Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

Chapter 17

Faith woke to the sound of rain beating against the windowpane. She opened one heavy eyelid and stared out into a grey sky. The tree branches scraped and scratched at the glass, and the wind sighed through the branches.

She sat up and reached for her poor, worse-for-wear cuirass-bodice and skirt that she’d worn the past two days for the painting and which Lady Vernon had arranged to be dried by morning.

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But as her hands closed about the fabric, she encountered something light and unfamiliar.

These were not her clothes.

She put her feet to the floor and stood up, holding up the frothy, flimsy gown that was the right length for her but was not hers. She recognised it as something semifamiliar, an alternative fashion that eschewed the heavy corsetry, flounces, and swathing of the traditionally upholstered gowns of today’s fashion.

As she held it up against her, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor.

Dear Miss Montague – she read – Perhaps this will be easier to wear for the remaining days you are required to work for me. I certainly believe it will suit you, and so anticipate the pleasure I will have of brandishing my brushes to do justice to your beauty.”

Mr Westaway had bought her a dress. A light, flowing, delicious confection in white voile with flounces and furbelows that required no corsetry. A dress she could put on herself without the help of a dresser or lady’s maid.

She stepped into it, wishing her heart did not beat so, and that her hands didn’t tremble as she fastened the hooks and eyes.

Surveying herself in the mirror, she saw that the effect would be eminently desirable from a painterly point of view. She put her hands around her waist and smoothed the fabric over her hips. A perfect hourglass figure precluded the necessity of an undergarment that would impinge upon rapid undressing. She would be the creature in the medieval gown floating in the stream that was the stuff of Mr Westaway’s imagination.

But she would not entice him.

No, her plans had changed. She would no longer play the temptress in the knowledge that her actions would lead an innocent man to his downfall.

Regardless of the contract she had with Mrs Gedge, she couldn’t condemn the man she was afraid she’d grown too fond of to a future filled with dangers unknown.

“Miss Montague, you didn’t sleep well?”

Faith shook her head and offered Mr Westaway a rueful smile while wishing Lord Delmore was on hand in the small bathing room. The piercing, soulful eyes of handsome Mr Westway plucked at her heartstrings in a way they had no right to.

He smiled sympathetically when she shook her head. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t either.”

He positioned himself behind the easel but put his head around to ask, “And what do you think of the gown? I know Lady Vernon’s arthritic fingers make it difficult to help you with your ordinary dress. Besides which, this will create the effect I’m after.” He seemed to falter. “I hope you don’t consider me too forward in choosing your wardrobe.”

“You’re the artist, Mr Westaway. I would wear a hessian sack if you required it.”

“You would?” He ducked back in front of his easel to grin at her. “I should like that.”

“I shouldn’t like it, though. However, you’re paying me.”

His smile vanished. The dampening effect of her response had created the desired effect, but it hadn’t made Faith happy to see him so effectively checked.

With a sigh, she shrugged her shoulders. “Forgive my being so out of sorts, Mr Westaway. You’re right; I had an abominable night’s sleep, and I’m not an angel when I’m not well rested.”

“Despite looking like one. I’m glad you’re wearing the dress. I think it will free both of us.”

He was back in professional mode, not thinking of the double meaning of his words. In the tiny bathroom, Lady Vernon sat on a chair by the window, silent like a bird of prey, the great tub of steaming water beckoning Faith to submerge herself. Such a contrast to the dreary outdoors. On the water’s surface floated rose petals while beneath, the flame from a dozen candles kept the water at a pleasant temperature.

“This is somewhat more enticing than yesterday’s escapade into the icy, murky depths of your local fishpond,” she said, and he laughed.

“Yesterday, I sketched the reeds and the clouds above and the billowing folds of your gown, Miss Montague. It was the beautiful outdoors that will be writ large when the painting is exhibited and there was nothing wasted.” He craned his head forward as if to study the planes and angles of her face.

“Now, I just need to render the perfection of my subject at close quarters,” he seemed to stumble over his last few words, “so that the painting’s viewers will appreciate the exquisite definition of my Lady of the Lake.”

The air between them seemed thick with unspoken meaning. And promise. Faith swallowed and put her hand to her throat as if her lace collar were suddenly too tight.