The Master and The Muses. Amanda Mcintyre
kissing me passionately.
“What will people say?” I asked.
He shrugged. “If they must pry, then I shall simply tell them that you are my new pupil.”
He dropped to his knees and drew me into his embrace.
“Do not make me wait another moment for your answer, Helen. It is sheer torture!”
I laughed, something I hadn’t done in weeks, it seemed. “Very well, but I warn you, my skills in the kitchen are limited.”
He looked up at me and grinned. “My sweet muse, it is not your skill in the kitchen that interests me.”
I held his face and smiled. It was a heady thing to have the devoted attention of a man like Thomas. I wondered if he’d ever had a model living at the studio before, and I considered how William might respond to the news. Could I wait forever to find the happiness I deserved? With Thomas at my side, I had no need for anyone else.
Chapter Six
THOMAS DUCKED AS MY PAPA HURLED THE painting across the room, barely missing the top of his head. My mama shoved my sisters into the back bedroom and closed the door. My portrait lay splintered on the floor and I knew it would soon be firewood.
“You have scarred my little girl—” Papa started, his face turning purple with rage.
“Papa, I am no longer a little girl—”
His eyes, full of anger, turned to me and he raised his finger, shaking it with fury. “You have lied to your family, Helen. Your deception is not a small matter—it is unforgivable.”
“Papa, please—” He cut me off with his upturned hand. I turned to Mama, pleading for her to make him understand.
She stood to the side, wringing her hands with worry, but she did not come to my defense.
“Mr. Bridgeton, I assure you that Helen has been treated very well…”
“Do not,” Papa bellowed, “speak in my house!”
“Papa, please try to at least be decent to our guest,” I said.
“Decent?” His voice rose and my mama covered her mouth with her apron. “Do not talk to me about decency.” He glared at me and then at Thomas, and headed for the door, his jaw set firm. He stopped long enough to grab his hat. “I am going to the barn. I don’t wish to find either of you here when I return.”
A quiet, strangled sob tore from my mama’s throat. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Papa did not look back as the door slammed behind him.
Had I truly believed they would understand or support my decision? There was nothing more to be said. I stood and brushed past Mama as I went into my room to collect a few of my things.
My sisters, Beth and Rosalind, peeked out of their room and I stopped to hug them both. I handed my bag to Thomas who waited by the front door.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said.
I gave Mama a brief hug, not knowing when or if I would see her again.
“Be well, Helen. Take your medicine.” She stroked my cheek, and I burned her leathery skin into my memory. As I walked to the carriage, I saw the light was on in the barn, which meant Papa was inside brushing the mare. It was what he always did when he wanted to think. I debated whether I should tell him goodbye.
Thomas seemed to read my mind.
“Do you need a moment?” he asked, holding open the carriage door.
I took one last look over my shoulder, drinking in the tiny cottage with its slanted roof and peeling paint, the sagging porch that Papa kept meaning to fix. “No, let’s go,” I said, getting into the carriage.
I leaned back against the soft, cushioned seat and stared out the window at the familiar rolling landscape. I hoped against hope that my parents would have a change of heart, knowing I would not make a decision of such consequence without careful thought. However, in my family’s world, women were still considered inferior in many ways, expected to be content serving the men in their lives, and I knew deep down that they would never understand.
Thomas took my hand and brought it to his lips. “I will take care of you, my muse. I don’t want you to worry. We are your family now, the brotherhood and me.”
I looked at him and wondered if I was really gaining my freedom or simply trading the men that I served.
Thomas took me to his bed that night, soothing my pain with his tenderness, turning my concerns to pleasured sighs. I surrendered myself body and soul to him, something I’d been reticent to do before. If this was servitude, then I welcomed it for the luxurious power that I felt in my decadence.
My fingers curled around the bedrail and I welcomed the pain of my knuckles tapping against the wall with the increased motion of Thomas’s fervent thrusts. His long hair swayed, brushing over my flesh, and his eyes penetrated my soul, claiming my body, making me want to give back, to meet his challenge. I arched toward him and he caught my mouth in a searing, possessive kiss, demanding my climax—my loyalty. Crying out his name, I gave him everything and, in return, he gave me all that he could give. It was enough…for now.
In the days that followed, we existed in a state of marital bliss, without benefit of the legal and moral paperwork. We lived with the smug belief that conventionality was misguided, and my security was founded on the idea that what we had was pure and true.
It was early morning; the heavy fog of London still blanketed the rooftops. After awakening me with a frenzied bout of lovemaking, Thomas was in the mood to paint.
He had dragged me into the studio, him in his shirt and me wearing nothing but a blue silk drape that he handed me in haste.
“On the lounge,” he ordered as he set to the task of arranging colors on his palette. I had grown used to his impulsive bursts of inspiration, quite often occurring in the afterglow of passion.
We nibbled on fruit and a little cheese. It was all that we had in the kitchen.
Thomas stood over me, eyeing the drape. He held out his apple for me to take a bite, as he experimented with the cloth, trying to find what pleased him.
I squealed when his hand playfully squeezed one of my breasts.
“Forgive me. I thought that was the drape.” He grinned.
“You insatiable rogue,” I teased.
“Merely appreciative of your beauty, madam, and if I may say, your breasts are a true gift of nature.” He bent his head, pushing back the cloth to reveal my breast, and left a tender kiss on my flesh.
“As plump as a succulent peach.” He glided his paintbrush across my skin, circling it deliciously slowly around my nipple.
“I grow hungry just to look at you,” he whispered, leaning forward, his soft lips touching mine. “How will I ever get this painting done, you naughty muse?”
“Perhaps you need my inspiration?” I held his smoky gaze, feeling brazen. He had a way of making me feel my body was a work of art, created for his pleasure alone.
“Perhaps,” he said quietly, sweeping the brush along the underside of my breast, the soft bristles teasing my senses. I discovered to what degree Thomas was skilled with a paintbrush as he delicately stroked the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs.
The corners of his mouth lifted when he parted me like a flower and tickled me with his brush, causing me to squirm with need.
“So exquisitely beautiful it is, my muse, to see your arousal.”
I covered my face with my hands, lost in his taunting stroke. Thomas was an exquisite lover, showing me pleasure in ways I’d never dreamed. I’d come to ignore the niggling in my head that he’d never once used the word love in any of our conversations—never