Nothing But Deception. Allegra Gray
out of seeing him again.
Philippe had asked Bea to look over his sketches this afternoon, so that they might select one to develop into the final painting. She was thrilled that he valued her artistic input—yet panicked at the idea of being near him once again. He fascinated her, but his talent, his public success, was intimidating.
Her maid held up a muslin day dress in spring green. Bea shook her head. “Not that one.”
“My lady, this is the fourth gown you’ve passed up, all of which look quite fetching on you, if I may be allowed to say,” her maid pointed out. “But if you tell me what look it is you’re set on achieving, perhaps I might do better in finding a gown that will suit.”
“I’m sorry, Maeve,” Bea said. The older woman had been her maid since she’d been out of the nursery. She was Irish, hired by Bea’s mother, Lady Margaret Russell, when Bea and her sisters were young. When Bea had married, Maeve’s cheerful loyalty had earned her a permanent place on the staff, even when it became fashionable to hire French ladies maids.
The maid bustled back into the closets, and Bea returned to worrying over Philippe—in spite of telling herself to stop. After all, it was just a kiss—and from a man who’d clearly done a good deal of kissing. One needn’t read too much into it.
She ground her teeth in frustration as Maeve returned with a gown in each arm, then smiled apologetically when she realized the poor maid thought her frustrated expression a reaction to the new gowns.
“The pink, I think,” Bea said, indicating the gown in Maeve’s left arm. Her harried servant looked relieved. Bea cocked her head, considering the gown. She’d been wearing pink—well, rose—the night of the salon. Her life hadn’t been the same since.
It was in Bea’s nature to analyze, to overthink. In some cases—as with the note she’d translated—her interpretation was quite valid. But in matters of the heart, she wasn’t so sure.
Maeve pulled the gown over Bea’s chemise and stays, adjusting until everything was in place, then picked up a hairbrush. “Relax, my lady,” she soothed, brushing long strokes. “I thought if we put your hair up—just so—and wind this ribbon through, to set off your dress?”
Bea nodded assent.
“You’ll look ever so fetching, my lady.”
But looks were not what had Bea worrying. Did Philippe value her artistic opinion—value her—enough for her to risk sharing her soul?
For the first time in her life, she was working with someone who not only understood the act of creation—creation of art, that is—but actively imbued those creations with emotion, with intimacy.
For years, she had longed to do the same. To let her pen pour out the thoughts and feelings so long pent up.
In school, they’d been expected to study poems and sermons, then mimic what they read in their own rudimentary efforts at composition.
Bea had quickly figured out that all the great poets alluded to deeper matters of love, loss, even death. Some addressed them outright. But her teachers always insisted the students limit themselves to topics appropriate to their delicate sensibilities—nature, perhaps, or moral education.
But even nature abounded with opportunities for allusion to romantic love—that is, until Bea’s teacher had figured out her intent, and, red-faced, humiliated her in front of the other young ladies who’d attended the lesson. To make matters worse, he’d suggested the work wasn’t even hers—that she’d stolen it, copied from some other, more talented poet.
For the remainder of her time at the finishing academy, Bea had submitted only topically-appropriate assignments devoid of anything deeper than surface observations.
She’d received passing marks on each, and left the academy subdued—but not beaten.
Someone tapped on the door, and Bea heard the butler announce, “Lady Elizabeth Bainbridge has arrived.”
A moment later, the door cracked open and Elizabeth’s crown of red hair poked through. Her eyes widened. “Bea, is something wrong? You are always the prompter of the two of us—and I believe Monsieur Durand was arriving just behind me.”
Maeve’s fingers working her hair kept Bea from shaking her head. “Nothing is wrong.”
They heard the door open below, and the low murmur of male voices. Elizabeth peeked over her shoulder. “He’s here!” She slipped fully into Bea’s room and closed the door.
“Oh, dear.” Bea’s fingers fretted at the trim on her sleeves. “Do you think this gown suits?”
Elizabeth glanced up at Maeve, who was now working feverishly to pin up the rest of Bea’s thick brunette hair. “You look beautiful. And I think your dear maid might stick me with a pin if I suggested you change.”
Bea let out a choked laugh. “You are no help at all. E., please be a dear and entertain him while I finish getting ready?”
“Of course.” Elizabeth left once again, but not without a look that told Bea they’d be discussing this later.
She took a deep breath, willing herself to relax as her thoughts drifted back to the pattern they’d held before her friend had come in. It was no crime to keep a gentleman waiting, even if it was not something she normally did.
When she’d first married, Bea had still harbored the ideal that, even if she didn’t love her husband, they might develop a “lasting fondness” for one another. After all, that was the advice most young ladies received when entering into advantageous but loveless marriages. She’d hoped to build some common ground, some depth of understanding for one another.
With those hopes, she’d told Lord Pullington she was a poet. And she’d been dismissed as though she were a child.
Oh, he hadn’t actively disparaged her work. He’d just never read it. He’d said, “Of course you’re a poet. All young ladies are,” as though she’d informed him she’d taken pianoforte lessons in school. He’d simply never considered that it might mean more to her than the standard education and “minor accomplishments” of most genteel young women. He hadn’t been interested in her.
After that, she’d learned to keep her passion to herself.
But with Philippe, she had the sense things were different…that he might be someone who could understand. After all, what he did with a brush was the same thing she tried to do with a pen.
But Philippe Durand was famous, and she a nobody. Last fall, she’d seen one of her poems published in The New Monthly Magazine. Not that anyone else knew it was hers. It had taken all her courage just to send in the work anonymously. She’d known a moment of secret warmth when an acquaintance, hoping to impress her with his cultural awareness, had praised the poem during a dinner she’d attended. Even then she hadn’t revealed herself as the author.
Bea’s temptation to share, to tell Philippe of her work and seek that understanding between souls, was tempered by fear. If the French artist looked at her as an amateur, no different than any other woman who dabbled at the arts to pass the daylight hours, she would be devastated.
For now, perhaps, it was best to wait. Philippe was interested in her as a model, a muse. Until she knew him better, she could be content with that.
Maeve pinned the last of Bea’s hair into place and adjusted the ribbon. “There, my lady. I am sorry if we kept the French monsieur waiting, but I do believe the effect is worth it.”
“As do I,” Bea assured her—but truthfully, keeping Philippe waiting was less about the effect of her hair, and more about not letting him know just how much effect he had on her.
“Lady Pullington, what a pleasure.” Philippe rose as Bea finally entered the formal salon. He took two long steps to meet her, then bowed lavishly over her hand. “I declare, your beauty grows more abundant with each renewal of our acquaintance.”