Читать онлайн книгу «The Master and The Muses» автора Amanda McIntyre

The Master and The Muses
Amanda McIntyre
They are his inspiration. He is their obsession. Icon, rebel, unabashed romantic. . . With a single look painter Thomas Rodin conveys the ecstasy of creativity—the pleasures awaiting the woman who can fuel his artistry. The Innocent What did this master artist see in me? Genius abided in his soul, rapture in his flesh. To refuse him. . . my folly. To surrender. . . my sensual salvation.The Upstart I chafed at the bonds of servitude until he set me free. I turned my back on all I knew to follow him and found myself between two men—master and student—one whom I loved with my heart. . . the other with my body. The Courtesan I understood, perhaps better than any, his needs. I stoked the fires of his soul, the spark of his creativity—he made me a legend. But never could I forget his searing touch. . . . Three transcendent tales of women bewitched by a master of seduction—a slave as much to his art as to his boundless passion.



The Master & the Muses
Amanda McIntyre



www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk)
As always to my supportive family, immediate and extended, for their inspiration, love and patience.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank my editor, Lara Hyde, and the rest of the Spice team at Harlequin, who encourage me to explore outside of the box in my writing. I have grown immensely as a writer under their guidance. I would also like to thank Renee Bernard for her friendship, help with Victorian culture and sharing resources. To Amy and Genella, for the numerous read-throughs, changes and suggestions—you guys rock! To Jo C., my port in the storm who is great at perspective issues. And finally, to Daniel Gabriel Rossetti, the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and their muses—one and all—who by their unconventionality inspired not only this book, but also my view in believing in one’s passion.

Prologue
I HAVE BEEN CALLED MANY THINGS—RECKLESS, arrogant, perverted, self-absorbed and, my personal favorite, an artist of the “fleshy school.” Perhaps these allegations are true; I do not deny them, but to those stifled critics of my work, I turned a deaf ear and listened instead to the beat of my heart, the siren song of my passion.
Had I listened to the naysayers of my work, to the critics who sought to box in my genius, my very soul, I daresay I would not have taken up a single brush.
In truth, I believe the critics are correct in their assessment of my incorrigible behavior. Daring to be different was, and is still, the very essence of my creativity. I am nothing if not tenacious in my beliefs, and proud to be so.
These would-be art connoisseurs know nothing of true art. Their view is monocular, dull and lifeless, linear and plain. It does not see the emotion of a woman’s faint blush of arousal, of her cheeks in bloom at seeing her beloved, of her eyes bright and shining in the afterglow of passion. No, to paint such beauty, one must experience it, feel it and grasp it. No classroom, no stack of books can teach these things.
Despite my parents’ wishes, I was not destined to be a religious man. Rather, I consider myself a spiritualist, a believer in karma more so than doctrine. My passion lies in the tip of my brush, but my inspiration is women. They are my muses. I ask you, what creature in all the earth epitomizes such beauty and grace? Many artists have tried to capture the beauty of this world. Even so, there are few things more persuasive than the delicate color of a woman’s flesh. What could be more inspiring than the soft curve of her shoulder poised to carry the burdens of her world or the pout of her sumptuous mouth determined to carry those burdens with dignity?
Rescued from the mundane existence of their lives, my muses needed no coercion. Fame, independence, appreciation—that is what I gave them in return.
My pulse quickens to think of our conversations, the wine we drank, the free-spirited love we made. I was asked once if I ever loved one more than the other? To that I say, how can a man love only his arm, and not his leg, or his eye, or his mouth? I loved each one for the life she breathed into me, inspiring my work. But I could no more hold them to me forever than I could hold a sunbeam.
Reality and art, in many ways, are one. To my moral censors, I ask how could I not fall in love with each of my muses? Each represents a part of my soul. No, to each one I was utterly and completely a devoted slave.
Did they know this? It will not add to my days to know that answer. Life, love—it is what it is. I was both their savior and their sin. I rescued them from the ordinary, redeemed them with the stroke of my brush.
In my quest to capture the perfect image, I may not have been aware of all that my muses had to endure. But I offered them new worlds, new adventures. If that makes me a selfish bastard, then I accept my guilt with open arms.
Do I have regrets? What good Italian does? The bad has given me a better appreciation for the good. The good reminds me that while it is welcome, it is also fleeting. I have tasted the cup of life and offer no apologies.
To you, my muses, I raise my evening port. You have fueled my imagination and lust. Without your inspiration, I would not be the man I am. Helen, my innocent, fervent in your private desires. Sara, my socialite, always reaching for more. And Grace, in saving you, I saved myself.
I am forever slave, mentor and pupil to your inspiration,
Thomas.

Book 1 HELEN

Chapter One
Leicester Square, 1860
THERE HE WAS, THE SAME MAN AGAIN, WATCHING me as I walked to work. His formal frock coat he wore over an ill-fitting shirt, tucked into rumpled trousers, giving the appearance that he’d just been roused from bed. I assumed he was local by manner of his dress, perhaps not of great wealth, but respectable, except for his deplorable habit of staring. Perched on his head, he wore a too-small brown derby that looked as if it had seen better days. These things I noticed since I’ve been a milliner’s apprentice in one of London’s premier hat shops from a young age. It was my job to be acquainted with the most current chapeau styles.
I must admit, I was not at all accustomed to being the subject of a man’s interest. It intrigued me, but I chose to ignore my admirer, as any respectable lady would do. He was a persistent fellow, however, and for three days, I passed him standing on the opposite side of the street, daring only to glance at him as I arrived for work at Tozier’s hat shop. My overactive imagination, a fault of which I’m reminded often by my mother, soon had me pondering whether he was planning something sinister against my employer.
On the third day just before the noon hour, he entered the shop. I was preparing a hat for display, pretending not to notice the strange thudding in my heart. He hung near the front door for a time, perusing the lady’s handkerchiefs and lace gloves, ever so slowly inching his way over to where I stood. Perhaps I had misjudged him and he was simply debating what to buy for his spouse or mistress. Mrs. Tozier kept a private list of the men who often needed a “little something” for the special woman in their lives—most often not their wife. Discreet and professional, Mrs. Tozier would take their money, wrap their gift and offer them her smile.
“Pardon, mademoiselle,” the mysterious man said in a smooth, baritone voice.
I looked up and met his startling blue-green eyes, clear as the sky and sparked by a mischievous curiosity that sent a shiver through me. His hair was a light brown, slicked behind his ears and dipping just to his collar. The firm line of his jaw, which looked as if it could use a barber’s razor, was accentuated by a wicked dimple when he smiled. Perhaps I was mistaken and he was a foreigner? It might explain his hesitancy to approach me if he was unable to speak any English.
“Are you French, sir?” I enunciated my words clearly. He had an aristocratic air about him, a rather regal, pleasant face and, at closer look, he was quite handsome. Had he been dressed more appropriately, he might have passed as a baron or a duke.
“No, I am not French, mademoiselle.”
Although I was relieved that I would not need to draw on my minimal skills in the French language, his admission raised a new bevy of questions. “Nor am I, sir. Why then, do you pretend to be something you are not?”
He took off his silly brown derby, and, with a sheepish grin, smoothed his palm over his locks in a vain effort to bring them under control. “My apologies for assuming you might speak French, working at a French hat shop.”
“What brings you to our shop, Mr.—?” I waited for his name.
“Rodin. William Rodin. Perhaps you’ve heard the name?”
I studied him evenly and gave no reply.
He waved his hat. “Well, I am confident that one day you will.” His smile would have charmed a snake. “Are you familiar with the world of art, by chance? It is possible you may have heard of my brother, the famous artist, Thomas Rodin.” He fingered his derby as he spoke. I noted by the appearance of its tattered edge that if he, too, was in the business of art, it was not doing very well these days—at least not for him.
“No, Mr. Rodin. I am afraid I have not heard of either you or your brother. My time is quite full with my duties here in the shop.” I turned the hat stand this way and that, as if studying the display. The truth was, I had but a few times actually engaged in conversation with a male since Mrs. Tozier allowed me to work out front. Certainly not one who seemed interested in my thoughts.
He brought his hand to the collar of his coat, taking on a dignified stance as he tossed me a wide smile.
“Then, dear woman, our meeting is your good fortune, for now you will be able to say, ‘I knew Thomas Rodin personally while he was in the prime of his artistic greatness.’”
I dipped my head to hide my smile. I did not wish to offend his pride.
“Are you interested in a hat, Mr. Rodin?”
He placed his bowler on the counter and leaned close. I glanced around the shop and prayed that Mrs. Tozier would not appear. She was a robust woman, with a thick French accent. Not one to tangle with, her grandfather had immigrated to London to open this milliner’s shop. I could not afford to lose my job over some strange man and his absurd interest in telling me about his famous brother. I held up my hand politely. “Mr. Rodin, my apologies, but I do have work to do. If you are not looking to buy a hat, then I must excuse myself and return to my duties.” I turned to leave, and he reached for my arm.
“Let me get right to the point.”
“Just as soon as you remove your hand from my arm, sir,” I said. However, I could not deny the pleasant warmth of his palm.
His mouth lifted at the corner, as if he knew his touch jarred me. Slowly, he removed his hand.
“I have come to offer you a proposition.”
“Excuse me, sir? Perhaps you’ve forgotten just where you are. If you are here to seek companionship for the evening, the Ten Bells Pub is down the street. I’m sure you’ll find what you seek there.”
He looked at me in surprise. “No—I mean, of course not. I’ve come to offer you honest employment. You have the potential to become quite famous.”
He liked to use that word with great frequency. “Famous, you say? As you are famous, Mr. Rodin?”
His eyes narrowed, studying me before he resumed his amiable expression. “My fame is in knowing the genius of the brotherhood. I am a designer, not an artist in the true sense of the word. However, presently being between projects, I have offered my services to my brother.”
“That is quite thoughtful of you, Mr. Rodin. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
“Wait, I beg you to listen. The artists of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood are looking for new models to pose for them. They have a very specific type of woman in mind and you fit the criteria brilliantly.”
“Criteria, for your ‘brotherhood’? Really?” I did not hide my skepticism.
“Indeed. You are what we would call a ‘stunner.’”
The word made me sound like the type of woman one would pick up at the Cremorne on a Saturday evening. His eyes raked over me, unashamed.
I pulled a display between us and I busied myself with adjusting the feather on the band of the hat. He continued to stare. No man had ever seen me as a model before.
“Your hands are quite lovely,” he said, leaning against the counter.
“Please, you’ll smudge the finish. If Mrs. Tozier—”
At that moment, I heard a heavy clomp-clomp coming across the wood floor from the back room.
“There, now you’ve done it. If I lose my position—”
“I’ve just offered you another.” He straightened and offered a pleasant smile.
“Miz Bridgeton, eez there a problem? Are you able to assist the geentleman?”
Mrs. Tozier came to my side. She was two inches shorter than I was, but more than made up for her height with her stern demeanor.
I started to explain, but the tenacious Mr. Rodin interrupted me with a slight lift of his hand.
“Madame Tozier.” He bowed, taking her hand, placing there a quick kiss. “Je suis un artiste de design et de poésie,” he attempted in broken French.
Mrs. Tozier looked at him with a wary eye. She was quite capable of spotting a fake—whether a hat or an accent. She frowned at me, and then at the man. “You are a design artist and a poet. How nice. So, you’ve come to buy a hat, oui?” she stated plainly, tugging her hand from his.
I bowed my head, pretending to be engaged in repositioning the ribbon on the hat in front of me. Mrs. Tozier had little patience for wasting time. And if one had no interest in purchasing a hat then, to her way of thinking, they were wasting her time.
He paused, clearing his throat. “Madame, I would like to discuss the possibility of borrowing your fine clerk, Miss Bridgeton, to hire as an artist’s model.”
Mrs. Tozier’s hand flew to her mouth and her expression changed to blatant anger. “Geet out, geet out of my shop! You…you should be ashamed of coming in here and harassing a young girl, so sweet and innocent. Out,” she snapped, waving her arms, chasing him to the front door. “You will ruin her reputation! That is what you will do.”
I looked down and realized Mr. Rodin had left his hat. Carefully, I tucked it behind the counter. I watched as Mrs. Tozier slammed the door, causing the bell to clatter wildly. With a huff, she pulled down the lace shades that kept out the afternoon sun. She faced me and shook her finger as she stamped back to me.
“Do not speak to such men, Helen. They will only beguile you. Use you like tissue paper and toss you away with as much ease.”
I wondered how she knew of such men. “Merci, Mrs. Tozier. He has been watching me for several days.” Oddly, my heart beat with a fierce and dangerous thrill. In part from her tone, in part from remembering how Mr. Rodin had looked at me. “Do you think he will be back?”
“Non, he won’t if he knows what eez good for him,” she huffed, smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt as if ridding his scent from her hands.
I waited until she disappeared beyond the curtains to the back room before daring to hurry to the front window and peer out.
To my strange delight, he was there, leaning against the corner of the building across the street. He caught me looking at him and placed a finger to his brow in salute, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and strolled down the street.
Later that night at supper, I spoke to my family about the incident. My papa knew immediately with whom the young man was associated. His words echoed Mrs. Tozier’s.
“Bad seeds, the lot of them. They condemn the teachings of the scholars at the Royal Academy, claiming they teach rubbish. Then they carouse the streets, preying on young girls to lure into their studios, promising who knows what and, once there, the poor things cannot defend themselves.”
My sisters, fascinated by the conversation, turned their collective wide-eyed gaze to me, waiting for my response.
“But Papa.” I carefully chose my words. It had taken a great deal of effort to convince him to let me apprentice at Tozier’s, and I did not wish to jeopardize that small bit of freedom I had. “Mr. Rodin did not appear to be a deceitful man.” I popped a dumpling in my mouth, slowly raising my eyes to meet my father’s.
“You heard me, Helen Marie. You are to stay away from that riffraff. No good will come of it, I tell you that. Concentrate on your duties and learn the trade. That is what making a real living is—it is not about slapping paint on a canvas and living hand to mouth.”
With one last effort to keep the conversation alive, I glanced at my mama, seated across the table from me. Her expressionless face spoke to me in greater volume than if she’d opened her mouth. The conversation was over. It was not to be brought up again.
I was old enough to make my own decisions but, due to my meager wages, was forced to live with my family because I had no husband. My papa and mama were of the belief that a man was the breadwinner and the woman the keeper of the hearth and home. They did not understand that if I met the right man, I would gladly work hard beside him, just as Madame Tozier worked with her husband at the shop. But according to my parents’ wishes, until some wealthy gent swept into the shop and asked for my hand in marriage, I was destined to become a spinster with a very good knowledge of making hats. Was this my only opportunity to start a life of my own? Was it a chance to get my poetry in front of another creative soul?
As I helped to clear away the supper dishes, my mother placed her hand on my cheek.
“You are a beautiful girl. You will find a good man, like your father. A man who is not afraid of hard work.” She patted my cheek as if that would magically make all my cares disappear.
Later, in the sanctuary of my room, I placed Mr. Rodin’s hat inside a round hatbox that I’d found stacked near the refuse bins outside the shop. I tied it with a brown ribbon and tucked it beneath my bed, hoping that I would be able to give it to him on my way to work tomorrow.
For a long time I stared at the pale moonlight on my ceiling, remembering the look in his eyes as he studied me. I imagined reaching out to touch his unshaven cheek, feeling his warm breath on my face as he drew near. Strange sensations made my body tingle. For the first time in my life, I saw myself as a grown woman instead of a child.

Chapter Two
IT WAS ODD TO SEE MY SHADOW AS I WALKED along the cobbled lane to work. Between the constant downpours and the stench from the river that hovered over the city like a hazy specter, the sun was a strange sight. Its warmth lifted my spirits, but the idea of seeing Mr. Rodin had improved my mood long before I set foot outdoors.
I turned the corner, scanning the block before me, disappointed when I saw only the familiar store managers putting out their wares.
“A fine day to you, miss.”
I took a step back, taken by surprise at Mr. Rodin’s sudden emergence from a closed storefront. “Are you always this forward when in pursuit of potential models, Mr. Rodin?” I squared my shoulders, making sure he thought I did not appreciate him accosting me in this manner. In truth, however, butterflies had taken flight inside me.
He bowed. “Forgive me. I only came to inquire whether you might have seen my hat. I have apparently misplaced it.”
My brave response was prompted by my secret delight in seeing him again. “And you did not wish to encounter Mrs. Tozier again, I presume?” It was as close to flirting with a man as I’d ever done.
His eyebrows rose and he gave me a wicked grin. “How astute you are, Miss Bridgeton. I pray you know me all too well.”
“Oh, Mr. Rodin, something tells me that I have barely scratched the surface. Nonetheless, I did find your hat before Madame Tozier did.” I handed him the round box, which he held high, turning the beribboned container this way and that.
“I can’t say when my old chapeau has ever looked better,” he remarked.
“I quite agree, Mr. Rodin,” I responded with a genuine smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get to work.” I started around him.
“Um…excuse me, Miss Bridgeton. May I inquire of your plans this evening after work?”
I stopped and looked over my shoulder. True it was that I did not belong to an aristocratic circle where gentlemen used calling cards to request a lady’s company. Regardless, I was somewhat surprised by his unconventional manner. Then again, what should I expect from a man who had skulked around watching me for days before speaking? I thought of what I would do for one of my sisters. Would I give up easily if I thought they truly needed something? “You must adore your brother very much, Mr. Rodin.”
He pried open the hatbox lid, offering a lopsided grin as he plopped the bowler on his head.
“Indeed, I do, but what makes you say so?”
He had not noticed that I had carefully trimmed the frayed edges of his hat. “Because it is clear that you are not to be put off, isn’t it? No matter how rude I am.”
His blue eyes regarded me with new interest. “Are you being rude?”
“See there, you wouldn’t even know!” I replied.
He laughed and the sound of it was so carefree that I daresay I found my mouth twitching to smile.
“Miss Bridgeton, I assure you that my intentions are honorable. Are you not old enough to accept a simple invitation for a walk in the gardens, maybe to enjoy an ice cream with me?”
“For what purpose, Mr. Rodin?” I knew to accept meant I would hear more about this proposal. Moreover, I feared that my interest was not merely in his proposal, but in seeing him again.
“Very well, Mr. Rodin. Shall we meet at the west gate of the Cremorne Gardens, then? Around five?”
“I look forward to it, Miss Bridgeton. You can ask then all the questions that I’m certain are mulling around that beautiful head of yours.”

We’d taken our ice cream and walked past the dancing platform to get away from the crowd and the loud music of the outdoor stage. It was a pleasant early evening at the gardens. The lights, hung by lanterns in the trees, flickered in the dusky wane of sunlight. A gentle breeze blew, mercifully keeping the lingering stench of the city at bay, at least for a while. “Tell me about your brother, Mr. Rodin.”
I used a spoon to scoop up a bite of the refreshing ice cream infused with lemon. An arched tunnel overgrown with wisteria and vines led to another part of the park. I thought we would be able to talk quietly there.
We walked through the tunnel in silence, the cool shadows as welcome as the treats we ate.
“What would you like to know about him?” Mr. Rodin asked.
I confess my head felt light for no reason I could think of other than the handsome gentleman at my side. Unnerved by my reaction to his proximity, I sought to find a question about his brother that could possibly interest me more than Mr. Rodin. “Why don’t you tell me about his work?”
A small blob of ice cream slid off my spoon and landed in the middle of my chest. I grimaced and Mr. Rodin offered to hold my cone while I rummaged through my bag for a handkerchief.
“There now, Miss Bridgeton. I’ve got it.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiftly wiped away the mess. I felt the slight brush of his fingertips over my breast. A gasp tore from my throat. “Please, Mr. Rodin!”
“My apologies, Miss Bridgeton. It seemed simple enough to remove without touching your—”
My brows shot up. “I receive your meaning, Mr. Rodin. You needn’t embellish.” I took his handkerchief and dabbed at the place where the ice cream had seeped through to my skin. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Perhaps we could find a place to sit down?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Here, this looks like a suitable spot.”
He waited as I sat, and I shook my head when he offered me the remainder of my cone. He tossed both cones into a receptacle nearby and sat down beside me.
“Please continue, Mr. Rodin. You were telling me about your brother.” I took a breath and patted my hair, trying not to look too disheveled.
“About Thomas—” he tapped his long fingers together “—he’s a complex fellow, as most men of his position are. His passion is his art and that is what drives him, I suppose.”
“Forgive me, but is he any good? Does he exhibit his work publicly?”
He turned to look at me, his expression curious. “You’ve truly not heard of him?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I have not.”
“His earlier works have been on exhibition at the Royal Academy gallery. I believe one or two still hang in a permanent wing at the insistence of one of the academy’s wealthy contributors.”
“His accomplishments sound most impressive. You must be quite proud.”
“I told you, Miss Bridgeton, he is gifted man. Not perfect, mind you, but bright and determined. He is a romantic at heart. His work is largely of women, using poetic imagery, religious stories and legends from which he derives his ideas. Though, in truth, his inspirations are his muses.”
“May I ask what you mean by ‘his muses’?”
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Miss Bridgeton. My brother has a deep, abiding love of women. A reverence, I daresay. Thomas regards women with the same awe that other men reserve for the stars, or a sunrise.”
“My, what a lovely thing to say, Mr. Rodin.” My eye caught the shadowy figures of a couple hurrying into the dense foliage beside the tunnel. There was little doubt in my mind what mischief they were engaging in. I forced my attention back to Mr. Rodin. “Are there many members in this brotherhood, Mr. Rodin? Any other models?”
“There are a handful of us—other artists like Thomas, me, in design…we also have amongst us a poet, a journalist and an author, as well as a few other individuals. You need not take concern, Miss Bridgeton. We are a close-knit group and very watchful of one another.”
A woman’s lusty sigh came from the other side of the wall. I kept my eyes on Mr. Rodin’s face. He continued, despite the distracting animallike sounds coming from nearby.
“There is a certain amount of pride in what we believe in, what we aspire to. Each of us has a purpose, a goal we want to achieve, but we are—”
“Oh, yes…yes, that’s lovely, guvner.” The woman emitted a loud sigh. “Here now,” she said, “let’s see what gift you’ve got for me.”
I heard the soft baritone of a man’s chuckle. “You are an eager one.”
Images of what the couple were engaged in leaped into my imagination and I licked my lips.
“—professional and discreet,” Mr. Rodin finished
My face felt flushed, feverish. I fisted my hands in my lap, trying to stay as detached from the events on the other side of the wall as it seemed Mr. Rodin was. I wanted to ask him if we should take our conversation elsewhere, but he appeared to be perfectly content and I did not wish to convey to him that I was as unsettled as I truly was.
“Discreet?” The word squeaked from my throat. “Oh, yes, an admiral trait, certainly.”
A deep-throated groan wafted through the flowers and I saw the instant Mr. Rodin recognized it. His mouth curled slightly at one side and he averted his eyes for a moment.
“Did you have any other questions, Miss Bridgeton?” he asked.
“Oh, dear lady! What extraordinary skills you possess!” the man growled from inside the bushes.
I turned my head aside, covering my mouth to hide my smile. I cleared my throat, loud enough, I hoped, to alert the couple they were not alone. It did not seem to deter them.
“There now, hold it still, guvnor. You’re plenty ready.”
“But I paid for an hour,” the man remarked with slight agitation in his voice.
“Is that my fault, then? Besides—” she cooed “—there’s no sayin’ that we can’t find us another lovely spot to ‘ave a go at it again, if you get my meaning?”
A deep chuckle followed.
I was so entranced by their repartee that I had all but forgotten Mr. Rodin was seated beside me. My eyes flickered to his steady gaze. “Oh, my, what is it that you asked, Mr. Rodin?”
His grin curled upward, deepening that delightful dimple. “If you had any more—”
“Ah…ah, oh, yes…there, that’s good, guvnor. Real good.”
The trellised latticework wall bowed inward with each punctuated sigh coming from the woman.
“—questions,” Mr. Rodin finished as he glanced at the heaving wall. He removed his hat and suppressed a grin.
“Perhaps we should leave?” I whispered, as the sounds of the couple’s passion escalated. I’d never heard such noises before. A warm, damp feeling formed at the juncture of my thighs. My palms, too, were moist—indeed, my whole body seemed to come alive listening to their lusty cries.
“Are you quite sure? Just when things are getting interesting?” Mr. Rodin smiled openly.
“I think before they get too much more interesting.” I stood, finding the backs of my knees weak.
“Very well, I could use a good walk myself.”
He offered his arm and we continued to the other end of the breezeway. As we reached the open lawn beyond, I took a deep breath of fresh air. I felt as if all the blood had drained to my toes.
“Are you all right, Miss Bridgeton?” Mr. Rodin patted my hand, still tucked through his arm.
“Yes, I’m—”
A man’s loud groan wafted on the breeze along with the music behind us. Few others were in the area as, by now, most people had taken to the dance floor.
I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m well, thank you. Um…might we resume our conversation? I believe you were about to answer my question regarding other models.” He cast me a side look.
“Of course. Models…Normally, our artists do not employ more than one model at a time. Once a theme is chosen, the artist begins to look for the face that will complete his vision.”
Mr. Rodin eased my arm from his and I felt awkward once more. We strolled together to the pond and watched silently as two swans swam by, gliding effortlessly side by side. I thought about the story of the ugly duckling that my sisters and I were told when we were young, of how the strange little duckling was turned into a beautiful swan. I felt such a complexity of emotions. In the wake of overhearing the couples’ tryst, I was more aware than before of my attraction to Mr. Rodin.
“Perhaps you’d like to see some of my brother’s work?” he asked, his eyes on the birds. “It might help convince you that my intentions are honorable.”
“Oh, Mr. Rodin,” I said, not wanting him to think me immature or indecisive. “I do believe you are being truthful. Please understand that I am interested—very interested. It’s only that my family is not entirely agreeable to the idea of my modeling for an artist—any artist.”
“I could speak with them, if you like,” he offered.
I held up my hand. “Oh, no, that would not go over well, I’m afraid. My family’s opinion of artists is much worse than even Madame Tozier’s.”
He frowned. “That is a problem.”
He looked away and I feared he was about to end our association. “However, perhaps I could meet you at the gallery sometime and you could show me your brother’s work?”
He glanced down, a smile lighting up his face. “Splendid. Yes, that would be most enjoyable.”
I breathed a quiet sigh. “Wonderful,” I replied, offering him a smile in return.
“Can you meet me on Saturday, then?” he asked, removing his hat. A slight breeze lifted an errant lock of hair, blowing it across his forehead. My fingers twitched to brush it from his eyes.
“Oh? So soon?” I fretted over whether I could quickly devise an adequate excuse to get out of my Saturday chores. “I—I’m not sure I can make arrangements on such short notice.”
“Your family?” he asked.
I nodded. He faced me then, and rested his hands on my shoulders. “I cannot deceive you into thinking that the members of the brotherhood are saints. We are flesh and blood, young and sometimes reckless, and we have the same drives as all men.”
He searched my face for a moment. “Please go on, Mr. Rodin.” I was grateful he held me upright, as my knees threatened to buckle.
“But our passion does not make us unsavory characters to fear. It is embracing that passion that gives the world its beauty. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“And do you fear me, Miss Bridgeton?
I considered his question. “No, Mr. Rodin. I hardly know you, but in truth, I am far more afraid of how to explain my absence at dinner tonight to my family when I get home.”
“Meet with me on Saturday. We can visit the Royal Academy gallery and you can judge for yourself whether you think my brother is worthy of your consideration. Afterward, if you are curious to know more, maybe you’d like to see his studio. I would be most happy to oblige the visit on Thomas’s behalf. I think you will find the studio a welcome venue of artistic expression.”
“I am rather a bit of an artist myself in that I write poetry,” I admitted, precariously considering his offer.
“I knew it.” He grinned. “Then I shall see you on Saturday?”
I swallowed, my confidence wavering. “I don’t know, Mr. Rodin.”
“Come. Let me get you a lemonade while you think on it.”
He offered his arm and, for that, I would gladly think on any subject at great length, but I knew that it was getting late and my family would begin to wonder of my whereabouts.
We walked back to the main path near the dance floor where the crowd was thickening as the shops closed for the day and the city dwellers looked for respite from the heat.
I waited as Mr. Rodin approached a vendor, studying from behind how well he carried himself. As he waited in the line of thirsty patrons, a buxom woman with thick blond hair wound haphazardly atop her head touched his shoulder. He whirled in surprise and caught the woman in a great bear hug. They spoke for a moment, and she left. He paid for our drinks and headed back, offering me a broad grin as he handed me the glass. The drink was ice-cold and soothed my parched throat.
“Thank you,” I said, and glanced at the woman now engaged in speaking to another man.
“Someone you know?” I asked lightly, sipping my drink.
“Jealous?” William teased.
“Oh, no, I…of course not.”
He smiled and sat down beside me. “Please, Miss Bridgeton. Forgive my teasing, I meant no harm.” He glanced at the woman and took a long gulp of his lemonade. He made a face as he smiled at me. “And they claim whiskey burns going down.” He smacked his lips and blinked. “The woman’s name is Grace Farmer. She is an old friend, who occasionally models for the brotherhood. An excellent cook and a fine woman, though gravely misunderstood, I fear.”
“Why is that, and by whom?”
“By virtue that she is a ladybird, I suspect. But only those who know her understand her character and the heart of the lady that she truly is.” He stared at Grace a moment more before he drained his glass. “Besides, my brother lusts after her hair. It is an artist’s dream.”
I tried not to let it bother me that the brotherhood kept relations with prostitutes. That would not bode well where my family was concerned. Bad enough that models were already questioned for their promiscuous behavior. But perhaps she was the only woman with a jaded background.
My hand crept to my fiery red tresses as I wondered what his brother would think of my hair. I kept it swept up most of the time in a loose coil atop my head. I promptly moved my hand away so I would not reveal my concern to Mr. Rodin. “It’s getting late and I should catch one of the ferries back across the river.”
“I’ll escort you to the dock,” he offered.
We walked in silence to where one of the passenger boats lay docked in wait, filling up with weary passengers.
“Thank you, Mr. Rodin. It’s been a lovely evening.”
“Wait,” he stated, and reached for my cheek. His thumb grazed the side of my mouth, sending a shiver down my arms.
“Bit of your ice cream. You want no telltale signs giving you away.”
He could have wiped the ice cream on his trousers but instead he licked it from his thumb. I gave him a hesitant smile, wondering how best to explain his part in my detainment to my family.
“You didn’t say whether we can meet on Saturday.”
“I’ll try, Mr. Rodin,” I responded. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to—”
“I know you’ll need to make arrangements. But please try, Miss Bridgeton.”
I took the boatman’s hand and climbed into the boat.
“I will do my best, I promise.” He walked on the dock alongside me as I made my way to the back of the boat.
Squatting down, he peered at me beneath the safety rails. “Say you will try very hard.”
“Mr. Rodin.”
“Miss Bridgeton, please. What I offer you could well change your life and that of your family.”
I looked up, taking notice at that comment. In my world, art was a foreign thing, the value of it linked only with the great masters, not burgeoning new artists breaking the rules of convention. But I had to ask myself if I was willing to settle for conventional for the rest of my life. Was going against the wishes of my family in order to satisfy my curiosity worth the risk of possible alienation? My German father could be a stubborn and willful man at times.
In truth, I could not offer Mr. Rodin any certainty I could meet him again. Still, I wanted to see him smile once more. “Oh, very well, then. What time?” I called, my voice sounding almost desperate. I glanced around me, confronting the curious look of a woman and her husband.
“Splendid! Ten o’clock,” he volleyed back.
I raised my hand, waving goodbye. “I’ll see you then,” I shouted. I lost sight of him as he made his way back up the dock toward the garden. I dropped my hand in my lap and felt like a foolish ninny wondering if he ran straight back to Grace Farmer. Of all things to think of! I had a much more important task ahead of me in devising a plan to escape my mother’s watchful eye on Saturday.

Chapter Three
MY STOMACH, PRONE TO PANGS OF NERVOUSNESS, had given me trouble throughout the night. When the pain was severe, I was barely able to eat and my mother could tell in an instant if I was worried about something. Mr. Rodin seemed to be going to great lengths to convince me of the validity of this “brotherhood of artists” and the more I pondered my options, limited though they were, the more my stomach gave me issues.
“Did you take your laudanum, Helen?” my mother asked as she cleared away my breakfast bowl, half-full with my porridge. I had waited to come in for breakfast until I knew my sisters and papa were out doing their chores.
“Yes, Mama,” I replied, following her into the kitchen. I had not the gumption yet to tell her that I was going to be gone for the day. I knew that I could not simply tell her the truth. She would not permit me to leave. Besides, I was still debating the wisdom of meeting Mr. Rodin alone. But if I was to achieve my independence, I would first need to find out more information. Until I knew more, there was no reason to involve my family.
“I’ve been invited to…a picnic today.” The lie stuck in my throat. I busied myself with washing the dishes.
“That’s lovely, dear. I’m glad to see you getting out. Who will be going?” she asked, tucking her rolling pin in the cupboard.
She looked at me with such delight that it made my stomach burn. My mother, I think, saw me as a recluse, though she never said the words aloud.
“Some of the girls from the shop.”
“And will there happen to be any gents there?” Her eyes revealed the hope that there might be future marriage prospects involved.
I tried to keep my smile genuine. “It was not my invitation, Mama, I cannot say.”
“Where is the picnic?”
My mind went blank. I had been unprepared for further questions. I scolded myself mentally. “Um…the Cremorne,” I lied again, my stomach protesting my deceit.
She patted my cheek. “Well, it sounds lovely, and it would do you good to get out a bit more. So I shouldn’t plan on you for supper, then?” she asked.
I shook my head. “You best not wait on me tonight. I will be sure to catch the ferry by ten o’clock.”
“Perhaps I should send your papa down to the dock to fetch you. I don’t like the idea of you without a chaperone, especially at that hour.”
“I’ll be fine, Mama. None of the other girls will have their papas meeting them. I’ll be fine.” I hastened to gather up a few items before she could think of more questions to ask.
“Helen?”
I heard my name as I headed down the front path and turned to find her holding my parasol out to me.
“Your skin, you know how you burn. Don’t forget to use this.”
“Thank you, Mum. Stop fretting now. I’ll be fine,” I assured her.
The morning was brilliant, the sun warm on my face as the boat ferried me across the river. The stench was the only thing marring my delight at having managed to get away from the house with so little inquisition.
I hurried along the cobblestone street wishing I could afford the carriage ride, so I would not be wilted by the time I reached Mr. Rodin. I rounded the corner of the gallery and there he was pacing out front. He stopped and checked his stopwatch. Having no such luxury of my own, I took my time from the toll of Parliament’s new clock tower. “Mr. Rodin,” I said breathlessly, forcing a smile as I slowed to a respectable pace.
“Miss Bridgeton.” The peel of the tower bells sounded. “Splendid, you’re right on time.”
He offered me his arm and we went inside. The Royal Gallery was quite beautiful, room after room of high-polished floors and great high ceilings. Pictures were hung in ornate gold frames, stacked next to one another on the walls at eye level and upward.
“You want to be able to get the spot at eye level,” Mr. Rodin explained. “That’s how you know the committee approves of your work.”
“And where is your brother’s work, Mr. Rodin?” I asked, searching the wall as if I would recognize his work when I saw it.
“Third row from the top…over there. It’s a brilliant piece. It should have been lower. But my brother has issues with conforming to the committee’s wishes.”
He smiled at me when I gave him a questioning look.
“Thomas quit the academy under protest of the teachings here. He’s never really quite gotten back on track with the committee. He doesn’t have a number of highly influential friends, as I mentioned.” He looked at the painting. “Truthfully, Miss Bridgeton, I think deep down he wished the committee would judge his work on its own merit, and not on Thomas’s reputation.”
I studied the painting as best as I could from my vantage point. It was a lovely portrait of a woman barely covered by a luxurious blue drape. It was the light in her eyes that struck me the most. They seemed so full of life.
“You mustn’t let this influence your decision, Miss Bridgeton. Often in life, it is the geniuses who are the least understood.”
“Oh, I do understand that.” I slanted him a glance and he returned it with a smile. William’s solid belief in his brother’s work was what made Thomas’s painting stand apart from the rest. I knew little about Thomas Rodin, the artist, but the more time I spent with his brother, the more I came to revere him and the more I desired to meet him. I began to realize, too, that wherever there was opportunity to be around William, I was more than willing to take whatever risks were involved.
We came to a statue of a nude male reclining, as though relaxing in a meadow on a pleasant day. Every muscle was intricately carved, portrayed with lifelike precision, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the size of his phallus lying limp against his leg. Having never before been privy to the human male form, I silently wondered if it was realistically proportioned.
“Artistically enhanced,” Mr. Rodin’s voice issued at my side.
“Oh, I wasn’t—” I started.
He raised his eyebrow.
My cheeks warmed and I looked away.
“Dear Miss Bridgeton, when it comes to art, only an intelligent person would have such questions.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rodin, but how did you know?” I asked.
“Your face reads like an open book,” he replied with a smile.
“I’m sorry, I suppose you find me quite naive.”
“On the contrary. I think your innocence suits you beautifully.”
“You have a wonderful way of making me feel at ease with myself, Mr. Rodin.” I smiled.
He touched my arm. “I want you to feel comfortable in asking me anything. I know already that my brother is going to be as enchanted with you as I am. Your deep-set eyes and that flaming red hair—you’re precisely what the brotherhood has been looking for.”
“You flatter me.”
“Miss Bridgeton, flattery has nothing to do with it. I am trying to convince you to model for us.”
“Us? Do you paint also?” My heart raced a little faster at the thought.
“Me? No.” He smiled. “I leave the painting to my brother.”
As we walked through the remaining rooms, I was impressed by Mr. Rodin’s knowledge of art even though he claimed not to be artistically inclined. It seemed he was forever comparing his brother’s works to the early works of Michelangelo.
After the tour of the gallery, we took in the gallery’s floral gardens. Mr. Rodin plucked a rose from a trellis and handed it to me.
“Thank you,” he said, “for coming today.”
I held the flower to my nose, breathing deeply of its sweet fragrance. “Thank you for asking me. It’s been a lovely day.”
“And do you yet have any concerns or questions that you’d care to discuss with me?”
I studied him a moment, hesitating still to agree to his proposition, knowing it would take far greater convincing of my family than of me. “I beg of you one more day to decide.” My voice tinged on pleading, afraid that my request for delaying my response might change his mind.
He regarded me with a dubious look.
“Please, Mr. Rodin. I am humbly flattered. However, you must understand I’ve never received such a proposition before.”
He smiled, though it appeared guarded. “Of course.”
I offered a sigh of relief and smiled. Looking away, I held my stomach as I attempted to quell my nerves.
“Are you certain all is well, Miss Bridgeton?” he asked
I held up my hand. “It’s…I’m fine. Perhaps a little ginger soda would help.” I knew that I would need to take my medicine soon.
As he searched for a vendor, I scolded myself for getting so nervous.
Mr. Rodin did not press me further for an answer. We spoke on other topics and later that afternoon, he summoned a carriage and escorted me to the ferry.
At the dock, he handed me a card with his brother’s name and address on it.
“If you make your decision, this is where you’ll find me.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Rodin.” I smiled. “I promise to think about it.”

The next day at work, a young boy came into the shop, self-consciously removing his cap as he pushed forward to the counter where I stood. In his arms, he carried a bouquet of lovely flowers. “There’s a gent outside. He paid me a whole shilling. Says I was to give these to the prettiest girl in the shop.” He glanced around and shrugged. “I guess that’d be you, then?”
I took the flowers and thanked the boy, checking the card tucked inside. I held it toward the light so I could read it.
Dear Miss Bridgeton,
Thank you for the lovely afternoon.
W.R.
“Miz Bridgeton, was that a customer at nearly closing time? Remember it is the Sabbath, we must close early, and I have much to do.” Madame Tozier’s eyes grew wide when she saw the flowers in my arms. “From a secret admirer?”
I tucked the card inside my apron.
“Oh, these? No, a young boy brought these by…for the owner.”
“Was there a card?”
“No, Madame. He indicated that the man who sent them wanted to express his thanks.” My mind frantically searched for recent sales. “He mentioned something about a traveling hat for his wife.” It was as good as I could do on short notice.
She looked puzzled. “No name?” Then her eyes brightened. “Oh, Mr. Smythe!”
Relieved that my lie was validated, I nodded, encouraging the deception further. A sharp pang in my stomach reminded me of the stress I caused myself.

I was glad the shop had closed early. After graciously declining Madame Tozier’s invitation to join her Sabbath celebration, I enjoyed the walk through the park for the chance to clear my head.
“Miss Bridgeton!” A familiar voice called from behind. I turned to find Mr. Rodin hurrying toward me. His face was flushed from running.
“I took the chance that you might be closing the shop early due to the Sabbath.” He smiled and I felt my knees grow weak. I am not sure at what point I had begun to fantasize about Mr. Rodin and myself. Perhaps it was merely the fact that no man had ever paid so much attention to me before. Yet he seemed genuinely interested.
“I wondered if you’d had a chance yet to consider my proposal.”
I appreciate your patience, Mr. Rodin, and your tenacity.” My fingers tightened around my parasol’s handle.
“My brother says that I am like a dog with a bone once my mind is made up on a matter.”
His enchanting grin bolstered my confidence. “I am happy that you have not given up.”
He stood before me looking quite dapper in his dark trousers and tan jacket. His wavy hair was brushed back behind his ears, accentuating his chiseled jaw. In his eyes, I saw a palatable hunger.
Although I knew fully that it was not proper for a young woman to accept such a proposal, I had no reason to fear Mr. Rodin. My fear was that his resolve might weaken if I answered no again.
He pulled a long-stemmed rose from behind his back and handed it to me.
Charmed, I took it from him, touching the delicate petals to my mouth as I breathed in its lovely fragrance. Twice, no, three times now, he had given me flowers.
“You received my flowers?” he asked, tipping his head.
I hesitated, trying to find the best way to explain what had happened. “I did, thank you. However, I regret to have to tell you that I gave them away. I am not allowed to accept gifts at the store.”
“Duly noted. I could see where a woman of your beauty could cause problems in that area.”
I averted my eyes. “Please, Mr. Rodin.”
“I mean every word, Miss Bridgeton,” he stated.
He studied me for a long moment, tapping his hat against his leg and then smiled.
“Well, it remains whether I can persuade you to visit the studio.”
I could not have told him no had my life depended upon it. “Very well. Though you realize it is inappropriate for me to accept your invitation without a chaperone.” His eyes raked over me and I admit I quite enjoyed it. There was something daring in the line I was about to cross.
“I believe you have a good head on your shoulders, Miss Bridgeton. I give you my oath, I will be a gentleman.”
I took his proffered arm, hoping he would not be too much of one. I had dreamed for the past few nights of what it would be like to have his mouth on mine. I looked away, feeling my face flush again.
Mr. Rodin and I walked leisurely through the park to the line of carriages awaiting passengers. He assisted me into a two-seater, settling in close beside me.
“Cheyne Walk,” he told the driver.
The open-air carriage jerked forward and I popped up my parasol to stave off the afternoon sun.
“Will your brother be at the studio?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the road ahead. I dared not look at him. Already I felt brazen at accompanying him without a proper chaperone.
“If he isn’t, he will be shortly. He did mention meeting with some of the brotherhood this afternoon.”
“Do you live at the studio with your brother?” I gave him a brief side look. He had a handsome profile, and I noted a cleft in his chin that I had not seen before.
“When I’m in London, yes, I stay with Thomas. It was a little hard at first getting used to his quirks.” He chuckled. “Thomas paints when the mood strikes him—night or day.”
I smiled pleasantly. I had apparently much to learn about the eccentric Thomas Rodin.
The carriage jostled down the cobblestone street, the sun overhead causing me to grow warm. I had bathed and dressed in one of my best gowns, donning a hand-me-down corset I had received as a gift from one of the girls at work. Still, the heat beneath the layers of clothing was suffocating.
At last, the carriage came to a stop in front of a tall, narrow, two-story stone flat. A small balcony looked out over the street from a set of French doors. It was simple, clean and neat, and appeared to be in a good district, putting my mind at ease in that regard.
Mr. Rodin helped me from the carriage and ushered me up a few steps to a painted red door.
“Here we are.”
Inside, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the murky foyer. The entry was narrow, with a small room off to the right. I peeked inside, finding the room void of furnishings, but its floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with books.
“The brotherhood are voracious readers,” Mr. Rodin said, leaning over my shoulder. “Come, I’ll show you the studio. It’s upstairs.”
He placed his hand on the small of my back, gently guiding me to the dark mahogany stairwell. Allowing me to go first, we walked up a short flight to a landing and took a sharp right turn to proceed up another set of stairs.
I brushed my palm over the ruby-red wallpaper. It had a raised, velvety texture that I had never seen before. “This design is lovely.”
From behind, his hand reached up to rest beside mine. “Do you like it?” he asked.
I tried to ignore his close proximity, how the sound of his rich voice reverberated inside me. “The color is so elegant, like a red wine.” I looked over my shoulder and caught his pleased smile.
“That was my inspiration.”
“Your inspiration?” I asked, surveying the beautiful wall covering.
“This was one of the first designs I sold to a manufacturer right here in London. Granted, it’s for a very limited clientele, but it’s a start.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “Doubtful my designs will ever hang in the academy.”
“There are more homes in this world than museums or galleries, Mr. Rodin,” I responded without hesitation. He lowered his hand, brushing it against mine in the process.
“Thank you, I’ve never thought of it that way.”
I moved onward, more aware than ever of his presence behind me. At the top of the stairs was a wide hallway. Directly across from me was an open archway leading to a large room. To my right the corridor stretched past four more doors to the end of the hallway and a window festooned with delicate lace curtains. A putrid smell came from the larger room ahead and I lifted my hand to my nose. “Oh, goodness, what is that smell?”
Mr. Rodin laughed. “Thomas would tell you that’s the smell of money.”
He lightly touched my back, urging me forward.
“You’ll get used to it. It’s the linseed oil and cleaner for the brushes,” he said over my shoulder. “You certainly smell far better.”
“Mr. Rodin.” A giggle escaped my lips. He eased around me, his chest brushing my side. I held my breath, unnerved at my body’s reaction to him.
“Come in.”
He waved me into the room and I stood a moment, letting my eyes adjust from the dark hallway to the fused afternoon light in the spacious room. It appeared as though a wall had been removed to create a massive combination studio and study. One end of the room was cluttered with easels, props and a lounge chair draped with beautiful gowns. It looked more like the backstage area of a theater than an artist’s haven. At the other end sat a writing desk and another set of shelves holding collectible exotic items and more books. There was an ornate, black marble front fireplace flanked by a grouping of overstuffed chairs. Directly opposite the fireplace, Mr. Rodin had opened the French doors leading to the balcony. Papers pinned to canvasses fluttered in the summer breeze.
“Feel free to look around,” Mr. Rodin said as he puttered around the room.
An errant sketch tumbled past me and kissed my toe. I reached down to pick it up at the same time as Mr. Rodin. Our fingers met briefly and my heart faltered. I let go of the paper, not wanting him to see the flush of my cheeks.
“Have you painted before, Miss Bridgeton?” He held the paper loose in his hand, his eyes steady on me.
I suppose his question was not out of the ordinary. Most well-bred women in London included painting, poetry and music in their list of abilities. “I’ve only written a little poetry. Dreadfully novice, I’m afraid.” My eyes drifted to the sketch in his hand. Done in charcoal, it was the picture of a nearly nude woman reclined on a chaise. A drape thrown haphazardly over her legs. I looked away, scanning the pictures stacked against the wall, and wondered if I would be asked to pose nude.
Without comment, he placed the sketch on a stack of others on the desk, weighing them down with a thick book.
“Who do you read?” he asked, watching me as I inspected the stacks of paintings leaning along the wall. In one group alone, there were as many as a dozen paintings with various backgrounds, but the same woman’s face. “I read most anything, Mr. Rodin. But I have a particular fondness for Dickens.”
He chuckled. “A fine fellow, Charles.” He glanced at the floor. “A bit zealous, but he means well.”
“You know him?” I asked, wide-eyed.
He shrugged. “We had him over to dine one evening. He has some definite ideas on social reform.”
I searched his face wondering whether or not to believe him. I’d begun to think that perhaps Mr. Rodin had not been embellishing on his brother’s notoriety. “Did your brother paint these?” I asked. Mr. Rodin walked up beside me. “They all look like the same woman.”
“Yes, these are the same woman. Thomas can be a bit possessive once he chooses a subject.”
There was an underlying tone in his voice, though I could not pinpoint it exactly. Sadness? Frustration? His breath tickled the back of my neck. The woman in the paintings was undeniably beautiful. How could I compare to such beauty? “Do you think he will find me suitable?” I touched the collar of my blouse nervously.
I became aware in an instant of my ardent feelings for Mr. Rodin. While it was one thing to dream in the privacy of my room, it was quite another to deal with my desire while standing in a room alone, next to him. He had kept his word, remaining the perfect host, the consummate gentleman, and the realization of what I had agreed to illuminated my thoughts. I had hoped for, perhaps secretly wished, this would happen, that we might find ourselves alone, able to address the growing admiration I felt for him and I was nearly certain he felt for me.
It was both exhilarating and frightening to realize that I had just made the first big decision of my adult life.

Chapter Four
HIS FINGERS WERE WARM AS HE LACED THEM through mine. It would have been wiser for me to run. There was danger that he would snatch my virtue; perhaps more that I would allow it. I closed my eyes to the divine sensation of his thumb brushing back and forth over my wrist, aware of the desire rising inside me.
“What are you doing, Mr. Rodin?” I said breathlessly.
“How could my brother not find you absolutely perfect, Miss Bridgeton? He would have to be blind.”
My heart thudded as I turned to meet his smoldering eyes. Unable to move, I fought to collect my thoughts, searched for a reason to deny what my body craved. I had spent days thinking of nothing but William.
“My father cautioned me that men, especially men who want something, will stop at nothing to achieve their purpose. Is that what you’re doing, Mr. Rodin?” His eyes drifted to my mouth and I knew his curiosity matched mine.
“I confess, Miss Bridgeton, that since we first met, you have pervaded my thoughts.” His crystalline blue eyes met my gaze.
“I pray, do not tease me, sir.” I could not tell if my stomach was misbehaving or if more was happening to me. I had a dull ache deep inside—a yearning that I could not explain.
His grip tightened as he leaned toward me. The struggle for restraint was evident in his eyes and in the tick of his set jaw. A gust of hot air blew through the open balcony doors, sending a rustle of papers to join the pleasant buzz beginning in my head.
“And you, Miss Bridgeton, do you not know how you’ve bewitched me?”
He moved closer, afraid, I think, to frighten me. His warm, musky scent overtook my senses as he searched my eyes, asking silent permission. The mere brush of his lips to mine snatched my breath away, unleashing a primal need.
I boldly met his mouth, secretly thrilled by his deep-throated growl as he backed me against the wall. I curved my body to his hard muscled warmth, sensing his arousal through the layers of clothing between us.
Sweat trickled between my breasts, skittering over my heated flesh. The images conjured by the couple in the gardens leaped into my mind. I gave in to the lustful sounds in my memory, causing a ravenous fire to course through me.
I savored William’s mouth slanting over mine, seducing, pulling me deeper under his spell, and whimpered softly when his greedy tongue plunged between my lips. He smelled of the warm summer wind, tasted of honeyed tea and cinnamon.
“God, but you are lovely,” he said, his lips nibbling the sensitive flesh beneath my ear. “Tell me you’ve thought of this,” he whispered. “That you’ve wanted this as much as I have dreamt of it.”
His hand glided upward, over my waist, pushing higher until his palm closed gently over my covered breast. I squirmed beneath his fervent kisses, succumbing to the rapture of his intimate caress.
“I need to…I must touch you.”
He looked at me with those mesmerizing eyes, demanding more. Despite the warring factions in my head cautioning me to end this, I could not refuse him—I did not want to refuse him.
I turned my back to him, lifting my hair to allow ease in unbuttoning my dress. His lips pressed to my exposed flesh, sending a cascade of shivers down my spine and straight to my core. Half-dressed now, I laid my cheek against the cool plaster wall, enjoying the brush of his hands as he peeled the dress slowly down over my body.
He kissed my shoulder, turning me to face him and, for a moment, we stared at each other. Frozen, I stood still as his eyes raked over me, assessing, deciding, it seemed, whether to continue. Before now, I’d never compared myself to another woman. I worried my lip, a nervous habit I deplored, but I feared he was having second thoughts.
My body trembled, alive with anticipation. He set to the task of unhooking the closures down the front of my corset, stopping intermittently to capture my face in a spine-tingling kiss. “Hurry,” I whispered, anxious to be rid of my confinements.
I braced against the wall, grateful when he slid the stiff corset from around me. My breasts bobbed free, straining against my whisper-thin camisole. He dipped his head, closing his mouth over the fabric, drawing the rosy tip of my breast between his lips, teasing, taunting me.
My fingers tangled in his hair, kneading with luxurious euphoria, desire pulsing hot inside me. Through hooded lids, I watched how his mouth mastered my body, summoning new sensations.
Between scalding kisses, he tugged the wispy fabric over my head, binding my hands in the cloth, holding them above as he captured my mouth in a fierce kiss. William pulled back, took a deep breath and leaned his forehead to mine.
“It is the last thing I want, Helen, to deceive you or to make you think that your father is right. I did not plan this, and if you tell me to stop, I will, without question. But I pray you do not.” He swallowed hard, searching my eyes.
I reached for his face, my fingertips—tentative, unsure—touching the roughness of his shadowy beard, fueling the fire already in my blood.
“I will not stop you, Mr. Rodin. I have thought of little else these past days.” I met his mouth, coaxing him back to me, my hands awkwardly working at the buttons of his shirt between my fervent need to taste his mouth.
He took my hands and kissed them, stepping away to peel off his shirt and drop it in haste to the floor. My breath caught at the breadth of his shoulders, the soft dusting of hair on his sculpted chest. He was every bit as well formed as the statues I had seen at the museum.
The intensity of my fleshly appetite surprised me. It was as though another woman had been awakened in me. The sheen of his hard muscled flesh left me languid, craving his touch.
He slipped his hands beneath the waistband of my drawers, his eyes locked to mine as he drew them over my hips and waited for me to step from them. I pressed my palms against the wall, wearing nothing now but my old high-top boots.
“I am about to burst looking at you,” he said. “See what you do to me.”
My eyes lowered to the raised definition in his trousers, then flickered back to his heated gaze. The fact that I had caused his arousal, something that I’d never done for a man, delighted me. Still, I was not sure precisely what to do next. I did not have to ask.
He dropped to his knees, circling my waist with his hands, drawing my body to his mouth. He lavished attention on one breast and then the other.
“You are a virgin, aren’t you?” he whispered.
His breath caused the gooseflesh to rise on my exposed skin. I nodded, my eyes fluttering shut as his kisses descended to my hip, his mouth kissing the tops of my thighs.
He lifted my leg over his shoulder, parting my feminine folds. I let out a small gasp as he slid his calloused thumb along my warm, wet maidenhood. My back arched forward and I covered my mouth to quell the soft sounds coming from my throat. His finger slid deeper and my hands flew to his head, in an effort to keep my weak knees from buckling.
“Don’t be afraid, Helen. I’ll take care of you,” he soothed.
Sweat formed on my upper lip; my throat was parched. I was a stranger to this bliss, following blindly, my mind spinning in carnal bliss.
“I want you to remember this, Helen. Remember that it was me.”
His hot breath on the inside of my thigh preceded the slow stroke of his tongue inside my drenched cleft. Brought entirely under this wanton turbulent need, I welcomed his intrusion and rocked my hips gently, inviting more from his rapturous tongue.
His tongue flicked a spot that brought me to my toes. I was like a glass teetering on the edge of a shelf, about to break. I held his face in my hands as he looked up at me.
“Tell me what you want, Helen,” he said. His breathing was shallow, his eyes glittering with desperate urgency. “Be certain.”
“Do not stop, not now.” I brushed my hand over his hair and he offered a wicked smile.
He stood and swiftly unfastened his trousers, shoving them to his feet. I stared in rapt fascination at his swollen member jutting toward me. Fear flashed in my mind, but I wanted this as I had never wanted anything before in my life. My eyes rose to his heated gaze.
I’d never felt so reckless, so deliciously wicked. It was a powerful aphrodisiac. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he cupped my bottom, lifting me around his waist. His eyes held mine as he braced his hands against the wall and slowly entered me, hesitating when a gasp tore from my throat. The short pain gave way to a greater bliss and I welcomed the slick friction of our fused bodies.
“Are you all right?” he whispered, raking his mouth across the top of my shoulder.
“Yes,” I sighed, beginning to move with his rhythmic thrusts. I held his face to my neck, pushing my mother’s scowling face from my mind, instead delighting in these new, wondrous sensations.
He straightened, repositioning himself, and thrust deeper, a possessive glint darkening his eyes.
“Look at me, Helen,” he said, his voice rasping from his throat. Sweat dripped from his brow, his breath hissing with each lunge. My body wound tight, my every sense sharpened. The thick scent of linseed and paint mingled with the drugging heat of the sultry summer evening. The flesh on my back stung where it rubbed against the plastered wall.
My control shattered and I gasped, quaking with unspeakable delight. I gripped his shoulders, hooking my legs firm around his waist. William panted hard with each thrust, driving impossibly deep—
He shifted, and the movement increased the wave of tremors rolling through my body, unraveling me. His muscles bunched beneath my clinging fingers.
My name wrenched from his lips as he pushed into me thrice more, and with a shuddering sigh dropped his forehead to my shoulder.
A breeze wafted through the balcony doors, cooling our sweat-drenched bodies. I turned my eyes to the waning light outside, surprised by how different things looked. How my body was satisfied, but my heart was still uncertain. I did not expect false promises, or a proposal of marriage to amend our wanton lust. However, I was not prepared for the stark emptiness inside of me at their absence. My eyes were blurred with unshed tears. He leaned back, his eyes soft with concern.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, kissing my forehead.
The juncture betwixt my thighs was sore. I offered a wobbly smile, memorizing the sensation of him still nestled deep inside me. “No,” I answered shyly. How could I tell him that I would marry him this instant if he asked?
He eased away, holding me like a delicate vase.
“Careful,” he said with a quiet dignity. “You’re all right, you’re sure?”
My flesh grew cold, and I wrapped my arms around myself, searching the floor for my clothes.
Without comment, he handed me my undergarments. I sensed his discomfiture through his formality.
“Yes, thank you. I’m fine.” My words sounded strange. I smiled, afraid to allow my true emotions to show.
His eyes met mine, and where I had seconds earlier seen concern, I saw little more than guilt. We dressed silently as if embarrassed by our impetuous actions. This behavior was new to me, as I suspected it may have been to him. He’d called me Helen in the throes of passion, I realized. How should I address him now? The socially expected protocol of Mr. Rodin hardly seemed necessary now.
He was a quiet man—caring and attentive. A confident man, in my view, having no need for constant reassurance. Still, I could not understand his silence. Had my silly heart chosen to see only what it wanted, rather than what was real? Dear heavens, had my father been right all along?
William finished dressing and walked out to the balcony. I followed, pausing for a moment at the open double doors. He leaned against the railing looking out over the city, far away in his thoughts.
The stench of the Thames settled over the city at this late hour.
“He cannot know,” William said suddenly, his back still turned to me.
Certain that I had not heard him correctly, I moved to his side, curling my arm through the crook of his elbow. He picked up my hand and pressed it to his lips.
“Who do you mean?” I asked. “My papa? My family does not need to know.” I studied his stern profile.
“No, Helen, not your father. You are old enough to make your own choices.” His eyes raked over me briefly before he looked away.
“No, Thomas. It would make him furious if he knew we’d been together. If it had been anyone else but me, it would not matter. I do not know how best I can explain it, Helen. It’s…how it is between us.”
I stared at him, not believing what I had heard. Had he refused my immediate insistence to marry him, or even to make a true commitment only to me, that I would have understood. “Are you saying we must pretend that what happened between us did not? Why, William? Doesn’t he want you to be happy?” My words tumbled from my mouth before I could think.
He kissed my hand again, this time facing me. His expression was firm, determined.
“This is not about my happiness, Helen. It is about his life, his work, his way of doing things,” William stated, showing no emotion in those eyes that I’d just seen overflowing with passion. I saw instead the plea of a man begging me to understand, asking me to forget possibly the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. How could I ignore my feelings when my virtue was at stake?
“We cannot take this any further. I should have had more control.” He shook his head as if scolding himself.
“Then I won’t be his model, William,” I said, grabbing his hand. “That is all there is to it.”
“That would not be fair to you nor to Thomas.”
My mouth gaped open, unable to find a response to his absurd comment. I squeezed shut my eyes, concentrating on putting together the pieces of this jumbled mess. “You cannot deny what has happened. I—I don’t understand.” I reached for his face and he backed away. He turned, shoving his hand through his hair.
“I am nothing like him, Helen. You will see once you’ve met him, once you get to know him. His presence alone commands those around him. He dominates everyone in his world. Not in an abusive way, please do not misunderstand.” He braced his hands against the balcony railing as he stared out over the street. “He is a kind man and a good man.”
“As you are, William.” My arms ached to hold him again. I wanted him to tell me he was as happy as I was.
“You say that now.” He offered a short laugh and tossed me a side look.
“What do you mean? Do you find me that shallow? So easily won by any man’s charm?”
His eyes drifted shut and he offered a weary sigh. “It isn’t you, Helen.” He smiled. “It’s him. I have never known a man so suited to his own skin, so confident in his opinion, so sure of his skill and his future. He is nearly perfect in all he does.”
“You love him, of course.” I touched his arm. Beneath his shirtsleeve, I felt the muscle that I had grasped moments before grow tense, unyielding.
“I would rather die than disappoint him.” He stared straight ahead, his focus and his response unwavering.
“And so if I choose to model for the brotherhood, he would find it disappointing that we care for one another?” The idea that the sweetest freedom I had ever known was being snatched away boggled my mind.
“If he finds out what has happened between us, you will not be asked to model. That is exactly my point. Until he is finished, we cannot allow ourselves the luxury of having any sort of relationship, other than business.” He slapped his hand against the railing.
“You’re serious?” I asked. “Look at me, William. Tell me that you don’t care for me.” I stood firm, challenging him with a hard gaze.
Finally, he faced me, grabbing my shoulders. His eyes bored into mine, hard and cold.
“I owe him everything, Helen. He deserves my support and respect. His mind is brilliant, his gift rare. I would not usurp his goals in trade for mine.”
Dazed by his words, I stepped away and batted at his hands when he tried to hold them. My stomach roiled uneasily.
“Helen, if what you say is true, then these feelings you believe are real will be there when you are done with your work here. Know this above all else—I do not regret what has happened. It is just…ill timed, I’m afraid.”
His eyes implored me to take him at his word. I didn’t know what to believe.
“Until his paintings are finished, he must have your undivided attention. That is just the way it has to be.” He walked inside the door and held his hand out to me, waiting for my response.
Tears choked my throat and, despite his words, I pushed myself into his embrace. He held me close and I pressed my cheek to the warmth of his chest.
“I’m sorry, but if you agree to pose for the brotherhood, you become my brother’s muse and I, your most willing servant in every way, save one.”
The front door banged open and a loud voice called from below. “Will, are you up there? Come here, man, I need your help!”
William eased me away, searching my face before he gave me a brief nod. “It’s time to meet Thomas.” He smiled and walked across the studio.
A person holding a stack of wobbly wood crates appeared on the landing, his arms shaking as he struggled to balance the boxes.
“I’m about to make a god-awful mess, Will. Where the devil are you?” A deep, rich laugh followed, one filled with an energy that was infectious. Despite the ache in my heart, I found the camaraderie between the two brothers much like that between my sisters and me. I suddenly understood William’s standpoint, though I did not like it.
“You buffoon!” William called out loudly in response. “Why on earth do you insist on dragging these crates home?” he scolded, stepping forward to help his brother.
Without William at my side, I was suddenly the shy introvert he’d met that day in the hat shop.
“These are far cheaper than palettes, my brother. Say, while I was picking these up at the tavern, I saw that McGivney’s is having an oyster special tonight. What do you say we go down and toss back a few with some pints? I’ve just sold another of my paintings to John.”
“That’s wonderful, Thomas,” William replied, dropping the crates to the floor. “First, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
I stood transfixed, motionless at the threshold of the balcony’s doors, trying to process all that had happened. A surreal sticky substance trickled down my leg, reminding me of what I had done. William held out his hand to me, motioning me to his side. Unable to arrange my hair properly, I quickly pulled it over my shoulder, twisting it in a loose braid. I did not take William’s hand.
He smiled, dropped his hand to his side and turned to his brother. “This is the woman I spoke to you about. Helen Bridgeton, I would like you to meet my brother, the extraordinary and gifted artist, Thomas Rodin.”
I was mesmerized by how accurate William’s assessment of his brother was. It was, I determined, the reason I could not find my tongue. His manner and his odd clothing made him seem larger than life. The air fairly crackled in his presence. I found myself curtsying as if about to dance.
His eyes came alive and, as though I was the only one in the room, he walked toward me, silently assessing me from head to toe. He wore the trousers of a proper gentleman, and so, too, the shoes. That, however, is where all semblance of the current era stopped. His coat, dark blue velvet and showing wear on the shoulder, was festooned with ornate blue seed pearls and stiff piping, reminding me of the old-fashioned, aristocratic clothes I’d seen in the paintings at the gallery. He wore a shirt, too, adorned with lace cuffs, and on his fingers beautiful rings of gold, one bearing a black stone the size of a small bird’s egg. The eclectic array of clothing and color enhanced his exotic olive skin, making him look like a painting come to life. Were it not for the shadow of his beard, the swagger of his walk and the obvious gleam of sensuality in his eye, I would have taken him for a dandy. Instead, I found myself curiously drawn to him.
Yes, I had gravely underestimated the impact of his brother’s effect on me. I felt like a ripe apple being eyed for its tart sweetness.
“Turn,” he stated bluntly.
I blinked, pressing my lips together in uncertainty that I would pass muster. My eyes met William’s unreadable gaze. He nodded and I turned slowly, my fingers locked together, holding on to my braid.
Thomas reached for my hands and I relinquished my grasp as he inspected them closely, turning them back and forth. I grew uncomfortable at how long he studied them, praying he would not care how unkempt my nails were, how dry my skin was.
At last, Thomas drew my hands to his lips and kissed them with lingering reverence. His lip curled provocatively, highlighting the slight cleft in his chin, giving character to his handsome face. His hair, an unruly mop, produced a shock of chestnut curls that dipped low over his forehead. I noticed a thin white scar slicing across the outer edge of one eyebrow.
“My brother is to blame for that,” he said, cocking his eyebrow as though reading my mind. His eyes narrowed, joining his easy, predatory grin. “Your hair is glorious. That deep russet—those mahogany undertones are positively scandalous! Dante’s delight, you are a lovely gift to be certain. By all that is decadent, woman, your eyes alone have utterly captured me.” He strode over to William, grabbing him in a fierce embrace. “Well done, William, you have found us a ‘stunner.’”
“Now we must celebrate. Our cups—as our dear mother would say most devotedly—do runneth over, and so shall ours, down at McGivney’s.”
In two steps, he had returned, grabbing me around the waist, holding me close as he spun me around. The delight on his face reminded me of a child on Christmas morning. I clung to his broad shoulders, looking down at a face so closely resembling William’s, but with eyes that sparked mischievously. I caught William’s guarded expression as Thomas placed my feet to the floor.
“Shall I call you my muse?” He narrowed his eyes, studying me. I admit I was so smitten immediately by his zest for life that I quite forgot the obstacles facing me with taking on this position.
“My apologies, Mr. Rodin, but I have not yet accepted this position.”
He drew back in surprise and laughed aloud. “I like her, Will. She has a feisty spirit. Perhaps, we should consider paying her more?”
“I would prefer that you stop talking about me as if I cannot hear,” I said with a boldness that surprised me.
Thomas took my chin between his fingers. His grin was positively wicked. “Yes, you and I will get on quite well. I like a woman who knows her mind, who knows what she wants and has no fear in obtaining it.”
I glanced at William, who had busied himself with stacking the crates against the wall. My mind flashed with the image of our bodies entwined, braced against that very wall…
“The details,” he stated bluntly. “You’ll get a half shilling a week. I will need you here every day—”
“I’m sorry sir, but I am employed during the day.”
“But I cannot paint without light.” He shrugged. “We shall have to see what can be done. Now—” he clapped his hands together “—what’s next?” He searched the room and spotted William finishing with the crates. “Oh, thank you, Will.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Rodin, you should call me a carriage. It is getting late and my family will be wondering where I am.”
Thomas pursed his lips together, a scowl darkening his face. “No. No, my dear. You will dine with us this evening. Besides, I want you to meet a few of our close friends in the brotherhood. I will send word to your family that you are spending the night in town. Besides, it is far too dangerous for a woman to be traveling across the roads at this hour. I’m sure they will understand and appreciate the wisdom of it.”
He obviously had never met my papa. “I am hesitant to agree, Mr. Rodin. My papa can be quite set in his ways in, well, most matters concerning his daughters.” I checked William’s face for his reaction. He found interest in his shoes suddenly.
“A bit forward, interesting for one who appears so innocent. Quite a provocative blend,” Thomas responded, offering his brother a quick side glance. “Yet never let it be said that I don’t like a good challenge.”
He gave me a wink
“Your papa will have to understand. I am about to make his daughter part of artistic history—surely he would not deny you that. Besides, and you should know this about me before we begin any sort of affair together, I usually get what I want. Now, is it my understanding, or was I mistaken, that you are interested in this position?”
My eyes darted from Thomas to William. “Of course, but I need to make arrangements—”
“Good. I hope you do not have an aversion to oysters?” He raised his dark eyebrows, awaiting my answer.
His arrogance, I suppose, was part of his charm. I wondered if all artists were like him, or if he was a rare breed unto himself. “I’ve never had them, Mr. Rodin.”
He leaned down, his fingers grasping my upper arm, and placed his unshaven cheek against mine.
“I insist you call me Thomas. Mr. Rodin is the name given to a gentleman and my father. I am neither. Do we understand each other, Helen?”
His breath tickled my ear. My gaze flickered to his. “Yes, Thomas.”
“Splendid!”
He laughed as he hooked one arm through mine and grabbed William with the other. “We’re starting afresh, with a new project! Yes, I can see it now. It will be a boot in the rear of the Royal Academy!” He laughed. “But tonight, I want to enjoy this moment with my two favorite people in the entire world!”

Chapter Five
FROM THE MOMENT I AGREED TO MODEL FOR Thomas, my life began to move at a rapid pace. I was thrilled that he assumed responsibility for contacting my family, yet concerned at the same time about what he would tell them.
The carriage that Thomas secured rolled up in front of Mc-Givney’s pub. The loud din of voices, some raised in song, filtered through to the outside. I’d never been in a real pub before.
Thomas helped me from the carriage and nodded to William, who took me by the elbow and escorted me to the establishment’s front door.
“What will he tell my family?” I asked William. He’d already begun to distance himself in a cordial manner.
“Hard to say, but Thomas is quick on his feet,” William responded, not looking at me.
I did not understand how William could so easily dismiss what had happened between us. It was not how I believed it should be. I wanted to speak more to him about it, but it would have to wait—Thomas, smiling triumphantly, walked toward us.
“There we go. I’ve taken care of that.” He gave me a wink.
“May I ask what you stated in your message, Mr. Rodin?”
He tucked his arm around my waist and leaned in close. Again, I was assaulted by his exotic, earthy scent.
“Call me Thomas,” he whispered, and placed a hasty kiss on my temple. “I insist.” He wagged his finger at me.
“Very well…Thomas. Again, may I ask what message you sent?” For all of his charismatic charm, I needed to know what he had told my family so I could uphold the lie when I returned home. It was not something I was looking forward to.
He shrugged. “Simple, really. I told them you were staying in town to help a friend.”
“A friend?” I repeated, seeing my father’s face in my mind as he read the note.
He opened the pub door and the boisterous sound from inside came spilling out onto the street.
“Yes, you do have friends, don’t you, Helen?” he called to me above the din, ushering William and me ahead of him.
“Yes, of course—” I started, but the noise drowned out my words. The thick smoky haze caused me to squint. The acrid scent of ale and sweat permeated the air. I held my hand to my nose as I was pushed forward, the crowd catching me in its current. I lost sight of both William and Thomas. I tried not to panic as I stood in the midst of the sea of men, most of them drunk. A hand snaked around my waist and instinctively I batted at it.
“It’s only me, Helen.” Thomas pressed his mouth near my ear. “Hold tight and stay close. I’ll get us to our table.” He did not let go as we weaved through the crowd. Ahead I saw one of the barmaids, gripping two tankards in one hand. She bumped into Thomas, causing him to stop. He acted surprised at first, then threw his head back and laughed.
“Annie, you little trollop. How are you?” He released my hand and grabbed her face, kissing her hard on the mouth. With a sly smile, he discreetly tucked a shilling down the front of her low-cut bodice, then he tugged me to his side, clamping his arm around my waist.
“Annie.” He grinned with pride. “I want you to meet my newest pupil, Helen.”
The woman looked me over from head to toe, her dark brown eyes snapping in challenge.
“’Pupil’ is what you call it now? Be mindful, Helen. Thomas surely enjoys his role as teacher.” She kissed his cheek and eyed me again.
“Do you think she has what it takes, Thomas, to be one of us?” she said, as if I did not hear what she was saying, or didn’t care if I did. Regardless, if she was the example of an artist’s model, I did not intend to become like her. Although it seemed my new employer found her most agreeable.
Thomas’s laughter melded into the roar of the crowd. “Bring us a round, Annie, and some of those oysters. Come, Helen. Pay this wicked wench no mind. She’ll be lucky if she ever sits for me again,” he shouted, but his smile revealed he was teasing.
“Watch out for that one, Helen,” Annie called over her shoulder as she handed the pitchers to the barkeep. “Be sure you know what Thomas will have you sittin’ on!” Thomas reached over and smacked her bum. Her surprise turned to glee as she faced him, plucked her fingers down her cleavage and retrieved his monetary gift. She gave him a sly wink and kept her eye on me as Thomas pulled me toward the back of the pub.
“Thomas! Will here says we’ve got us a new stunner,” exclaimed a ruddy-faced man with spectacles perched on his rosetipped nose. He stood as I squeezed between two large chaps, lost my footing and careened headlong toward the floor.
William appeared seemingly from nowhere and caught me before I landed flat on my face.
“Don’t be frightened, Helen. The boys are friendly.”
“Thank you,” I responded, quickly releasing myself from his grasp.
The man with the glasses offered me his seat. William ushered me to the chair. I tried to offer the men a friendly smile, wondering if I would have to spend much time with them collectively. I had a sudden change of heart and turned to find William to ask him to take me home, but he had disappeared and apparently so, too, had Thomas.
Annie sauntered up to the table and slammed two pitchers of ale on the table, sending the contents splashing over the side.
“Let’s see what she’s got,” she called out to the men around the table.
My heart stopped. What on earth? I frantically scanned the faces of the men, whose eyes had all turned to me. I was grateful to spot Thomas making his way over to my side. He held out his hand.
“They’re perfectly harmless, I assure you.” He looked down at me, his cerulean-blue eyes sparkling wickedly.
“I—I don’t understand.” I looked again at the men seated around the table. They did not seem as friendly anymore. One of them, a stately looking chap with a shaggy blond beard, smacked the table once with his hand. He looked at his peers, giving them a grin, and they, too, began to slap the table.
“These are my brothers, Helen. Their approval is vital. It would not bode well to keep them waiting,” Thomas said. “Besides, it’s all in good fun.”
I cautiously took his hand and stood. The drumming grew louder. My gaze landed on Annie, who’d precipitated this demonstration. She gave me a smug look, amusement dancing in her eyes. “What am I to do?” I asked Thomas, averting my eyes from hers.
“Get up on the table,” he responded with an easy grin.
“You want me to stand on the table in front of all these people?” I stared at him with wide eyes.
“Your face is going to be seen by far greater numbers, my muse. Come on now, up you go.”
“But I—” I started, but my protests dissolved when his hands circled my waist and he lifted me to the tabletop.
Raucous laughter and applause followed as I looked down at the gallery of approving male faces. Thomas held my hand, displaying a sense of ownership that I found comforting.
The brotherhood men nodded, waving their hands, motioning for me to turn. A couple of them lifted my skirt to view my ankles. Thomas slapped away their hands but laughed good-naturedly. After a moment or two, I offered a smile, dipping in a short curtsy. I no longer felt like that ugly duckling. I looked down at Thomas, his fingers locked with mine, his smile encouraging, and I believed I’d become a beautiful swan. The catcalls and whistles continued, drawing curious onlookers into the private circle.
“Very well, gentlemen, that’s enough,” Thomas ordered, reaching up for me.
I inched to the edge of the table and leaned forward. He grabbed me around the waist, his hands sliding precariously close to my breasts as he lifted me to the ground. He held my gaze possessively, letting my body slide slowly down the front of his.
My feet touched the floor, but he continued to hold me close, his arm encircling my waist.
“You’ve got your balance, then?”
Pressed against his solid frame, I could barely think, my heart still beating from the rush of my initiation. Balance? Doubtful.
“I do, Mr.—Thomas,” I answered, pleased when I saw Annie scowl and turn back into the crowd.
Thomas kissed my forehead and drew back, his eyes resting for a heartbeat on my mouth before he returned his eyes to mine.
“Welcome to the brotherhood, Miss Bridgeton.”
“Do call me Helen,” I said bravely.
“As you wish.” He grinned.

I was living a lie, but to whose benefit? For two months, I had been telling Madame Tozier that my stomach was the cause of the many afternoons that I had asked to leave the shop early. However, as my acting skills grew weaker, the actual pains in my stomach increased. I found myself losing track of the days, and on more than one occasion I had nearly taken too much of my medicine, forgetting when I last took it. I could not sleep.
William’s aloof behavior pervaded my mind. Since our liaison, he had not attempted to speak with me except in passing and was usually absent when I was at the studio. At night my mind would creep back to that summer afternoon, how the soft warm breeze had wafted over our fevered bodies. I lay on my bed, mesmerized by the flickering flame of the oil lamp beside my bed. I remembered his tongue, the roughness of his hands gliding over me, plucking my nipples until I begged for more. Desperate to recapture that euphoric feeling, I used my hands to imitate his, brushing my fingers through my soft curls and spreading my sweet crevice, mimicking the exquisite pleasure he’d given me. I licked my dry lips, arching my back to the memory of him heavy inside me, his body pressed to mine. In my mind, I saw the sweet determination in his gentle eyes, our bodies fused in delicious, slick friction. Then my body broke free, my muscles caressing, squeezing around him.
I stared at the flame, drawing my hand over my stomach, my physical need now satiated. Nevertheless, I held on to the desperate longing for his affection, realizing with chilling clarity that perhaps he did not feel the same. I’d even written a poem for us called, Another Time, Another Place, and slipped it into William’s coat pocket hoping he might respond, but if he found it, he made no mention of it.
It was of little surprise to me when William entered the studio one afternoon and announced his departure.
“Well, I’m off soon. My train leaves within the hour.”
“You’re leaving?” I rubbed the back of my neck, stiff and sore from sitting too long. I bowed my head so he would not see the disappointment in my eyes. “Thomas didn’t mention it.”
“It’s just a short trip to Rome. I plan to tour a few cathedrals and perhaps a garden or two in search of inspiration.”
“Be cautious of those beautiful gardens, Will. Some of their caretakers do not appreciate foreigners plucking them,” Thomas said with a smirk.
It was evident he was speaking metaphorically of women. I brushed his comment from my mind, rubbing my arms under the sleeves of the itchy damask gown that Thomas insisted I wear. The two brothers embraced and William gave me a tight smile. “Miss Bridgeton.” He nodded.
“Mr. Rodin.” I continued the appearance that we’d never been intimate with each other. If he could perform the task so well, I could, too. After William left, I followed Thomas out to the balcony. We stood watching his carriage amble down the cobblestone street.
“I miss him like the devil when he’s gone,” Thomas said quietly.
He sighed and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, resting his chin on my head.
“It’s just you and me now, Helen. He’s gone and left us behind while he trots off on a new adventure.”
“Does he take these trips often?” I asked. The warmth of Thomas’s arms made me feel secure. It was his nature to be physical—he was prone to giving hugs and pecks on the cheek, even to the other men in the brotherhood.
He lifted aside my unbridled hair and nuzzled the sensitive spot beneath my ear.
“When the spirit moves him. I prefer to find my inspiration closer to home.” The smell of wine wafted beneath my nose as his palm moved over my right breast, squeezing gently.
“Are you inspired, my muse?” he whispered against the curve of my neck.
I slipped from his grasp. “The light is waning, Mr. Rodin.”
“I have asked that you call me Thomas,” he said with quiet firmness.
“All right, Thomas. Still, if you wish to do more this afternoon before I leave—”
“Oh, yes, my muse. I would love to do more.”
“I’ve no doubt you would, Thomas. Do you think I am so innocent that I do not know your reputation?”
He looked at me curiously. “I think you pretend not to know how you affect me, Helen.”
“I do think, Thomas, that you have found your inspiration much too easily in the past.”
His smile grew wide. “Aha! My innocent little muse has a cunning side, as well.”
“I am not worldly, it is true, but I do know a rogue when I see one.”
“A rogue?” He held his hand to his heart. “Woman, you wound me with your words far too romantic for a man like me. A man, as you say, of my reputation.”
“Perhaps I should take my leave for the afternoon.” I turned away and he grabbed my arm.
“My apologies, Helen. I had no idea that my affections would be repulsive to you.”
“You are not repulsive to me, Thomas, nor are your affections. But do not think that because I am here, you may take advantage of the situation.”
“I see. You are a woman who prefers to be wooed, is that it?” He stepped around me, blocking my escape back into the studio.
“I am a woman with needs, innocent though you think me to be.” I faced him.
His gaze narrowed and he took my chin between his fingers.
“Those dark circles—your complexion is pale. Helen, what is the matter? What ails you?”
His immediate change in topic and manner scattered my thoughts.
“I am not sleeping well,” I admitted.
He pulled me into his embrace and laid his cheek on the top of my head.
“You must learn to trust me, Helen. When you are unhappy, I am unhappy.”
“I don’t see myself through your eyes, Thomas.”
“Then I will have to do better at showing you how important you are to me.”
He smoothed his hands up and down my spine, and I welcomed this tender gesture. “You have been good to me, Thomas.”
“I could be much more, Helen, if you’d allow.”
His concern for my health prompted me to admit my worry regarding my employer. “I cannot keep lying, Thomas. I fear I will lose my job, or worse, Madame Tozier will go to my mother and ask her about my health.”
He frowned. “Neither she nor your family realize that you’ve been posing for me?”
I sighed. “Not everyone is as enamored of the brotherhood as you may like to think.”
He chuckled. “You needn’t remind me.” His eyes drifted over my shoulder as if deep in thought. “Then we shall go see this Madame Tozier and teach her to adore the brotherhood,” he said finally.
I laughed softly. “Do you honestly think that you can make a difference?”
“Go get dressed. I’ll order us a carriage.” He smiled. “Oh, wait, do you need any help?” he called after me.
“I can manage getting dressed on my own, Thomas, thank you,” I tossed back, but the smoky color of his eyes, the intimate way that he had touched me, lingered in my mind. As I dressed in his bedroom, I looked around, trying to get a clearer picture of my mysterious employer. He lived in an unkempt state and I often wondered if he hired a maid to come in and tidy up after him, but I had never seen one when I was there. I assumed that he ate out, as I’d not seen a cook either. He seemed, however, to have an endless supply of tea, wine and raspberry scones on hand. His bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled, and my mind flashed with the image of Thomas sprawled across it, his nude body draped with a careless covering. Need welled inside me. Having once tasted the precious honeyed bliss, my body craved it. I hurried to finish dressing and remove myself from the temptation of my imagination.

“Thank you, Madame Tozier, for your contribution to the arts,” Thomas said. “We’ll be certain to credit the lovely hat that Helen holds in the painting to your generosity.”
As he had predicted, Thomas had managed to charm my employer, reducing her to a blushing admirer.
Thomas placed his delicate teacup on the plate he held.
“I will be visiting Miss Bridgeton’s family as soon as we have a painting to give them. I must say it is refreshing to find a noted person in the community who appreciates the importance of the arts. Art is what differentiates us from the animals, don’t you agree, Madame Tozier?”
“Oh, yes, I do agree, Mr. Rodeen.” Her smile was demure. “We must educate the unfortunate souls who do not understand such things.”
I glanced away, covering my smile with my napkin. Thomas was openly charming, a shrewd businessman and, as he made no qualms in saying, he usually got what he wanted. A shiver ran through me, remembering his hand on my breast. What more did Thomas want from me? I chose to set those questions aside for the moment and simply be grateful that some of my guilt had been lifted from my shoulders. I had him to thank for that.
“Thomas, did you mean what you said about giving my family a portrait of me?” I asked later as we rode back to the ferry where I would catch my ride home.
He took my hand, patted it and rested it on the top of his thigh. “I needed to gain Madame Tozier’s trust, Helen. I had to make certain she would not trot off to tell your family all about us herself. By entrusting her to keep it our little surprise, she will keep our confidence.”
“So, in short, you lied?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I prefer to think of it as stretching the truth, quite harmlessly. Perhaps we can take them a portrait someday. Would that be so awful?”
The image of my papa raising his gun to the sky and giving a single warning shot emerged in my head. “Perhaps we should wait a little longer before we tell my family,” I said, as my stomach began to bother me again.
“Tilt your chin down. Now lift your eyes…good…there. Hold that look—perfect.”
I held my gaze steady on a spot of light shimmering over Thomas’s shoulder. Being his muse was a much more daunting task than I had imagined. When he noticed my stress, he would break into song and dance me about the studio until I was in better spirits. On occasion, he would take me to the pub to dine with others in the brotherhood, but although I tried to fit in, I found myself preferring to be alone with Thomas at the studio.
Several letters had arrived from William, always addressed to Thomas. He indicated that he was having a splendid time in Rome and hoped all was well back home. Never once did he ask about me, specifically. That single afternoon with William began to fade, replaced by the colorful moments I spent with his brother.
“Do you wish to discuss something with me, Helen?” Thomas asked, wiping his fingers on his paint rag.
“I’m sorry, Thomas, I’ll do better.” I shifted, straightening my spine.
“Is it your monthly?”
I suppose that by now, I should have been more used to his frank manner, but today it surprised me. I’d never spoken to anyone other than my mother on that subject. “No,” I uttered in haste, averting my eyes and feeling foolish.
Thomas knelt before me, taking my hands in his. The warmth of his concern flowed through me. There was kindness in his eyes that put me at ease.
“It is natural, Helen. What kind of man would I be if I were not sensitive to these things? Many women have posed for me. I would be a thickheaded boob if I did not understand.”
“I have not been sleeping well. I have bouts of insomnia, but it will pass.”
He studied me and then slapped his knee. “You need the fresh air and sunshine of the country.”
He smiled up at me, his eyes twinkling. I thought that he meant we should visit my family at last, and now, faced with the reality of it, I wasn’t sure if I was ready just yet. “Oh, I could not face my family today, Thomas. Perhaps next week when I’m better rested.”
He nodded. “Very well, we won’t go to see your family, as you wish. We’ll take a ride. I know! We’ll have a picnic! It’s a lovely day for it. We need to get some color in your face.”
He pulled me to my feet.
“Go change and meet me out front.”
Although I considered asking whether I might instead lie down for a while, I knew that once Thomas made up his mind he was not easily deterred.
The carriage ride was indeed relaxing. We spoke little, enjoying the view, silent in our private thoughts. Once or twice I caught Thomas looking at me and we would share a friendly smile. Since our conversation on the balcony, he’d not made any further advances. I often wondered, knowing the healthiness of his sexual appetite, how he was satisfying his cravings.
Thomas tapped the driver with his cane and we came to a stop by a small grove of willow and oak trees.
“You’re welcome to go up to the house, good man. You’ll find a well there to water your horses. I’ll fetch you when we’re ready.”
He grabbed a small basket and stepped down, holding his hand out to me. “Come on, I want to show you the grounds.”
“Will the owners mind us traipsing around the property?” I asked, noting a small cottage in the distance.
“It belongs to the brotherhood.” He offered his hand to help me down.
Thomas continued to hold my hand, guiding me through the knee-length grass. Overhead, the sun shone in a brilliant blue sky. I breathed deeply. The setting was beautiful and it reminded me of the places I had played as a child. “The brotherhood? What would the brotherhood need with all of this land?” I asked, ducking beneath the low-hanging branches of the willow trees as best I could. One snagged my bonnet, pulling it away from my head.
Thomas laughed and reached up, loosening my coppery hair and causing it to spill over my shoulders. He stopped, holding my hat in his hand, and fingered my hair. “Breathtaking,” he said, taking a strand and brushing it over his cheek. “You have a natural beauty that few women can boast of, Helen. You should embrace it with great confidence.”
We sat beneath a willow, lunching on fresh peaches and cheese, bread and wine. He tore a loaf of bread and offered me a taste.
“We’ve talked about building a communal studio.” He stood and shook off his coat.
“What?” I asked, swallowing the bread without properly chewing it. I washed it down with a large gulp of wine. “Why would you want to leave the studio? Would you all live here together?”
Thomas stretched out on his side, crossing his long legs, and propped himself up on his elbow. “It’s the perfect solution, really. Sharing props, easels, paints—”
“Models?” I asked, feeling a tinge of jealousy.
He leveled his gaze on me. “That has always been the way of it. From the formation of the brotherhood—we share and share alike.”
“I do not think I like the idea, Thomas.” I tipped back my glass and finished off the wine. I sensed it warring with my medicine, causing my tongue to loosen.
“Because you are uncomfortable around the brotherhood?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t think they like me, Thomas. I hear their whispers when I don’t laugh at their lewd jokes.”
“Lewd? Why, Helen, I never took you for a stick-in-the-mud.”
I paused from filling my cup, my ire rankled. “I am no such thing, I assure you. I simply prefer different company.” I took another sip of wine and bit into a ripe peach. The juice dribbled past my lips and trickled down my chin before I could catch it with my fingers. Tiny droplets landed on the flesh exposed above my bodice.
I watched his eyes follow the liquid. A slow throbbing tugged betwixt my legs.
“And whose company do you prefer, Helen, if not that of the brotherhood?”
His gaze flicked up to mine and I swallowed. Beyond the sound of my breathing was the din of nature—the buzzing, the chirping and the chattering.
“I prefer when it is only you and me, Thomas,” I confessed, unable to take my eyes from his.
“And why on earth would you have the desire to be alone with the likes of me?” His grin was tempting, as he intended it to be, I am certain.
“Do not think I am like Annie, Thomas,” I warned, pointing my finger at him.
He caught my hand, turning it so that the peach dropped to the ground. Then one by one, he drew my fingertips into his mouth, sucking off the juice.
“Believe me, Helen. You and Annie are nothing alike.”
“Do not mock, me, Thomas. True, I am not as free and easy as Annie is. I have not perfected the art of flirting with a man.” I pushed to my feet, humiliated…no, insulted that he did not know me well enough to understand. I pressed my hands against the tree, shielding my face from his view. He touched my shoulder.
“Helen, I wasn’t mocking you,” he said. “Turn around and talk to me.”
I faced him, my heart pounding with my wounded pride, determined that I would speak my mind. “I admit that in many ways I am innocent. Surely by comparison to your other muses, you must think me but a country nitwit.”
“Helen, of course not.” He smoothed his hand over my cheek. “You misunderstood what I said.” He smiled down at me. “No, my sweet Helen. You—”
He kissed my forehead.
“—are so much more—”
His mouth drifted to my eyelid, to my cheek, and hovered over my mouth.
“—fascinating.” He brushed my lips, teasing, until I leaned forward to meet his mouth. I tasted the wine on his lips, his tongue, as they melded with mine.
I was glad for the firm support of the tree against my spine. My fingers dug into the bark as he left a trail of warm, wet kisses down my throat.
“On the contrary, Helen—” his hot breath seared my flesh “—I find you utterly beguiling.”
My eyes floated shut and William briefly crossed my mind. But Thomas’s kisses, deep and thorough, left me breathless, dissolving what was left of his brother in my heart.
“William was right in choosing you,” he whispered. “He knew I would be infatuated.”
He held my face, his thumbs stroking the tender spot beneath my jaw.
“Is it wrong for me to feel this wicked, Thomas?” I reveled in how it felt to have someone desire me, to know that I was capable of giving back pleasure.
“Do you wish to feel wicked, Helen?” he asked.
“Yes, Thomas. Teach me.” I surrendered to his arduous attention, tired of carrying around my burdensome concerns. He reached around me, working at the buttons of my gown. I smoothed my hands along his strong forearms, my fingers sliding through his as I drew his hands between us. I looked up at him. “Teach me how to please you.”
He searched my eyes. “Very well, muse. As you wish.”
He held my curious, hungry gaze, as he peeled off his cravat and proceeded to unbutton his shirt.
My heart thrummed unsteadily as piece by piece he took off his clothing until he stood fully naked before me. He took my hands and pressed them against his muscled torso.
“Touch me, Helen. Satisfy your curiosity.”
He remained statuesque as I walked around him, stopping to rake my fingers over the sinewy muscle of his shoulders. His firm buttocks clenched as my fingers lightly trailed over his hips. I leaned my cheek to his sturdy back, bringing my arms around him. He was a beautiful man, if men can be described in such terms.
I smoothed my hands over his hard stomach, smiling as he stiffened to my curious touch, then wrapped my fingers lightly around his rigid cock.
He drew in a sharp breath.
“Does this please you?” I asked, skimming my palms over his body, taking luxurious time with my exploration.
He whirled to face me, pushing his hands under my breasts, sliding his mouth roughly over mine. Then he covered my hand with his and guided me back to his erection, capturing my mouth again in a heated kiss.
I moved my fingers over the hard ridges of his phallus, my thumb delicately skimming across the velvety tip.
“Do you wish to please me even more?” he asked, lifting my chin to meet his heated gaze.
I licked my lips and nodded.
He held my shoulders, easing me down to my knees in front of him. His erect cock jutted proudly from a soft patch of dark hair.
I looked up and received his nod. I eased my hand along his warm length, watching as his eyes drifted shut. Empowered, I leaned forward to kiss the glistening tip.
“That’s it, my muse.”
He stroked my neck, his fingers deftly skipping over my chin. “You are good to me.” His guttural moans spurned me on. Something inside me yearned to harness the power of this man, his authority, his leadership in the brotherhood, and to watch him unravel before my eyes.
His hand covered mine, guiding my stroke, showing me the secret spot at the base of his cock that made him cry out with pleasure.
A sharp, bitter taste appeared on my tongue and I drew back, standing as I wiped my mouth. Thomas turned away, his hand working rapidly, his breath catching as he cast his face heavenward and emptied his seed on the grass. The firm muscles of his buttocks clenched and unclenched with the fierceness of his release.
I stared at his backside, mesmerized by the hard, angled plane of his body. He looked over his shoulder and I averted my eyes, ashamed to intrude on his privacy.
He came to me and took my hand, bringing it to his lips.
“You should see your face, blushed with color, with yearning.”
“Yearning?” Of course, I knew what he meant. I took a deep breath and moistened my lips. My body teetered on the precipice, ready to fall apart.
“Oh, yes,” he whispered, bending down to grab my skirts, lifting them higher as he backed me against a tree. His eyes sparked with arousal. “Your turn.”
Without pretense he slipped his hand down the front of my thin cotton drawers, his long fingers parting my drenched folds.
My breath caught as he parted me, dipping into my warm crevice, stroking long and slow as I held his sinful gaze. I grasped his shoulders as my body tightened, his smiling face hovering over mine.
“There now, let go, my muse,” he whispered against my mouth.
I shut my eyes to the exquisite pleasure that coursed through my veins, awakening every nerve ending. Thomas kissed me, his masterful fingers summoning each delicious spasm from me.
“Live with me,” he said, releasing my skirts. He raised his hand to his mouth, tasting my juices. “I do not want to be away from you ever.”
I was smitten with his request, but I knew to say yes to him would mean banishment from my family.
“As lovers?” I did not expect anything more from Thomas.
“As my muse,” he responded, 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 once whispered it when he took me to his bed. I also ignored the fact that his friends rarely stopped by anymore since I’d moved in.
My thoughts dissipated as his tongue replaced the brush, his creative mastery summoning a shuddering, toe-curling climax from me.
A sound from behind brought Thomas’s head up and he casually pulled the drape over my naked body.
“Will, you’re back. You should have sent word. I’d have met you at the station.” Thomas rose to greet his brother.
I sat upright, holding the drape over me as best I could, bolstering the courage to look at William, wondering how long he had been standing there before Thomas noticed him.
“William,” I stated quickly, slanting a quick glance at him.
“Helen,” he responded evenly.
“We’ve got news to share, Will. Helen has moved into the studio on a permanent basis.”
If William was shocked by the news, he kept it concealed well.
“Then you two are…together now, I surmise,” he said, averting his eyes from mine.
Thomas chuckled and slapped his brother’s shoulder. “As if that wasn’t evident, eh, Will?”
My face burned and, finding a large throw, I quickly wrapped it around me. “I’ll go get dressed and fix us some tea.” I hurried from the room, wondering how after all this time I should be uncomfortable in William’s presence.
The two brothers could not be more opposite. They possessed equal charm, but while Thomas seemed content in his bold approach to life, William was quiet, as though he was still searching for what it was he wanted.
Since Thomas had taken me under his wing, he’d become so much more than just my lover—he was also my friend and my teacher. He was on time with my weekly sum for posing, took me to museums, plays and to grand mansions where we dined with writers and other artists. He’d made me a part of his life, embracing me in every way that a suitor intending marriage would. He created a desire in me, encouraged my passion and nurtured it. No one had ever treated me like this. I felt like a goddess when I was with him.
I brought tea into the studio, pouring for William first, and then Thomas who, I noted, liberally laced his with whiskey.
“I suppose I should start looking for a place to move,” William said. I looked at Thomas.
“Nonsense, your room is your own—this place is your home, as well. There is plenty of room here, William. Besides, you are gone half the time on one of your bloody research adventures. No, I will not hear talk about moving. Don’t you agree, my dear?” He curled his arm around my waist, drawing me down to sit beside him on the arm of the chair.
“Of course, William. We are family—you, Thomas and I. We wouldn’t dream of you living anywhere else,” I said, putting my arm around Thomas’s shoulder.
I could not say what I saw flash in William’s eyes, but I looked away quickly, feigning a bright smile at Thomas. He slipped his hand around my neck and drew me close, kissing me tenderly.
For any other man, it would have been a gesture of warning to another male—a sign of possession. But for Thomas, it was simply his way of saying he wanted me again.
“Very well, then. I’ll try not to be underfoot too much.” William raised his cup, and as his eyes met mine over the rim, that summer afternoon flashed again in my thoughts.

“I have a proposal for you, my muse,” Thomas stated as we lay in bed after one of our late-day trysts.
I had been living with him for nearly three months and I’d discovered that his sexual appetite was insatiable, innovative and addictive. There was nothing I denied him.
He untied the silk bindings from around my wrists and kissed my tender flesh, settling himself comfortably beneath my arm, his head on my breast. The mere thought of the word “proposal” brought to mind a hope that I continued to harbor deep inside. I waited, mentally telling myself to remain calm, to let him get out the words before I cried for joy.
“I’ve been thinking, since I am between projects and still deciding what to do next, that I may consent to let John borrow you for his current project.”
This was not at all what I was expecting.
“John? But I rather like being your exclusive muse, Thomas.”
He leaned up on his elbow, looking down at me as he twirled a strand of my hair around his finger. “I feel we both might benefit from a fresh perspective.”
Fresh perspective? I had taken part in nearly every fantasy Thomas had ever designed in his head, proving without a doubt he had an endless imagination.
“Is this your way of saying you are…tired of me?”
“Oh, muse, of course not.” He kissed my nose. “But it will be good for you to find out what it is like to pose for another artist. It’s a professional courtesy to share one’s model.”
“A professional courtesy, nothing more?” I asked.
He tipped his head, studying me. “Do you doubt my intent?”
“No.” I looked away and his hand caught my chin, forcing me to look at him.
“Do not ever doubt me,” he said with a calm sternness. I’d never seen that look in his eye before, almost as if I had betrayed him by questioning his decision. He smiled then, and his expression softened as he lowered his head to kiss me.
“It would be inhospitable of me not to share you. He has already asked and I told him that you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course not,” I replied quietly, my thoughts caught between disappointment and my desire to please him.
“Perhaps you need convincing, my muse.”
He kissed me again lightly, teasing this time as he eased his palm over my stomach, sliding his fingers between my thighs.
“John is quite an interesting fellow. Well traveled. I’m certain he’ll keep you amused with his stories.”
He kissed me again and I knew he was luring more than my body to be at one with him.
“What will happen to our—” I swallowed hard, pulling his face to mine in a fierce kiss as my body trembled with pleasure “—our afternoon tea?”
Thomas grinned, bracing his arms as he moved over me and nudged my legs apart.
“You mean our afternoon fuck?” he whispered in my ear.
Lately, he’d begun slipping naughty words into our lovemaking and he knew how they aroused me. His cock teased my opening. I couldn’t resist him and he knew it. I wrapped my arms around his waist, smoothing my hands over his firm buttocks, and pulled his hips toward mine, urging him to fill me. Satisfaction sparked in his eyes and he knew he’d gotten his way.
“I’ll simply make sure—”
He slid into my slick heat with a shuddering sigh.
“—that John has you home,” he said, kissing me once more as he withdrew partway, “before afternoon tea.”
He lunged deeper, emitting a lusty sigh. He was a scoundrel. A wicked, wanton scoundrel and I could not say no to him.
I wrapped my legs around his hips, holding his body to mine, caught up in our frenzied coupling, and as we came together, I scolded myself for having doubted his suggestion.
Later, as he dozed with me curled beneath his arm, I watched the light of day turn to murky shadows of twilight and thought about how my life had changed. It had been months since I’d last seen my family. In that time, Mama had had another birthday, as had one of my sisters. I was now living out of wedlock, with a man who loved me with his body, yet thought nothing of offering me as a prop to another man, with the belief that it would improve our relationship.
I shut my eyes, overwhelmed with my thoughts, softly fingering the curls on Thomas’s chest. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps my absence would leave a hole in his daily life and by so doing, he would be spurred to commit to more than just living together. I looked up at his handsome face, thinking how easily he slept at my side. I hoped desperately that this would prompt a proposal of a different kind, as I had missed my monthly and wondered if I might be carrying his child.

My flesh was numb. The portrait was supposed to be of a young woman lying in a river. The background had been painted and I, dressed in a gown that I understood was found in a secondhand shop, was to lie in repose partially submerged in a warm bath for hours, while John painted me. I was able to forgive John for the horridly musty stench of the wretched gown, but less forgivable was his failure to keep the water warm, as he had promised. Daily, for over a month and a half, I’d spent four to six hours in tepid water. I’d watched for my monthly and, when it did not come again, was pressed to tell Thomas, but chose to wait until I was sure.
The painting was at a critical point. John was as immersed in what he was doing as I was in the water. Though the water had grown cold, I lay there thinking that I could endure it a few moments more. However, those few moments turned to minutes and those minutes to even longer. He did not break for a meal, nor offer me anything to drink. I sensed myself growing numb and bent my fingers to encourage the blood flow.
John cleared his throat in way of reprimand, indicating that I should not move.
“Your eyes, shut your eyes,” he said from behind his canvass wall.
I took a deep breath, clasped my hands over my chest and fought the urge not to ask him how much longer he would be. Instead, I tried to think of other things.
My thoughts turned to Thomas, wondering what time it was and if he would fetch me soon. I thought of my family. I thought of Mama and what her reaction would be to the possibility I was with child. The image of her face swam in my mind as I remembered how we laughed while hanging laundry on a warm summer’s day. My mind wandered to when I was young, playing hard all day and falling asleep on my bed—totally, utterly exhausted…

I could not remember right away what had happened. One moment I was in the studio and the next I was lying in a white bed, surrounded by four white walls. I struggled to keep my eyes open. I was aware of people’s voices, but my strength was gone, and every time I tried to answer a question, the darkness would suck me back into blackness.
Then I felt a hand holding mine.
“Stay with me, my muse.”
It was Thomas’s voice. The harder I tried to respond the more the blackness held me tight, trying to drag me down.
“I swear I’ll never do such a thing again.” It was Thomas. Where was I? How long had I been here?
“If you can hear me, Helen, squeeze my hand.”
I tried as hard as I could, but the effort was too much.
“She moved her hand.” Thomas’s voice was excited, returning the faint squeeze. He urged me to move my hand again.
“Thank God,” another man stated, although I did not recognize his voice. The blackness was tugging at me again, draining my energy, pulling me back to sleep.

My body was listless, but when I was finally able to hold my eyes open, I realized I was in a hospital room, a sheer curtain surrounding my bed.
Thomas, seated at my bedside, held my hands. He smiled and the look of relief on his face warmed my heart.
“You’ve returned to me, my muse,” he said, his blue gaze steady.
“I feel so weak,” I said, trying to smile. “How long have I been here?”
“A little over a week,” he responded.
There was no one else in the room, but I remembered the voices. “My family, did you send for them? Did they come?”
He rubbed his fingers over my knuckles. “No, I didn’t send for them, Helen. The doctors didn’t want a lot of visitors until they could assess your situation.”
I let the sting of wondering if they would have come even if they’d known drift from my mind. “What is my situation? What happened, Thomas?”
“The doctor says you succumbed to exhaustion, brought on by lack of sleep, proper nutrition…and your pregnancy.”
There was my confirmation. My gaze darted to Thomas. “How is…the baby?” I whispered through a dry throat. My voice cracked and it hurt to swallow.
“Unharmed.” He lifted my hand to his cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know for sure, until now.”
He shook his head. “Well, there is no question now, you must marry me.”
I blinked, unsure of what I heard. “This is not the time for frivolity, Thomas.”
“Who here is being frivolous? I meant what I said.”
Still drowsy, I answered, “You don’t mean it, Thomas. You don’t even believe in the sacrament of marriage.”
“Preposterous. I’ve decided that we should be married and at the earliest possible date, provided you don’t mind that it won’t be lavish.”
“Because of the baby?” I asked, needing to know that it was more than guilt prompting his sudden decision.
“Helen. I care deeply for you. We get on well together. You are my muse. You’re carrying my child.” He grinned at me with that charming smile. “Does a man need any more reason than that to marry?”
What about love?
Then the thought struck me that perhaps where others required those words to convey their feelings, Thomas showed his love in less conventional ways. He had not given me any false promises, and he was showing how much he cared for me and for his child. What more could I ask for from anyone? “If you are sure this is what you want,” I replied, taking his hand.
He stood and leaned down to kiss my forehead. “Of course it’s what I want.”

A few weeks later, after I’d gained some of my strength back, we were married in a small country church with only the groundskeeper and his wife as witnesses to the union. I had to sit for much of the ceremony, still too weak to stand for extended periods. I wondered how I was going to manage carrying a child.
Thomas preferred the wedding to be private, telling William there was no need to cut his latest research trip short to come home for it. Thomas was still not talking to John after all that had happened.
It was not the ceremony of my dreams. No reception, no celebratory dinner surrounded by friends and family. Thomas took me to Brighton, at the suggestion of the doctor, where we stayed in a beach cottage owned by a friend. He never mentioned whom, but I suspect, by virtue of some of the belongings in the house, that it belonged to John’s family.
Though I had lost a great deal of weight, which raised concerns about my ability to carry the baby to term, the warmth of the sun did wonders for my spirit and I felt my strength returning daily.
Thomas’s confidence was encouraging, as well. He would sketch constantly. His favorite subjects were the bay, the sailboats dotting the horizon, and me. We laughed and made love, took walks and, while he spoke little of the future, I felt our marriage was secure and that the arrival of the child would serve to create the bond between us as a family.

In the weeks following, after we had returned to London, Thomas stopped sketching and turned to reading. He took an avid interest in photography, a new form of artistic expression breaking ground in France. He spent long hours in the bookshops at Holywell, bringing home postcards and books depicting exotic pictures of men and women engaged in various forms of sex.
As my body grew round and soft, Thomas’s appetite for these exotic images increased. I could see him becoming restless and, while I tried to show my contentment in sitting by the fire and knitting things for the baby, I could not help but worry that we had not spent much time together in recent weeks.
“Thomas,” I asked, noting his absorption in the book he was reading. “Have you thought of any names?”
His focus remained on his book. “Names? Names for what?”
I lay my knitting in my lap and stared at him, perplexed. “Why, for your son or daughter.” I chuckled quietly. “That must be a very interesting book if you’ve forgotten that I am carrying your child.”
Thomas slammed the book shut, laid it on his lap and stretched his hands over his head. He gave me a lopsided grin. “I’m no good with names, my muse. I will let you decide.”
He tapped his fingers on the hard leather cover of the book, staring down at it as if pondering whether to return to his reading.
“Perhaps we could name him after your father, if it’s a boy.”
“No,” he said decisively, slapping the book.
“Your mother perhaps, if it’s a girl?”
His eyes rose and held steady on mine. “Perhaps we should come up with something unique, instead of hanging a used name on him.”
“Or her.” I smiled.
“Yes.” He yawned. “Of course…Would you mind awfully if I ran down to McGivney’s? Some of the brothers are meeting for a game of darts.”
“Oh, that sounds like fun,” I said as I put my knitting aside. “Let me get my shawl. I’d like to get out.”
He rose and came to my side, placing his hand on my shoulder. “It’s dreadfully loud and smoky down there, my muse. And odds are that the brothers will have been drinking and you know how they get. You can barely stomach their antics when they’re sober.” He laughed and kissed the top of my head. “I won’t be long, but you needn’t wait up. You need your rest.”
“Then I guess we’re through with discussing names?” I asked, watching as he put on his heavy jacket to walk the few blocks down the street. He plopped his hat atop his head and smiled over his shoulder.
“I have no doubt you will find the perfect name for the child.” With that, he hurried down the steps and out the front door.
I glanced at the book he’d left behind and prayed that Annie was not working tonight.

Chapter Seven
I COULD NOT TELL IF THOMAS WAS CONTINUING to grow more distant, or if I was growing distant from him. He was once again ecstatic about painting. However, when I asked him to tell me about his new project, he refused, saying only that it was going to set those bastards at the academy on their ears.
He would rise early, summon a carriage and would often be gone until after dark. When I’d offer to fix him dinner, he’d respond by saying he’d “gotten a bite at the gardens,” or “run into an old friend who owed him a meal.” I had no viable reason to mistrust what he told me. Nevertheless, I grew more despondent, knowing that my figure was not what it once was. My concern was furthered when Thomas, claiming the bed was no longer big enough for us both, resorted to sleeping in the guest room.
I was grateful for the days when the cold London rain would keep him captive at home. On those days, it seemed there was nothing amiss between us. We would chat as we sat near the fire—him with his book and me with my knitting. And I would scold myself for my needless worry.
“Helen, my dear, what would you think of hiring a housekeeper? Someone who could help tidy up the studio, maybe do the cooking? They wouldn’t live here, unless you wanted them to, of course.” He glanced at me over his book. We’d never had a servant in the house; Thomas thought it to be a sign of the blasé wealthy.
With him having not sold a painting in a while and with a child on the way, I wondered how we would afford it.
An idea popped into my head. “I could send for one of my sisters. I’m sure that Mama could talk sense into Papa, once they learned of my condition. Her compensation could be room and board,” I offered, quite enthusiastic over the idea of having a sibling to keep me company while Thomas was away.
Thomas nodded and then shut his book soundly. “Good, I’m glad you’re receptive to the idea. However, that won’t be necessary. I have already acquired a suitable candidate. She is a fine woman. I’ve known her for some time. She’s a good friend to the brotherhood and familiar with the studio. I won’t have to teach her what not to touch, how to clean brushes.”
My heart sank. “I see that you’ve put much thought into this. Are you planning to tell me who this woman is that you’ve decided on?”
“Of course. Her name is Grace Farmer.”
“From the Cremorne?” I gaped at him in surprise. He looked at me.
“You’ve met her?”
“Not really. Your brother ran into her one night at the gardens. He told me about her.”
“William took you to the gardens, did he?” Thomas smiled and raised his eyebrows.
“That was when he was trying to convince me to model for you, and that’s not really the point of this conversation, is it?”
He shrugged. “What did he tell you about Grace?”
“That she was a friend to the brotherhood, misjudged by people because of her profession,” I said.
“And what do you think of her?” he pressed.
“She’s a prostitute.”
“People have to eat, Helen. I’m quite certain Grace has the protocol not to bring her clients here.” He chuckled.
I felt he was mocking me. “I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to trust her, Thomas. And how exactly did you happen to find that Miss Farmer was available for this position?” I turned the small baby blanket I was knitting between my hands, trying to stay calm.
“Well, strange as it seems, it was William who suggested it when I told him I was looking for someone to help out around the house.”
“Oh, really, William? How thoughtful.” I sighed, averting my eyes from his.
“Is there a problem between you and Will?” Thomas asked.
I swung my gaze back to his. “I haven’t seen William in ages. I haven’t seen anyone. If you remember, I have been confined to this house like a bird in a cage,” I cried.
He wore the expression of a man at his wit’s end with what to do with his pregnant wife.
“I’m sorry, Thomas, I have these episodes.” I sounded foolish, perhaps petty, but I did not care. I was over four months with child and feeling bloated as a sick cow. “Tell me that you aren’t the least bit attracted to her.”
He smiled. “Is that what this is about?”
He set aside his book, knelt at my feet and rested his hands on mine.
“Your concerns are unnecessary, Helen. I have hired her to clean the studio because she knows what to do and I trust her implicitly with the task.”
I stared at him, realizing that he had never asked me to clean the studio. I shoved aside my concerns, reminding myself that he was doing this to help me.
“I thought,” he said, “that perhaps it would be good to have someone here to help you as your time draws near.”
I looked down at our interlaced fingers and realized that it had been ages since he’d shown me any sort of intimacy. “I miss you, Thomas,” I said, quietly brushing my hand through his unkempt hair that I so loved. He raised my hands to his lips, placing there a lingering kiss.
“It won’t be much longer, my muse, and we can be together again.” He patted my hand and rose to go back to his chair.
“When does she start?” I asked, trying to snatch him back from the distance I already felt.
“Tomorrow,” he replied, opening his book and settling into his chair. “I thought it best not to wait.”

Part of me wanted to strangle William for his suggestion. What in blazes was he thinking sending that harlot into my home?
How could Thomas not notice her? She was breathtakingly beautiful and wore her vivid golden hair secured loose, so that wispy tendrils lay against her swanlike neck. Her clothing was far more refined than I would have thought for a woman of her profession. Instead of plain clothes, she wore brightly colored skirts with matching waistcoats. Each day she wore a different hat, nothing as mundane as a bonnet, but expensive traveling hats like those that I once sold at the shop to the private and wealthy clientele.
Three days a week, Grace would arrive in a black polished hansom carriage, and her driver would wait until she was finished with her duties to sweep her away. I had no idea of where she lived, or how she acquired such luxuries. And selfishly, I admit that I was just as happy that Thomas was gone on his research trips when she was around.
Grace found me reading in the front parlor downstairs one morning. Thomas had just kissed me goodbye and said he was off again with some of the brothers to do more sketches in the woods. They’d probably be at the farm. He cupped my cheek before he left and reminded me that his research wouldn’t take up too much more time.
“You don’t get out very often, do you?” Grace asked politely, as she ran her rag absentmindedly over a shelf.
“In my condition, I prefer to be at home,” I replied, not looking up from my book.
“Is Thomas happy about the child?”
“I don’t see how that is any of your affair,” I offered curtly, hoping to send her back upstairs.
Her blue eyes glittered with knowledge, the kind foreign to me, and yet, in spite of my distaste for her, I wanted to know how well she knew my Thomas. My pride stopped me, however.
“He’ll come around, I wouldn’t worry.”
A shiver skittered up my spine at how well she could read me. “What makes you think I’m concerned?” Was I that readable, that predictable?
She shrugged. “You stay around here all day, waiting for him to come home. Don’t you have family that is interested in your condition? Have they been here to visit?”
I stared at the book in my hands, not knowing what to say. I’d been following Thomas’s suggestion to wait until the baby was born to tell my family. However, I was growing desperate to have my mother know that I was with child, so she could be here with me when my time came. Still, Grace’s remark and her sticking her nose in where it did not belong did not sit well with me. “I’m going to go lie down awhile. I’m suddenly quite tired.” I waltzed past her and up the stairs, holding my belly with the book in my hand. I made it my single purpose to discuss the idea of an afternoon visit to my family with Thomas tonight after supper.

“That was a sumptuous meal,” Thomas sighed, leaning his head back against the comfortable wingback chair. He took a swallow of his port and closed his eyes. Grace had left us a leg of lamb, cooked to perfection, and roasted potatoes and carrots for our supper that evening.
He had come home quite enthused about his tromp through the woods, saying he was inspired about a new project. I waited patiently for the right time to approach him with my request.
“Thomas, I’ve been thinking I would like to have someone I trust with me when my time comes,” I reasoned.
“Fine, I’ll send for my mother,” he stated, his eyes still closed.
“Thomas, you’ve barely acknowledged your mother for the entire time I’ve known you. Does she even know that I exist, much less that you are giving her a grandchild?”
He opened one eye. “Of course she does.”
I was admittedly startled at this revelation. “And what was her reaction?”
“William didn’t say.”
“William? You let William tell your family that you married and were having a child?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
He frowned, pushed up from the chair and drew me into his arms. “Please, Helen, you need to stay calm—the baby.”
Thomas stroked my back while I fumed inside at his lackadaisical attitude about our marriage, our family.
“I haven’t spoken much about them as I am not exactly the apple of my family’s eye. My father thinks I am wasting my time with my art, and my mother—well, let’s just say she didn’t get the priestly son that she’d hoped for.”
He rested his chin on my head. “William, on the other hand, has always been my mother’s darling boy.”
“Thomas—” I began, but my thought was snatched in my next breath. I gripped his arm, unsure what was happening.
“Helen, what is it?” he asked.
There was a flutter deep inside me. Everything else paled in comparison to the wonder of this strange little flip. I grabbed Thomas’s hand and held it to my belly. “There, can you feel her?”

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