And, the more he thought about it, the way the sun glistened on her beautiful hair made him long to run his fingers through the ringlets that fell over her right shoulder in preference to painting it.
The thought startled him, and he made a mental note to beware of any similar urges.
Miss Montague was a penniless girl sent here to model for him, and he was off to the Continent in just under a month for a posting of many years. He had a career that couldn’t include dowerless potential brides, no matter how entertaining and easy on the eye, while she was on the lookout for a husband. Her godmother had already admitted that Miss Montague could not afford to be discerning if she were to escape her fate as a governess.
No, Crispin was expected to do much better than Miss Montague when the time came.
Nevertheless, the interested way she was looking at him now was having a rather tumultuous effect on him.
“I’ll enjoy testing your knowledge and reporting back to your tutor,” Crispin said with a levity he did not feel for, in truth, his fingers were just itching to seize a paintbrush and stand in front of a canvas while his senses directed him from there.
That’s what he loved so much about being a painter. The ability to let his mind wander at will. It was something his father had deplored in his dreamy young son, insisting that learning and application led to a future based on merit.
Lady Vernon cleared her throat. “We are putting up at the White Swan for this week. It’s convenient as it’s only a short walk, and the weather looks set to be good for the next few days. When will you want Faith for her first sitting? And what should she wear?”
Crispin laughed and immediately apologised. He was not used to being asked for his advice on a lady’s attire. Suddenly, the situation in which he’d been thrust seemed ludicrous. And yes, as the sun fell across Miss Montague’s sweet, smiling face, quite delicious.
At his hesitation, Lady Vernon went on, “The title of the work that is to be painted is Lady at Sunset, if you recall, Mr Westaway. How would you like to direct Faith? Do you have a location in mind? Or will you paint her in a studio and do the setting later?”
Good lord, this woman, oh yes, the girl’s godmother, knew what she was about. Crispin hadn’t given a proper thought to the requirements of the piece. He didn’t expect to win. Perhaps he wouldn’t even enter the work. However, as an opportunity for a week or two of idleness, or rather indulgence, doing what he loved most, he was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. As long as his father had no idea what he was actually doing, Crispin could look upon this week as a necessary holiday before the hard work of his career began.
“Whatever Miss Montague wishes,” he said, remembering she had little in the way of a wardrobe. And as Miss Montague would look lovely in whatever she chose, he didn’t want to embarrass her over her impecuniousness.
“And when would you like us to return?”
Crispin felt like a ten-year-old, the way he was being spoken to. He hoped Lady Vernon didn’t always insist on being present, though he supposed it was necessary. He certainly didn’t want to be responsible for anyone casting aspersions on Miss Montague’s good character. In fact, he rather liked the idea of aiding her in her quest to find herself a better match through his painting. A painting that would advertise her beauty to the world. A noble cause.
This would be a week of wicked indulgence for him when painting had been long forbidden. But it would be a means to elevate Miss Montague’s chances in the world.
An image flashed through his mind of the dead girl. Miss Montague would be his chance to atone for the past. He could improve her future prospects, and hopefully, because of him, see her enjoy prosperity and happiness rather than a cruel and impoverished destiny.
“Tomorrow.” He flexed his fingers, remembering how deft his hands were when he had a project that fired him up. “At noon.” He closed his eyes briefly and imagined the leisurely morning he would have constructing the scene in his head that he would paint. “And bring something warm. It might be a long evening.”
He would have to scout out a suitable spot by the lake in which to paint her. He’d have her in position when the sun went down, burnishing her hair with gold, while the long shadows turned her skin to toasted alabaster.
Chapter 11
The White Swan was a comfortable and respectable country inn. Fortunately Faith had her own bed chamber and had slept surprisingly well before she was disturbed by the knock on the door that heralded the start of her mission.
However, she was suitably docile as Lady Vernon selected her wardrobe. In fact, she barely troubled herself with any of the decisions associated with her sojourn as she sat up in bed reading the final of Victor Hugo’s essays. She’d found them instructive, even compelling reading, and was rather looking forward to discussing them with Mr Westaway. That is, if he’d really read them. Many times she’d caught out a gentleman in a lie. In her younger days at Madame Chambon’s when she’d served the girls refreshments as they’d entertained gentlemen in the drawing room, she’d overhear some pink of the ton boast of a literary accomplishment, only to discover, upon listening further, that it was likely he’d never truly read the book.
She tried to stifle her fears for the future. For any possibility of failure.
Now that she’d progressed to the stage where Mr Westaway wanted to paint her, and she’d be in his company for at least a week, she had to play her cards right.
Overcoming any physical barriers on her part would not be a problem. She was confident she liked him enough to do what she needed to.
Overcoming any gentlemanly restraint on his part would be the challenge.
Yes, she’d seen the admiration in his eyes that she was confident could be attributed to enthusiasm for his project on a number of fronts. But would he be easily persuaded to kiss her?
If she could manage just that, then she hoped matters would progress as Mrs Gedge required.
Her ugly encounter with Lord Harkom had put things into perspective. He was a violent brute.
Therefore losing her virginity to Mr Westaway didn’t trouble Faith too much if it meant she gained her freedom.
Having heard the primal grunts and cries of release through the thin walls at Madame Chambon’s for so many years, the sexual act held little interest and certainly no appeal. It was simply a means to an end.