus freedom—but it’s not about any of that. It’s about two people from different worlds who have an irresistible connection and who, in attempting to find themselves, find each other. What could be more romantic than that?

I fully intend to complete the Armstrong sisters cycle by writing Caro and Cordelia’s stories some time in the near future. But for the time being I hope you enjoy Cressie’s tale.

The Beauty Within
Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Arianna,

who helped me enormously with all things Italian,

though any mistakes are all mine.

Grazie mille!

Prologue

‘Absolutely marvellous. A triumph.’ Sir Romney Kirn rubbed his meaty hands together enthusiastically, his fingers like plump sausages, as he gazed at the canvas which had just been unveiled to him. ‘Quite, quite splendid. I’d say he’s done me justice, would not you, my love?’

‘Indeed, my dear,’ his good lady agreed. ‘One would even go so far as to say he has made you more handsome and distinguished than you are in the flesh, if that were possible.’

Sir Romney Kirn was not a man short of flesh, nor much given to modesty. The glow which suffused his already ruddy and bloated face was therefore most likely attributable to a surfeit of port the previous evening. Lady Kirn turned, her corsets creaking disconcertingly, towards the artist responsible for her husband’s portrait. ‘Your reputation as a genius is well deserved, signor,’ she said with a simpering little laugh, her eyelashes fluttering alarmingly.

She was clearly smitten, and in front of her husband to boot. Had she no shame? Giovanni di Matteo sighed. Why did women of a certain age insist on flirting with him? In fact, why did women of all ages feel it necessary to throw themselves at him? He gave the merest hint of a bow, anxious to be gone. ‘I am only as good as my subject, my lady.’

It worried him that the lies flowed with such practised ease. The baronet, a bluff man whose interests began and ended with hop farming had, over the course of several sittings, imparted his encyclopaedic knowledge of the crop while he posed, a copy of Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations in his hands—a volume which he admitted bluffly had not previously been opened, let alone read. The library which formed the backdrop to the portrait had been purchased as a job lot and had, Giovanni would have been willing to wager, remained entirely unvisited since its installation in the stately home—also recently acquired, following Sir Romney’s elevation to the peerage.

Giovanni eyed the glossy canvas with the critical eye his clients sorely lacked. Technically, it was a highly accomplished portrait: the light; the angles; the precise placing of the subject within the composition, Sir Romney being posed in such a way as to minimise his substantial girth and make the most of his weak profile; all were perfect. An excellent likeness, his clients said. They always did, and indeed it was, in as much as it portrayed the baronet exactly as he wished to be seen.

It was Giovanni’s business to create the illusion of authority or wealth, sensuality or innocence, charm or intelligence, whichever combination his sitter desired. Beauty—of a kind. This polished, idealistic portrayal was what his clients sought in a di Matteo. It was what he was famed for, why he was sought after, and yet, at the peak of his success, ten years since arriving in England, the country he had made his home, Giovanni stared with distaste at the canvas and felt like a failure.

It had not always been like this. There had been a time when a blank canvas filled him with excitement. A time when a finished work made him elated, not desolate and drained. Art and sex. He had celebrated one with the other back in those days. Illusions both, like the ones he now painted for a living. Art and sex. For him, they used to be inextricably linked. He had given up the latter. Nowadays, the former left him feeling cold and empty.

‘Now then, signor, here is the—er—necessary.’ Sir Romney handed Giovanni a leather pouch rather in the manner of a criminal bribing a witness.

‘Grazie.’ He put the fee into the pocket of his coat. It amused him, the way so many of his clients found the act of paying for their portrait distasteful, unwilling to make the connection between the painting and commerce, for beauty ought surely to be priceless.

Refusing the dainty glass of Madeira which Lady Kirn eagerly offered, Giovanni shook hands with Sir Romney and bade the couple farewell. He had an appointment in London tomorrow. Another portrait to paint. Another blank canvas waiting to be filled. Another ego waiting to be massaged. And another pile of gold to add to his coffers, he reminded himself, which was the whole point, after all.

Never again, no matter if he lived to a hundred, would Giovanni have cause to rely on anyone other than himself. Never again would he have to bow to the wishes of another, to shape himself into the form another expected. He would not be his father’s heir. He would not be any woman’s plaything. Or man’s for that matter—for there were many men of a certain type, wealthy and debauched, who liked to call themselves patrons but who were more interested in an artist’s body than his body of work. His answer to those proposals had always been succinct—a dagger held threateningly to the throat—and always had the desired effect.

Never again. If he had to prostitute something to maintain his precious independence, then let it be his art and nothing else.

The room rented for the evening by the London Astronomical Society in Lincoln’s Inn Fields was already crowded when the young man slipped unnoticed into his seat, anxious to remain inconspicuous. The meetings of this learned body of astronomers and mathematicians were not open to the public, but the way had been paved for his attendance by one of the members, Charles Babbage. The connection had initially been a family one, Mr Babbage’s wife, Georgiana, being a remote cousin of Mr Brown, the name by which the young gentleman went by upon occasions such as this, but a shared passion for mathematics had cemented the acquaintance into a somewhat unconventional, some might even say subversive, friendship.

Tonight, the Society’s president, John Herschel, was presenting his paper on double stars which had recently won him a gold medal. Though it was not an area in which the young man held a particular interest, primarily due to the fact that he had no access to a telescope of his own, Mr Brown took notes assiduously. He had not yet given up hope of persuading his father to purchase such an instrument by stressing the educational benefits which young minds, namely the younger siblings so indulged by his parent, could derive from star-gazing. Besides, Mr Herschel’s process of deduction based on reason and repeated observation was a technique common to all of the natural philosophies, including Mr Brown’s own particular area of interest.

Candles fluttered on the walls of the panelled room, which was dimly lit and stuffy. As the lecture progressed, coats were loosened and the levels of the decanters fell. The erstwhile Mr Brown, however, partook not a drop of wine nor removed his hat, never mind unbuttoned the bone buttons of his over-large frock coat. He was considerably more tender in years than the other members, if appearances were to be believed, with a soft cheek which looked to be untouched by a razor. His hair, what could be seen of it, was dark brown and corkscrew-curled giving him, frankly, a rather effete appearance. His eyes were an unexpected blue, the colour of a summer sea. Wide-spaced and dark-fringed, a close observer would perceive in them a hint of a sparkle, as if he were laughing at his own private joke. Whether from reticence or some other motive, Mr Brown took care not to allow any such close observation, hunching over his notebook, meeting no glances, chewing on his lower lip, shading his face with his hand.

The fingers in which he held his pencil were delicate, though the nails were sadly bitten, the skin around them picked raw and peeling. His slenderness was emphasised by the heavy folds of his dark wool coat. Under-developed, he looked to be, or simply under-nourished as studious youths often were, for they neglected to eat. At the Astronomical Society they were accustomed to such types.

As soon as the lecture was over, the applause given and the myriad of questions addressed, Mr Brown got to his feet, huddling into a voluminous black cloak which made him seem even slighter. To a kind enquiry as to whether he had enjoyed the President’s lecture he nodded gravely but did not speak, hurrying out of the room ahead of the other attendees, down the shallow steps of the building and into Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The gardens across the way loomed, silent and slightly foreboding, the trees dark shapes which logic told him were simply trees but which felt menacing all the same. ‘Be a man,’ he muttered to himself. The words seemed to amuse him, and his amusement served to banish his trepidation.

The other buildings, once grand town houses, were these days almost all given over to offices of the law. Though it was after ten at night, lights burned in several windows. The shadow of a clerk huddled over his desk could be made out in the nearest basement. Conscious of the lateness of the hour, determinedly ignoring the lurking danger which any sensible person must be aware accompanied the location, the gentleman skirted Covent Garden and made his way towards Drury Lane. It would have been an easy thing to procure a hackney here, but his destination was relatively close, and besides he had no wish to speed his arrival. Head down, keeping the brim of his hat over his face, he passed the brothels and gaming houses. Eschewing the quickest route along Oxford Street, he headed for the genteel streets of Bloomsbury where he allowed his pace to slacken.

A distinct change came over Mr Brown as he neared Lord Henry Armstrong’s substantial town house in Cavendish Square. The sparkle left his eyes. His shoulders hunched as if he were retreating into himself. His steps slowed further. A combination of illicit thrill and intellectual stimulation had charged his blood and his brain during the meeting he had attended. Looking up at the tall, shuttered windows of the first-floor drawing room which stared blankly down at him, he felt as if those sensations were literally draining away. Though he fought it, he could not conquer the feeling, not quite of dread but of dejection, which enveloped him. He did not belong here, but there was no escaping the fact that it was his home.

Through the closed drapes of the window on the ground floor to the left-hand side of the door, light glimmered. Lord Armstrong, a distinguished senior diplomat of many years standing who had contrived to retain his post and increased his influence in the newly elected Duke of Wellington’s government, was working in his book room. Heart sinking, the young gentleman turned his key in the lock and made his way as silently as he could across the reception hall.

‘Cressida, is that you?’ the voice boomed.

The Honourable Lady Cressida Armstrong halted in her tracks, one foot on the bottom step of the staircase. She cursed in a most unladylike manner under her breath. ‘Yes, Father, it is I. Goodnight, Father,’ she called, foolishly crossing her fingers behind her back and making for the staircase, diving as fast as she could for the sanctity of her bedchamber before she was discovered.

Chapter One

London—March 1828

The clock in the reception hall downstairs chimed noon. Having spent much of the morning working and re-working a piece which transcribed the basics of her theory on the mathematics of beauty into a form which could be easily understood by the readers of The Kaleidoscope journal, Cressie now stared unhappily at her reflection in the tall looking-glass. Had she allowed sufficient time to summon her maid, perhaps her unruly curls would bear less resemblance to a bird’s nest, but it was too late now. The morning gown of brown-printed cotton patterned with cream and burnt-orange flashes and trimmed with navy satin ribbon was one of her favourites. The sleeves, contrary to the current fashion, were only slightly puffed, and came down almost to her knuckles, hiding her ink-stained fingers from sight. The skirts were, also contrary to fashion, not quite bell-shaped, and the hem was trimmed with only one flounce. Sombre and serious was the effect she was aiming for. Cressie pulled a face. Washed-out, plain and rather ragged around the edges was what she had achieved. ‘As usual,’ she muttered, turning away from her reflection with a shrug.

Making her way downstairs, she braced herself for the encounter ahead. Whatever the reason behind her father’s request to speak with her, she could be certain it was not going to be a pleasant experience. ‘Be a man,’ Cressie said to herself with a defiant swish of her skirts as she tapped on the door of the book room. Curtsying briefly, she took a seat in front of the imposing walnut desk. ‘Father.’

Lord Henry Armstrong, still handsome at fifty-five years of age, nodded curtly. ‘Ah, Cressida, there you are. I had a letter from your stepmother this morning. You may congratulate me. Sir Gilbert Mountjoy has confirmed that she is increasing.’

‘Again!’ Bella had already produced four boys in eight years, there was surely no need for yet more—and in any event, Cressie had supposed her father to be well past that sort of thing. She screwed up her nose. Not that she wanted to contemplate her father and Bella and that sort of thing. She caught his eye and attempted to rearrange her expression into something more congratulatory. ‘Another half-sibling. How very—agreeable. A sister would make a most pleasant change, would it not?’

Lord Armstrong drummed his fingers on his blotter and glared at his daughter. ‘I would hope Bella would have the good sense to produce me another son. Daughters have their uses but it is sons who provide the wherewithal to secure the family’s position in society.’

He made his children sound like chess pieces in some arrogant game, Cressie thought bitterly, though she chose not to voice it. She knew her father well enough, and this was a mere preamble. If he wanted to speak to her it invariably meant he wanted her to do something for him. Daughters have their uses right enough!

‘To the matter in hand,’ Lord Armstrong said, bestowing on Cressie the sort of benevolent smile that had averted a hundred diplomatic incidents and placated a myriad of courtiers and officials across Europe. The effect on his daughter was rather the opposite. Whatever he was about to say, she would not like. ‘Your stepmother has not been in her customary rude health. The good Sir Gilbert has confined her to bed. It is most inconvenient, for with Bella indisposed, it means Cordelia’s coming-out will have to be postponed.’

Cressie’s rather stiff smile faded. ‘Oh no! Cordelia will be most upset, she has been counting the days. Cannot my Aunt Sophia take Bella’s place for the Season?’

‘Your aunt is a fine woman and has been an enormous support to me over the years, but she is not as young as she was. If only it were just a question of Cordelia. I have no doubt that your sister will go off quickly, for she’s a little beauty. I have Barchester in mind for her, you must know, he has excellent connections. However, it is not simply a question of Cordelia, is it? There is your own unmarried state to consider. I had intended that Bella would act as escort for you both this Season. You cannot prevaricate indefinitely, Cressida.’

The veteran diplomat looked meaningfully at his daughter, who wondered rebelliously if her father had any idea of what he’d be up against, trying to coerce Cordelia into wedding a man whose full, gleaming set of teeth owed their existence in his mouth to their removal from the gums of one of his tenants, if rumour was to be believed. ‘If Lord Barchester is your ambition for Cordelia,’ Cressie said, keeping her eyes fixed on her clasped hands, ‘then it is to be hoped that he is more enamoured with her than he was with myself.’

‘Hmm.’ Lord Armstrong drummed his fingers again. ‘That, Cressida, is an excellent point.’

‘It is?’ Cressie said warily. She was not used to praise of any sort from her father.

‘Indeed. You are twenty-eight now.’

‘Twenty-six, actually.’

‘No matter. The point is you have scared the devil out of every eligible man I’ve put your way, and the fact is that I intend to put some of them your sister’s way. They’ll not want you standing beside her like a spectre when I do. As I mentioned earlier, your Aunt Sophia is too advanced in years to adequately present two gals in one Season, so it seems I must choose. Cordelia will likely fly off the shelf. I think my ambitions for you will have to be temporarily put into abeyance. No, do not, I pray, feign disappointment, daughter,’ Lord Armstrong added caustically. ‘No crocodile tears, I beg you.’

Cressie’s clasped hands curled into fists. Over the years, it had become her determined policy never to let her father see how easily he could bruise her feelings. That he still managed to do so was one of the things which vexed her most. She understood him very well yet still, no matter how predictable were his barbs, they invariably hurt. She had long ceased thinking that he would ever understand her, far less value her, but somehow she felt compelled to keep trying. Why was it so difficult to fit her emotions to her understanding! She sighed. Because he was her father and she loved him, she supposed. Though she found it very hard to like him.

Lord Armstrong frowned down at the letter from his spouse. ‘Do not, either, delude yourself that you are entirely off the hook. I have another pressing problem that you can assist me with. Apparently that damned governess of the boys has fled her post. James put a pig’s bladder filled with water in her bed, and the woman left without giving any notice.’ The diplomat gave a bark of laughter. ‘Chip off the old block, young James. We used to get up to the same jape at Harrow when I was a stripling.’

‘James,’ Cressie said feelingly, ‘is not high-spirited but utterly spoilt. What’s more, where James leads Harry follows.’ She might have known that this would turn out to be about her father’s precious sons. She loved her halfbrothers well enough, even if they were thoroughly spoilt, but her father’s preoccupation with them to the exclusion of everything, and everyone, else, grated.

‘The nub of the matter is that my wife is clearly in no position to secure a suitable new governess post-haste, and I myself, it goes without saying, have many weighty matters of state to attend to. Wellington relies on me completely, you know.’ It was an illusion, Cressie knew, but she could swear that her father visibly puffed up as he made this pronouncement. ‘However, my boys’ education must not be interrupted,’ he continued, ‘I have great plans for all of them. I have pondered on this, and it seems to me that the solution is obvious.’

‘It is?’ Cressie said doubtfully.

‘It certainly is to me. You, Cressida, will be governess to my sons. That way, Cordelia will be able to come out this Season as planned. Placing you in the position of governess removes you most expediently from Cordelia’s arena, and spares you from being a burden by making use of that brain you are so proud of. My sons’ education will not be jeopardised. With a bit of luck we may even have Cordelia married by the autumn. And there is the added bonus of having you on hand at Killellan Manor while Bella is indisposed, thus providing you with the opportunity to forge a more amenable relationship with your stepmother than hitherto.’ Lord Armstrong beamed at his daughter. ‘If I say so myself, I have devised a most elegant and satisfactory solution to a potentially difficult situation. Which, one supposes, is why Wellington values my diplomatic skills so highly.’

Cressie’s thoughts were, however, far from diplomatic. Presented with what she had no doubt was a fait accompli, her instinct was to find some way of sabotaging her father’s carefully laid plans. But even as she opened her mouth to protest, it came to her that perhaps she could turn the situation to her advantage.

‘You wish me to act as governess?’ Her brain worked feverishly. Her brothers were taxing, but if she could manage to teach James and Harry the principles of geometry using the primer she had written, it might provide her publishers with the evidence they needed to commit to a print date. Freyworth and Son had initially been most enthusiastic when she first visited their offices, and most reassuring on the subject of discretion. The firm had, Mr Freyworth told her, several lady writers on their books who wished, for various reasons, to remain anonymous. Surely such practical proof as she would obtain from successfully instructing her brothers would persuade him that her book really was a viable commercial proposition? Selling her primer would be the first step to financial independence, which was the first step towards freedom. And who knew, if she managed his precious boys better than any of the other governesses, she might finally gain her father’s approbation. Although that, Cressie conceded, was unlikely.

Even more importantly, accepting his proposal meant that she would not have to spend a seventh Season mouldering away on the shelf while her father schemed and plotted an alliance. So far, he had stopped short of taking out an advertisement on the front page of the Morning Post along with the intimations of patents pending, but who knew what he might do if he became desperate enough. One daughter, without looks but of excellent lineage and diplomatic connections, offered to ambitious man with acceptable pedigree and political aspirations. Tory preferred, but Whig considered. No tradesmen or time wasters.

Now she thought of it, it was a distinct possibility for, as Lord Armstrong never tired of pointing out, she possessed neither the poise nor beauty of any of her other sisters. That she was the clever one was no consolation whatsoever to Cressie, when she thought of how incredibly foolishly she had behaved during that fiasco of her third Season, by surrendering her one marketable asset to Giles Peyton. That she could have been so desperate—Cressie shuddered. Even now, the memory was mortifying. It had been a disaster in every possible way save one—her reputation, if not her hymen, was intact, for her erstwhile lover and intended husband had hastily taken up a commission shortly afterwards, leaving her in sole possession of the unpalatable facts.

In more recent Seasons, her father’s attempts to marry her off had smacked of desperation, but he had never once flagged in his manipulations. He thought he was manipulating her now, but if she kept her cards close to her chest, she might just manage to turn the tables. Cressie felt a small glow inside her. Whether it was self-satisfaction or a feeling of empowerment she wasn’t sure, but it was a feeling she liked. ‘Very well, Father, I will do as you ask and act as governess to the boys.’

She kept her voice carefully restrained, for to hint that she wished to do as he said would be a major tactical error. It seemed she had hit just the right note of reluctant compliance, for Lord Armstrong nodded brusquely. ‘Of course they will require a proper male tutor before they go to Harrow, but in the meantime the rudiments of mathematics, Latin and Greek—I believe I can rely on you for those.’

‘Rudiments!’

Lord Armstrong, seeing that his remark had hit home, smiled. ‘I am aware, Cressida, that you consider your erudition rather above the requirements of my sons. It is my fault. I have been an over-indulgent parent,’ he said in all sincerity. ‘I should have put an end to these studies of yours long ago. I see they have given you a most inflated view of your own intellect. It is no wonder that you have failed to bring any man up to scratch.’

Was it true? Was she conceited?

‘Next year,’ Lord Armstrong continued inexorably, ‘when Cordelia is off my hands, I shall expect you to accept the first offer of marriage I arrange for you. It is your duty, and I expect you to honour it. Do I make myself clear?’

It had always been made abundantly clear to her that, as a daughter, as a mere female, her purpose was to serve, but her father had never before laid it out so clearly and unequivocally.

‘Cressida, I asked you a question. Do I make myself clear?’

She hesitated, torn between bitter hurt and impotent fury. Silently, she pledged that she would use this year to find a way, any way save telling him the awful, shameful truth of her dalliance with Giles, of placing herself firmly on the shelf and just as importantly, of establishing herself as an independent and wholly un-dependent female. Cressie glared at her father. ‘You make yourself abundantly clear.’

‘Excellent,’ Lord Armstrong replied with infuriating calm. ‘Now, to other matters. Ah—’ he broke off as a tap on the study door heralded the arrival of his butler ‘—that will be him now.’

‘Signor di Matteo awaits his lordship’s pleasure,’ the butler intoned.

‘The portrait-painter fellow,’ Lord Armstrong casually informed his daughter, as if this should be the most obvious thing in the world. ‘You shall relieve your stepmother of that burden also, Cressida.’

He had obviously walked in on some sort of altercation, for the atmosphere in the study fairly crackled with tension as Giovanni entered the room in the portly wake of Lord Armstrong’s butler. The manservant, either oblivious to the strained mood or, more likely in the way of English servants, trained to give that impression, announced him and departed, leaving Giovanni alone with the two warring factions. One of them was obviously Lord Armstrong, his client. The other, a female, whose face was lost under a mass of unruly curls, stood with her arms crossed defiantly over her bosom. He could almost taste the pent-up frustration simmering away beneath the surface, could guess too, from the way she veiled her eyes, the vulnerability she was trying to hide. Such a mastery of her emotions was intriguing, for it required, as Giovanni could attest, a lifetime’s practice. Whoever she was, she was not your typical simpering English rose.

Giovanni made his perfunctory bow, just low enough and no more, for it was one of the advantages of his success that he no longer had to feign deference. As was his custom, his dress was austere, even severe. His frock coat with its high shawl collar and wide skirts would be the height of fashion were it any colour other than black. Similarly his high-buttoned waistcoat, his stirrupped trousers and highly polished square-toe shoes, all unrelieved black, making the neat ruffles of his pristine shirt and carefully tied cravat gleam an impossible white. It amused him to create an appearance in such stark contrast to the flamboyant and colourful persona his high-born sitters expected of a prestigious artist—and an Italian one at that. He looked as if he were in mourning. There were times, of late, when he felt that he was.

‘Signor de Matteo.’ Lord Armstrong sketched an even more shallow bow. ‘May I present my daughter, Lady Cressida.’

The glance she shot her father was a bitter dart. It was received with a small smile. Whatever had transpired between them was the latest in what Giovanni surmised had been a lifetime of such skirmishes. He made another bow, a little more sincerely this time. Looking into a pair of eyes the azure blue of the Mediterranean Sea in summer, he saw they were overly bright. ‘My lady.’

She did not curtsy, but offered her hand to shake, like a gentleman. ‘How do you do, signor.’ A firm clasp she had, though her nails were in an atrocious state, chewed to the quick, the skin bleeding around the edges. She had a pleasant voice, to his ear, the vowels clipped and precise. He had the impression of a fierce intelligence blazing from her eyes under that intense frown, though not beauty. Indeed, her dreadful gown, the way she rounded her posture, curling into herself as she sat down, made it clear that she cultivated plainness. But for all that—or perhaps because of that—he thought she had an interesting face.

Was she to be his subject? A pique of interest flared momentarily but no, the commission was for a portrait of children, and Lady Cressida was most definitely well past her girlhood. A pity, for he would have liked to try to capture the vitality behind the shimmering resentment. She was no empty-headed society beauty, nor appeared to have any aspirations to be depicted as such. He cursed the paradox which made the most interesting of subjects the least inclined to be painted, and the most beautiful subjects the ones he was least inclined to depict. Then he reminded himself that beauty was his business. A fact he was having to remind himself of rather too often.

‘Sit, sit.’ Lord Armstrong ushered him to a chair and resumed his own seat, surveying him shrewdly from behind the desk. ‘I wish you to paint a portrait of my boys. James is eight. Harry six. And the twins, George and Frederick, are five.’

‘Four, actually,’ the daughter intervened.

Her father waved away her comment. ‘Still in short coats, is the important thing. You’ll paint them together, as a group.’

It was, Giovanni noted, an instruction rather than a question. ‘And the mother too?’ he asked. ‘That is the usual …’

‘Lord, no. Bella’s not—no, no, I do not wish my wife depicted.’

‘What, then, of their sister?’ Giovanni asked, turning towards Lady Cressida.

‘Just the boys. I want you to capture their charms,’ his lordship said, looking pointedly at his daughter, whom he obviously considered to possess none.

Giovanni repressed a sigh. Another tedious depiction of cherubic children. Sons, but no daughter. The English aristocracy were no different from the Italian in their views in that regard. It was to be a pretty and idealistic portrait totally lacking in any truth, the licit products of Lord Armstrong’s loins displayed in the family gallery for posterity. His heart sank. ‘You wish me to show your sons as charming,’ he repeated fatalistically.

‘They are charming.’ Lord Armstrong frowned. ‘Proper manly boys, mind. I want you to show that too, nothing namby-pamby. Now, as to the composition …’

‘You may leave that decision with me.’ Forced to paint a vision far removed from reality he might be, but his fame had at least allowed him some element of control. As Giovanni had expected, his lordship looked put out. It was all so predictable. ‘You may have every confidence in my choice. I presume you have seen my work, my lord?’

‘Not seen as such, but I’ve heard excellent reports of it. I wouldn’t have summoned you here if I hadn’t.’

This was new. Across from him, he could see that it was news also to Lady Cressida, who looked appalled.

‘I fail to see how my being unfamiliar with your work is at all relevant.’ Lord Armstrong frowned heavily at his daughter. ‘As a diplomat, I have to trust the word of others constantly. If there’s a problem in Egypt, or Lisbon, or Madrid, I can’t be expected to hotfoot it over there in person. I ask myself, who is the best man for the job, and then I get him to deal with it. It’s the same with this portrait. I have taken soundings, sought expert advice. Signor di Matteo was consistently highly recommended—in point of fact,’ he said, turning to Giovanni, ‘I was told you were the best. Was I misinformed?’

‘Certainly, demand for my portraits far outstrips the rate at which I can produce them,’ Giovanni replied. Which was true, and ought to cause him a great deal more satisfaction than it did, even if it did not actually answer Lord Armstrong’s question. His success was such that he could command an extremely high premium for his portraits, even if that very success felt not like freedom but a prison of his own making. Another thing Giovanni was discovering recently, that success was a double-edged sword. Fame and fortune, while on the one hand securing his independence, had severely compromised his creativity. It was a price worth paying, he told himself every day. No matter that he felt his muse recede ever faster with every passing commission.

His newest patron, however, seemed quite satisfied with his response. To possess what others desired was sufficient for Lord Armstrong, as it was for most of his class.

His lordship got to his feet. ‘Then we are agreed.’ He held out his hand, and Giovanni stood too, taking it in a firm grip. ‘My secretary will handle the—er, commercial details. I look forward to seeing the finished product. I must make my excuses now, for I am expected at Apsley House. There is a chance I may have to accompany Wellington on his trip to St Petersburg. Inconvenient, but when one’s country calls, what can one do! I shall leave you in my daughter’s charge, signor. She will supervise her brothers during the sittings. Anything you need Cressida can provide, since Lady Armstrong, my wife, is currently indisposed.’

With only a curt nod in his daughter’s direction, Lord Armstrong hurried from the room, content that he had in one fell swoop neatly resolved all his domestic problems and could now concentrate his mind fully on the much more important and devilishly tricky matter of how best to address the issue of Greek independence without standing on either Turkish or Russian toes.

Left alone with the artist, Cressida surveyed him properly for the first time. She had been so absorbed in trying to maintain control of her temper that until now she had noted merely that Signor di Matteo’s dress was not at all like the peacock she expected, that he was younger than she had surmised from his reputation, and that his English was excellent. What struck her now with some force was that he was starkly and strikingly beautiful. Not merely handsome, but possessing such an ethereal magnetism and sense of physical perfection that she could almost question whether or not he was real.

Aware that she was staring, she took a mental inventory in an attempt to unscramble her reeling senses. High cheekbones and a high brow, the sleek line of his head outlined by the close-cropped cap of raven-black hair. His eyes were dark brown under heavy dark lids. It was a classically proportioned face, albeit vaguely saturnine. The planes of his cheeks were sharp, accentuated by the hollows below. He had a good nose. A near enough perfect nose, in fact. And his mouth—it was wasted on a man, that mouth. Full lips, top and bottom, deeply sensual, sculpted, and at the same time it curved up just enough to make him look as if he was on the verge of a smile, just enough to take the edge off his forbidding expression. Even without measuring the precise angles, Cressie could tell she was looking at the physical embodiment of perfect mathematical beauty. A face which would launch a thousand ships—or flutter a thousand female hearts more likely, she thought cynically. But it was also the epitome of her theory. And at that thought, her heart gave a little unaccustomed flutter.

She was being rude, though, judging from the way Signor di Matteo was returning her gaze. Haughty and at the same time wearily resigned, he was clearly accustomed to being stared at. No wonder, and even less of a surprise was his indifference to her, for he had painted some famous beauties. Unlike her father, Cressie had studied several examples of Signor di Matteo’s work in the course of her research for her treatise. Like the man himself, his paintings were perfectly proportioned and classically beautiful. Too perfect, almost. His subjects were portrayed flawlessly and flatteringly. There was, in the small number of portraits she had managed to view, a similarity in the way their faces conformed to an ideal, the result of which was undoubtedly a very accomplished likeness, but also moulded the individual features from a kind of template of beauty. Which was exactly the premise of the theory that Cressie had developed. Beauty could be reduced to a series of mathematical rules. It would be fascinating to see first-hand how Signor di Matteo, the famous artist, set about creating his works.

A famous artist who, Cressie now noted with deep embarrassment, was tapping his fingers impatiently on her father’s desk. She flushed. How rude he must think her. ‘I trust you have in mind a suitably flattering composition, signor. As you will no doubt have noticed, my father dotes on his sons.’

‘His charming boys.’

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 glowered. ‘I am perfectly aware of that.’

‘And your eyes. They are too wide-spaced, and so not in the proportion to your mouth which Pacioli requires.’

One long finger traced the line he mentioned. His own eyes had a rim of gold at the edges. The lashes were black and thick. His touch was doing strange things to her insides. It made her jittery. Nervous. Was he flirting with her? Definitely not. He was merely punishing her for her unintended insult. ‘And my ears are out of alignment with my nose, the ratio between my chin and my forehead is wrong,’ Cressie said, with an insouciance she most certainly did not feel. ‘As for my mouth …’

‘As for your mouth …’

Signor di Matteo trailed his finger along the length of her bottom lip. She felt the most absurd urge to taste him. He growled something in Italian. His fingers splayed out over her jaw. He bent his head towards her. He was going to kiss her.

Cressie’s heart thudded. He really was going to kiss her. The muscles in her calves tensed in preparation for flight, but she didn’t move. His fingers slid along her jaw to tangle in her hair. She watched, urging herself to escape, but at the same time another part of her brain was enthralled, mesmerised, by that perfectly symmetrical face. Let him, she thought. Let him kiss me, if he dares!

His lips hovered a fraction over hers, just long enough for her to have a premonition of melting, a premonition of what it would be like to cede, to unleash whatever it was he kept restrained. Just long enough for Cressie to come to her senses.

She yanked herself free. ‘How dare you!’ It sounded very unconvincing, even to herself. She was struggling to breathe, praying that the heat which flooded her cheeks, which was surely mortification, was not too apparent. The nerve of him! He was outrageously attractive and he obviously knew it. Also, he was Italian. Everyone knew that Italian men were quite unable to control their passions. Obviously, it was not such a cliché as she had thought.

‘To return to your point, signor, I concede that my mouth is too wide to be considered beautiful,’ Cressie said, relieved to hear that her voice sounded almost composed.

‘Beauty, Lady Cressida, is not exclusively about symmetry. Your mouth is very beautiful, in my humble opinion.’

Giovanni di Matteo did not look the least abashed. ‘You ought not to have kissed me,’ Cressie said.

‘I did not kiss you. And you ought not to have spoken so scathingly of my work, especially since you have never seen it.’

‘Do not assume that I am so ignorant as my father. I have studied it, and I did not speak scathingly! I merely pointed out that you—that painting—that any art—’

‘Can be reduced to a set of principles and rules. I was listening.’ But even as he curled his lip, Giovanni had a horrible suspicion that this wholly unorthodox female had somehow managed to get to the root of his dissatisfaction. In the early days, when he painted for the simple pleasure of creating something unique, he had channelled that tangible connection between canvas and brush and palette and blood and skin and bone, painting from the heart and not the head. It had earned him nothing but mockery from the so-called experts. Naïve. Emotional. Lacking discipline and finesse. The words were branded on his heart. He learned to hone his craft, eradicate all emotion from his work. To his eye it rendered it soulless, but it proved immensely popular. The experts acclaimed it, the titled and influential commissioned it. He chose not to disillusion any of them. Giovanni made his bow. ‘Much as I have enjoyed our discussion, Lady Cressida, I must go and continue with the more prosaic task of capturing the likeness of my current client. I bid you good day.’

He took her hand, raising it to his lips. As he kissed her fingertips, the spark of awareness took him by surprise. Judging by her shocked expression, he was not the only one affected by it.

Chapter Two

Giovanni leapt down from the gig as it drew to a halt in front of Killellan Manor, the country estate of the Armstrong family, airily dismissing the waiting footman’s offer to escort him to the door. He had travelled to Sussex on the mail, which had been met at the nearest posting inn by Lord Armstrong’s coachman. It was a cold but clear day, the clouds scudding across the pale blue sky of early spring, encouraged by the brisk March breeze. Pulling his greatcoat more tightly around himself, he stamped his feet in an effort to stimulate the circulation. There were many things about England he admired, but the weather was not one of them.

Lord Armstrong’s impressive residence was constructed of grey sandstone. Palladian in style, with the main four-storey building flanked by two wings, the façade which fronted on to the carriage way was marred, in Giovanni’s view, by the unnecessary addition of a much later semicircular portico. Enclosed by the high hedges into which the gates were set, the house looked gloomy and rather forbidding.

Wishing to stretch his legs after the long journey before announcing his presence, Giovanni followed the main path past a high-walled garden and the stable buildings to discover a prospect at the front of the house altogether different and much more pleasing to the eye. Here, manicured lawns edged with bright clumps of daffodils and narcissi stretched down, via a set of wide and shallow stone steps, to a stream which burbled along a pebbled river bed towards a watermill. On the far side of the river, the vista was of gently rolling meadows neatly divided by hedgerows. Despite the fact that the rustic bridge looked rather suspiciously too rustic, he couldn’t help but be entranced by this quintessentially English landscape.

‘It is a perfect example of what the poet, Mr Blake, calls England’s green and pleasant land, is it not?’

Giovanni started, for the words came from someone standing immediately behind him. The rush of the water over the pebbles had disguised her approach. ‘Lady Cressida. I was thinking almost exactly that, though I am not familiar with the poet, I’m afraid. Unless—could it be William Blake, the artist?’

‘He is more known for his verse than his art.’

‘That will change. I have seen some of his paintings. They are …’ Giovanni struggled to find an appropriate English word to describe the fantastical drawings and watercolours which seemed to explode out of the paper. ‘Extraordinary,’ he settled on finally and most unsatisfactorily. ‘I find them beautiful, but most certainly they would fail your mathematical criteria.’

‘And this?’ She waved at the landscape. ‘Would you consider this beautiful?’

‘I suspect your father has invested rather a lot of money to ensure that it is. That bridge, it cannot possibly be as old as it appears.’

‘There is also a little artfully ruined folly in the grounds, and you are quite correct, neither are older than I am.’

It had been more than two weeks since their first meeting in London. In the interval, Giovanni had replayed their conversation several times in his head, and that almost-but-not-quite kiss too. It had been a foolish act to take such a liberty with the daughter of the man who was paying his commission, and a man of such palpable influence too. He couldn’t understand why he had been so cavalier. Attempting to recreate Lady Cressida feature by feature using charcoal on paper had proved entirely unsatisfactory. He had been unable to capture the elusive quality that had piqued his interest. Now, as she stood before him, the sun shining directly behind her, making a halo of her wild curls, the dark shadows under her startlingly blue eyes, the faintest trace of a frown drawing her brows together giving her a delicate, bruised look, he could see that it was nothing to do with her features but something more complex which drew him to her. It puzzled him, until he realised that her allure was quite basic. He wanted to capture that ambiguity of hers in oils.

‘You look tired,’ Giovanni said, speaking his thoughts aloud.

‘My brothers are—energetic,’ Cressie replied. Exhausting would be more accurate, but that would sound defeatist. Two weeks of shepherding four small boys intent on making mischief had taken their toll—for the twins, though not formally included in her lessons, insisted on being with their brothers at all times. Until they had become her responsibility, she had been dismissive of Bella’s complaints that the boys wore her down to the bone. They were mere children—all they required was sufficient mental stimulation and exercise, 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 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.’

‘An experiment.’

Her smile informed him that he had chosen exactly the right form of words. ‘You understand, it will require us to spend considerable time alone together. I cannot work with any distractions or interruptions,’ he added hastily, realising how ambiguous this sounded. ‘You will need to find a way of ridding yourself of your charges for a time.’

‘Would that I could do so altogether.’ Cressie put her hand over her mouth. ‘I did not mean that, of course. I will find a way, but I think it would be prudent if we keep our experiment between ourselves, signor.’ She grinned. ‘You and I know that we are conducting research in the name of science, but I do not think Bella would view our being locked away alone together with only an easel for company in quite the same light.’

As Bella Frobisher, Lady Armstrong had been a curvaceous young woman when she first met her future husband, with what his sister, Lady Sophia, called ‘fine child-bearing hips’. Those hips had now borne four children, all of them lusty boys, and were, like the rest of Bella’s body, looking rather the worse for wear. A naturally indolent temperament, combined with a spouse who made little attempt to hide his indifference to every aspect of her save her ability to breed, led Bella to indulge her sweet tooth to the full. Her curves were now ample enough to undulate, rippling under her gowns in a most disconcerting manner, her condition having forced her to abandon her corsets. At just five-and-thirty, she looked at least ten years older, dressed as she was in a voluminous cherry-red afternoon dress trimmed with quantities of frothy lace which did nothing for her pale complexion. A pretty face with a pair of sparkling brown eyes was just about visible sunk amid an expanse of fat.

Though she had never aspired to being a wit, Bella had been happy to be labelled vivacious, and had always been extremely sociable until her husband made it clear that her lack of political nous made her something of a liability. He summarily replaced her at the head of his political table with his sister and, having made sure that she was impregnated, consigned his wife to the country. Here, Bella had remained, popping out healthy Armstrong boys at regular intervals, taking pleasure in her sons but in very little else. Though she knew it would displease her husband, she longed for this next child to be a daughter, the consolation prize she surely deserved, who would provide her mama with the affection she craved.

Disappointed from a very early stage in her marriage, unable to express her disappointment to the man responsible, Bella had turned her ire instead on his daughters, who made it very easy for her to do so since they made it all too obvious that they thought her a usurper. Her malice had become a habit she did not even contemplate breaking. Pregnant, bloated, lonely and bored, it was hardly surprising, then, that Giovanni, his breathtaking masculine beauty enhanced by the austerity of his black attire, would appear to her like a gift from the gods she thought had abandoned her.

‘Lady Armstrong, it is an honour,’ he said, bowing over her dimpled and be-ringed hand as she lay on the chaise-longue, ‘and a pleasure.’

Bella simpered breathlessly. She had never in all her days seen such a divine specimen of manhood. ‘I can tell from your delightful accent that you are Italian.’

‘Tuscan,’ Cressie said tersely, unaccountably annoyed by the extraordinary effect Giovanni was having on her stepmother. She sat down in a chair opposite and gazed pointedly at Lady Armstrong’s prostrate form. ‘Are you feeling poorly again? Perhaps we should leave you to take tea alone?’

Flushing, Bella pushed aside the soft cashmere scarf which covered her knees, and struggled upright. ‘Thank you, Cressida. I am quite well enough to pour Signor di Matteo a cup of tea. Milk or lemon, signor? Neither? Oh well, of course I suppose you Italians do not drink much tea. An English habit I confess I myself am very fond of. Cake? Well then, if you do not, I shall have to eat your slice else cook will be mortally offended, for Cressida, you know, has not a sweet tooth. Perhaps if she did, her temperament might improve somewhat. My stepdaughter is very serious, as you will no doubt have gathered by now, signor. Cake is far too frivolous a thing for Cressida to enjoy. You know, of course, that she is presently acting governess to two of my sons? James and Harry. You will be wishing to know more about them, I dare say, if you are to do justice to my angels.’ Finally stopping for breath, Bella beamed and ingested the greater part of a wedge of jam sponge.

‘Lord Armstrong informs me that his sons are charming,’ Giovanni said into the silence which was broken only by his hostess’s munching. She nodded and inhaled another inch or so of cake. Fascinated by the way she managed to consume so much into such a comparatively small mouth, he was momentarily at a loss.

Brushing the crumbs from her fingers, Bella launched once more into speech, this time a eulogy on the many and manifold charms of her dear boys. ‘They are so very fond of their little jokes too,’ she trilled. ‘Cressida claims they lack discipline, but I tell her that it is a question of respect.’ Bella cast a malicious smile at her stepdaughter. ‘One cannot force-feed such intelligent children a lot of boring facts. Such a method of teaching is all very well for little girls, most likely, but with boys as lively as mine—well, I am not one to criticise, but I do think it was a mistake, not hiring a qualified governess to replace dear Miss Meacham.’

‘Dear Miss Meacham left because she could no longer tolerate my brothers’ so-called liveliness,’ Cressie interjected.

‘Oh, nonsense. Why must you always put such a negative slant on everything your brothers do? Miss Meacham left because she felt she was not up to the job of tutoring such clever children. “I wish fervently they get what they deserve” is what she said to me when she left, and I heartily agree. I don’t know what your father was thinking of, to be perfectly honest, entrusting you with such a role, Cressida. Though perhaps it is more of a question of not knowing what role to assign you, since you are plainly unsuited to play the wife. After—how many years is it now, since I launched you?’

‘Six.’

Bella shook her head at Giovanni. ‘Six years, and despite the best efforts of myself and her father, she has not been able to bring a single man up to scratch,’ she said sweetly. ‘I am not one to boast, but I had Caroline off my hands with very little fuss, and I have no doubt that Cordelia will go off even more quickly. You have not met Cressida’s sisters, but sadly she has none of their looks. Even Celia, the eldest, you know, who lives in Arabia, has her charms, though it was always Cassandra who was the acknowledged beauty. I suppose one plain sister out of five is to be expected. If only she were not such a blue-stocking, I really do believe I could have done something with her.’ Bella shrugged and smiled sweetly again at Giovanni. ‘But she scared them all off.’

Realising that she was in danger of looking like a petulant child, Cressie tried not to glower. The words so closely echoed her father’s that she was for a moment convinced he and Bella were conspiring to belittle her. Though Bella had said nothing new, nor indeed anything which Cressie had not already blurted out to Giovanni upon their first meeting, it was embarrassing to have to listen to her character being dissected in such a way. So much for all her attempts to think more kindly of her stepmother. As to what Giovanni must be making of Bella’s shocking manners, it didn’t bear thinking about.

She put down her tea cup with a crack, determined to turn the conversation to the matter of the portrait, but Bella, having refreshed herself with a cream horn, was not finished. ‘I remember now, there was a man your father and I thought might actually make a match of it with you. What was his name, Cressida? Fair hair, very reserved, a clever young man? You seemed quite taken with him. I remember saying to your father, she’ll surely reel this one in. In fact, as I recall, you actually told us he was going to call, but he never did. He took up a commission shortly after, now I come to think of it. Come now, you must remember him, for it is not as if you were crushed by suitors. Oh, what was his name?’

She could feel the flush creeping up her neck. Think cold, Cressie told herself. Ice. Snow. But it made no difference. Perspiration prickled in the small of her back. Having taught herself never to think of him, she had persuaded herself that Bella would have forgotten all about …

‘Giles!’ Bella exclaimed. ‘Giles Peyton.’

‘Bella, I’m sure that Signor di Matteo …’

‘He was actually quite presentable, once one got over his shyness. My lord thought it was a good match. He is not often wrong, but in this instance—the fact is, men do not like clever women. My husband’s first wife, Catherine, was reputed to be a bit of a blue-stocking, and look where it got her—five daughters, and dead before the last was out of swaddling. When he asked for my hand, Lord Armstrong told me that it was my being so very different from his first wife that appealed to him, which I thought was a lovely compliment. No, men do not like a clever woman. I am sure you agree, signor?’

Blithely helping herself to another pastry, Bella looked enquiringly at Giovanni, but before he could speak, Cressie got to her feet. ‘Signor di Matteo came here to paint my brothers’ portrait, Bella, not to discuss what he finds attractive in a woman.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I beg your pardon. And yours, Signor di Matteo. If you will excuse me, I have a headache, which is making me forget my manners.’

‘I hope you are not thinking of retiring to your room, Cressida. James and Harry …’

‘I am perfectly aware of my duties, thank you.’

‘If you wish to be excused from dinner, however, I am sure that Signor di Matteo and I can manage quite well without your company.’

‘I am sure that you can,’ Cressie muttered, wanting only to be gone before she lost her temper completely, or burst into tears. One or other, or more likely both, seemed imminent, and she was determined not to allow Bella the satisfaction of seeing just how upset she was.

But as she turned to go, Giovanni got to his feet. ‘I must inform you that you are mistaken on several counts, Lady Armstrong,’ he said curtly. ‘Firstly, there are many enlightened men, and I include myself among them, who enjoy the company of a clever woman very much. Secondly, I am afraid that I prefer to dine alone when I am working. If I may be excused, I would like the governess to introduce me to her charges.’

With a very Italian click of the heels and a very shallow bow, Giovanni took his leave, took Cressie’s arm in an extremely firm grip and marched them both out of the drawing room.

‘Lady Cressida. Cressie. Stop. The boys can wait a few moments longer. You are shaking.’ Opening a door at random, Giovanni led her into a small room, obviously no longer used for it was musty, the shutters drawn. ‘Here, sit down. I am not surprised that you are so upset. Your stepmother’s bitterness is exceeded only by her ability to devour cake.’

To his relief, Cressie laughed. ‘My sisters and I used to think her the wicked stepmother straight out of a fairytale. I don’t know why she hates us so—though my father is right, we have given her little cause to love us.’

‘Five daughters, all cleverer than she, and all far more attractive …’

‘Four of them more attractive.’

‘To continue the fairytale metaphor, why are you so determined to be the ugly sister?’

Cressie shrugged. ‘Because it’s true. Because it’s how it has always been. Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘No.’ At least, none who acknowledged him, which amounted to the same thing. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I wondered if all families are the same. In mine, we were labelled by my father, pretty much from birth. Celia is the diplomat, Cassie the pretty one, Caroline the dutiful one who can always be depended upon, Cordelia the charming one and I—I am the plain one. Upon occasion I am classed the clever one, but believe me, my father uses that only as an insult. He doesn’t see beyond his labels, not even with Celia, whom he was most proud of because of her being so useful to him.’

Giovanni frowned. ‘But he does precisely the same to your stepmother. She is the brood mare—it is her only purpose. It is no wonder she feels inferior, and no wonder that she must disguise it by trying always to put you in your place. She is vulgar and brash and lonely, so she takes it out on you and your sisters. It is not excusable, but it is understandable.’

‘I hadn’t thought—oh, I don’t know, perhaps you are right, but I am not feeling particularly charitable towards her at the moment.’

Cressie had been worrying at a loose thread of skin on her pinkie, and now it had started to bleed. Without thinking, Giovanni lifted her hand and dabbed the blood with his fingertip before it could drip on to her gown. He put his finger to his lips and licked off the blood. She made no sound, made no move, only stared at him with those amazingly blue eyes. They reminded him of early morning fishing trips back home in his boyhood, the sea sparkling as his father’s boat rocked on the waves. The man he’d thought was his father.

With his hand around her slender wrist, his lips closed around her finger and he sucked gently. Sliding her finger slowly out of his mouth, he allowed his tongue to trail along her palm, let his lips caress the soft pad of her thumb. Desire, a bolt of blood thundered straight to his groin, taking him utterly by surprise. What was he doing?

He jumped to his feet, pulling the skirts of his coat around him to hide his all too obviously inflamed state. ‘I was just trying to prevent—I’m sorry, I should not have behaved so—inappropriately,’ he said tersely. She should have stopped him! Why had she not stopped him? Because for her, it meant nothing more than he had intended, an instinctive act of kindness to prevent her ruining her gown. And that was all it was. His arousal was merely instinct. He did not really desire her. Not at all.

‘It has been a long day,’ Giovanni said, forcing a cold little smile. ‘With your permission, I think I would like to meet my subjects now, and then I will set up my studio. I will dine there too, if you would be so good as to have some food sent up.’

‘You won’t change your mind and sup with us?’

She looked so forlorn that he almost surrendered. Giovanni shook his head decisively. ‘I told you, when I am working, distractions are unwelcome. I need to concentrate.’

‘Yes. Of course. I understand completely,’ Cressie said, getting to her feet. ‘Painting me would be a distraction too. We should abandon our little experiment.’

‘No!’ He caught her arm as she turned towards the door. ‘I want to paint you, Cressie. I need to paint you. To prove you wrong, I mean,’ he added. ‘To prove that painting is not merely a set of rules, that beauty is in the eye of the artist.’ He traced the shape of her face with his finger, from her furrowed brow, down the softness of her cheek to her chin. ‘You will help me do that, yes?’

She stared up at him, her eyes unreadable, and then surprised him with a twisted little smile. ‘Oh, I doubt very much that you’ll be able to make me beautiful. In fact, I shall do my very best to make sure you cannot, for you must know that my theory depends upon it.’

Chapter Three

Cressie stood at the window of the schoolroom at the top of the house, and looked on distractedly as James and Harry laboured at their sums. The twins, George and Frederick, sat at the next desk, busy with their coloured chalks. An unusual silence prevailed. For once, all four boys were behaving themselves, having been promised the treat of afternoon tea with their mama if they did. In the corner of the room, a large pad of paper balanced on his knee, Giovanni worked on the preliminary sketches for their portrait, unheeded by his subjects but not by their sister.

He seemed utterly engrossed in his work, Cressie thought. He would not let her look at the drawings, so she looked instead at him, which was no hardship—he really was quite beautiful, all the more so with the perfection of his profile marred by the frown which emphasised the satyr in his features. That, and the sharpness of his cheekbones, the firm line of his jaw, which contrasted so severely with the fullness of his lips, the thick silkiness of his lashes, made what could have been feminine most decidedly male.

His fingers were long and elegant, almost unmarked by the charcoal he held. Her own hands were dry with chalk dust, her dress rumpled and grubby where Harry had grabbed hold of it. No doubt her hair was in its usual state of disarray. Giovanni’s clothes, on the other hand, were immaculate. He had put off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt most precisely. She could not imagine him dishevelled. His forearms were tanned, covered in silky black hair. Sinewy rather than muscular. He was lithe rather than brawny. Feline? No, that was not the word. He had not the look of a predator, and though there was something innately sensual in his looks, there was also a glistening hardness, like a polished diamond. If it had not been such a cliché, she would have been tempted to call him devilish.

She watched him studying the boys. His gaze was cool, analytical, almost distant. He looked at them as if they were objects rather than people. Her brothers had, when first introduced to Giovanni, been obstreperous, showing off, vying for his attention. His utter indifference to their antics had quite thrown them, so used were they to being petted and spoilt, so sure were they of their place at the centre of the universe. Cressie had had to bite her lip to stop herself laughing. To be ignored was beyond her brothers’ ken. She ought to remember how effective a tactic it was.

She turned her gaze to the view from the window. This afternoon, it had been agreed, Giovanni would begin her portrait. Thesis first, he said, an idealised Lady Cressida. How had he put it? A picture-perfect version of the person she presented to the world. She wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but it made her uncomfortable, the implication that he could see what others could or would not. Did he sense her frustration with her lot? Or, heaven forefend, her private shame regarding Giles? Did he think her unhappy? Was she unhappy? For goodness’ sake, it was just a picture, no need to tie herself in knots over it!

Giovanni had earmarked one of the attics for their studio, where the light flooded through the dormer windows until early evening and they could be alone, undisturbed by the household. In order to free her time, Cressie had volunteered to take all four boys every morning, leaving Janey, the nursery maid, in charge in the afternoons, which Bella usually slept through after taking tea. Later today, Giovanni would begin the process of turning Cressie into her own proof, painting her according to the mathematical rules she had studied, representing her theorem on canvas. Her image in oils would be a glossy version of her real self. And the second painting, depicting her alter ego, the private Cressie, would be the companion piece. How would Giovanni depict that version of her, the Cressie he believed she kept tightly buttoned-up inside herself? And were either versions of her image really anything to do with her? Would it be the paintings which were beautiful or the subject, in the eyes of their creator? So excited had she been by the idea of the portraits she had thought of them only in the abstract. But someone—who was it?—claimed that the artist could see into the soul. Giovanni would know the answer, but she would not ask him. She did not want anyone to see into her soul. Not that she believed it was true.

Turning from the window, she caught his unwavering stare. How long had he been looking at her? His hand flew across the paper, capturing what he saw, capturing her, not her brothers. His hand moved, but his gaze did not. The intensity of it made it seem as if they were alone in the schoolroom. Her own hand went self-consciously to her hair. She didn’t like being looked at like this. It made her feel—not naked, but stripped. No one looked at her like that, really looked at her. Intimately.

Cressie cleared her throat, making a show of checking the clock on the wall. ‘James, Harry, let me see how you have got on with your sums.’ Sliding a glance at Giovanni, she saw he had moved to a fresh sheet of paper and was once again sketching the boys. Had she imagined the connection between them? Only now that it was broken did she notice that her heart was hammering, her mouth was dry.

She was being silly. Giovanni was an artist, she was a subject, that was all. He was simply analysing her, dissecting her features, as a scientist would a specimen. Men as beautiful as Giovanni di Matteo were not interested in women as plain as Cressie Armstrong, and Cressie would do well to remember that.

It was warm in the attic, the afternoon sun having heated the airless room. Dust motes floated and eddied in the thermals. Giovanni removed his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. In front of him, a blank canvas was propped on his easel. Across the room, posed awkwardly on a red velvet chair, was Cressie. He had discovered the chair in another of the attic’s warren of rooms and had thought it an ideal symbolic device for his composition. It was formal, functional and yet sensual, a little like the woman perched uncomfortably on it. He smiled at her reassuringly. ‘You look like the French queen on her way to the guillotine. I am going to take your likeness, not chop off your head.’

She laughed at that, but it was perfunctory. ‘If you take my likeness, then you will have lost, signor. I am—’

‘If you remind me once more of your lack of beauty, signorina, I will be tempted to cut off your head after all.’ Giovanni sighed in exasperation. Though he knew exactly how he wished to portray her, she was far too tense for him to begin. ‘Come over here, let me explain a little of the process.’

He replaced the canvas with his drawing board, tacking a large sheet of paper to it. Cressie approached cautiously, as if the blank page might attack her. All morning, she had been subdued, almost defensive. ‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ he said, drawing her closer.

‘I’m not afraid.’

She pouted and crossed her arms. Her buttoned-up look. Or was it buttoned-down? ‘I have never come across such a reluctant subject,’ Giovanni said. ‘You are surely not afraid I will steal your soul?’

‘What made you say that?’

She was glaring at him now, which did not at all augur well. ‘It is said that a painting reflects the soul in the same way a mirror does. To have your image taken, some say, is to surrender your soul. I meant it as a jest, Cressie. A mathematician such as yourself could not possibly believe such nonsense.’

She stared at the blank sheet of paper, her brow furrowed. ‘Was it Holbein? The artist who painted the soul in the eyes, I mean. Was that Holbein? I couldn’t remember earlier, in the schoolroom.’

‘Hans Holbein the Younger. Is that what you are afraid of, that I will not steal your soul but see into it?’

‘Of course not. I don’t know why I even mentioned it.’ She gave herself a little shake and forced a smile. ‘The process. You said you would explain.’

Most of his subjects, especially the women, were only too ready to bare their soul to him, usually as a prelude to the offer to bare their bodies. Cressie, on the other hand, seemed determined to reveal nothing of herself. Her guard was well and truly up, but he knew her well enough now to know how to evade it. Giovanni picked up a piece of charcoal and turned towards the drawing board.

‘First, I divide the canvas up into equal segments like this.’ He sketched out a grid. ‘I want you to be exactly at the centre of the painting, so your face will be dissected by this line, which will run straight down the middle of your body, aligning your profile and your hands which define the thirds into which the portrait will be divided, like this—you see how the proportions are already forming on the vertical?’

He turned from the shapes he had sketched in charcoal to find that Cressie looked confused. ‘There is a symmetry in the body, in the way the body can be posed, that is naturally pleasing. If you clasp your hands so, can you not see it, this line?’

Giovanni ran his finger from the top of her head, down the line of her nose, to her mouth. He carried on, ignoring the softness of her lips, tracing the line of her chin, her throat, to where her skin disappeared beneath the neck of her gown. The fabric which formed a barrier made it perfectly acceptable for him to complete his demonstration, he told himself, just tracing the valley between her breasts, the soft swell of her stomach, finally resting his finger on her hands. ‘This line …’ He cleared his throat, trying to distance himself. ‘This line …’ he turned towards the paper on the easel once more and picked up the charcoal ‘… it is the axis for the portrait. And your elbows, they will form the widest point, creating a triangle thus.’

To his relief, Cressie was frowning in concentration, focused on the drawing board, seemingly oblivious to the way his body was reacting to hers. It was because he so habitually avoided human contact, that was all. An instinctive reaction he would not repeat because he would not touch her again. Not more than was strictly necessary.

‘Are you always so precise when you are structuring a portrait?’ she asked. ‘This grid, will you draw it out on the canvas?’

‘Si. And I will also block out the main shapes, just as I have shown you.’ Giovanni guided her back towards the chair, encouraging her to question him, relieved to discover that by distracting her with the technical details of his craft, the various pigments he preferred, the precise recipe of oils and binding agents he used to create his paints, he could distract himself too, from his awareness of her as a woman, of himself as a man, which had no place here in his studio.

Cressie’s face, which was quite plain in repose, when animated was transformed. He fed her facts, drew her out with questions as to the detail of her theory and sketched quickly, trying to capture her in charcoal and when he had, he replaced the paper with his canvas and repositioned his sitter. This he did quickly lest she remember the purpose of this session and become self-conscious once again.

‘Tell me more of this book you are using to teach your brothers,’ he said as he began to paint in the grid.

‘It is a children’s introduction to geometry. I am hoping that if I have evidence of its practical application I will be able to persuade my publisher to print it. At present, he is unwilling to do so at his own expense, and I have not the wherewithal to fund it myself. Unfortunately, to date my brothers have not exactly proved to be the most interested of pupils.’

‘It seems to me that your brothers have been raised to find only themselves of interest.’

Cressie grinned. ‘That is a dreadful thing to contemplate, but I am afraid it is quite true. Save for my father, they have been raised to care for no one’s opinion but their own.’

‘And your father cares for none but them, you say?’

‘Blood and beauty,’ Cressie said with a twisted smile. ‘Your words, signor, and most apt. Your own father—is he still alive? He must be immensely proud of you and your success.’

‘Proud! My father thinks …’ Giovanni took a deep breath and unclenched his fists, surprised by the strength of his reaction. He never thought of his father. Not consciously. He had no father worthy of the name. ‘What I know from bitter experience is that you might succeed in mollifying your father by doing as he bids, but he will only see it as his right, his due. You cannot make a man such as that proud of you, Cressie. And in the process of trying, you are making yourself thoroughly miserable.’

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