Page 15

We never do anything well, unless we love it for its own sake.

—Mary Wollstonecraft

The horse whinnied and nearly unseated me because I was much too distracted.

I could barely concentrate on the heist at hand. The Lady Knights were down a person because Lalita had bowed out claiming sudden illness, which was suspicious, but I’d have to think about that later. Blythe had stepped up in a Lady Knight trial by fire, though she had remained at the meeting point with Nori, and while she knew that what we were doing toed the line of respectability—Greer had told her that we were spying on someone—I was certain Blythe suspected there might be more to the story.

We were spying on someone…the vile viscount who had the power to destroy Bellevue, Little Hands, and Welton. Sister Mary had confided that their next quarterly payment for the lease had tripled, which was astronomical. The portion that the Perkins sisters contributed for Welton would increase as well, and I was guessing they could not afford it, either.

I was certain such an increase had to be against the law somehow, but the nun said the paperwork on the building allowed it. I’d had half a mind to show it to Mama, but I needed more proof first. If we could prove that Viscount Hollis was behind the unlawful rent hikes, perhaps we could have a leg to stand on.

“Maybe he’s not going out tonight,” Greer said, rubbing at her nose. “Or he’s already out and we missed him.”

I let out a breath. “I think we should go in there.”

“Into his house?” Greer whispered, eyes rounding.

“I’m tired of waiting,” I said. Besides, Rafi wasn’t at home with his uncle. He was out with Keston, Blake, and Ansel. It was the perfect time to do some snooping. I inhaled a full breath. “You wait here. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, fetch Rafi. He’s at White’s with my brother. He’ll know what to do.”

Greer shot me a worried look. “Zia, I don’t like this, especially you going in there alone.”

“I can always pretend I was trying to find Rafi,” I said with a jovial toss of my head that hid my nerves. “A ruined reputation is better than being tossed into jail, no?”

“This is no time for jokes!”

“Who’s joking? The church, Little Hands, and Welton are in trouble.” My fingers fisted the reins when the horse shifted nervously beneath me, as if sensing my emotions.

“I don’t like it,” she repeated stubbornly.

I dismounted. “Thirty minutes. I promise I’ll be careful.”

Before she could protest, I hurried away. My body was trembling with apprehension as I crossed the street from the park where we had hidden. The residence was dark but for the glow of soft light on the ground floor, which meant that most of the servants might already be abed. A tiny voice inside warned that unlawfully entering someone’s home was very different from robbing my brother’s friends, but I shrugged it off as I slunk around the side. Maybe a kitchen door would be unlocked.

But before I could move, a voice filtered through an open window farther back, and I froze to flatten myself against the wall. It was nasally and very recognizable. Damn and blast, the viscount was at home! My heart raced at the fact, at how close I could have come to being caught red-handed. Then my ears pricked up at the sound of “Bellevue” and “Welton,” and despite the urge to flee, I crept closer.

“I don’t care that those pesky women are making trouble, Atkins,” the viscount growled. “I need them out and that tenement condemned.”

Atkins? Who was that? What pesky women? I was sure I’d heard him say Welton a few seconds earlier. Was he talking about Sister Mary or the Perkins sisters? I pressed closer, sucking in a sharp breath when my boot snapped a twig, but when no one stuck their head out the window to investigate, I exhaled.

“The church hasn’t defaulted on their payments yet. Out of the blue, they were able to settle their accounts. And the women managing Welton are protecting their school,” the man called Atkins replied. Pride filled me at that—we had achieved something monumental. “They have influential parents and donors on their side. Frankly, it looks bad that you’re trying to demolish a church, Hollis.”

“This deal will be lucrative for all of us. The gaming hell cannot fall through, and the banks won’t wait.” The viscount swore viciously, making me flinch. “If that boy won’t come to heel with his inheritance, we need to move quicker. Just get them out, no matter what it takes.”

“We have to abide by the law here,” Atkins said. “They’re not defaulting on payments as you expected. You have no grounds.”

A sound like a fist slamming into a piece of furniture ensued. “Then we have to find a way to make them. Anything to get them out! I swear, hysteria is brewing in that school. The youngest of the sisters is the loudest and vilest. She needs to know her place!”

I stifled a grin and silently pumped my fist in solidarity with Miss Perkins, who I knew would do everything to fight for Welton and her students. Though I wanted to learn more, I didn’t dare risk staying any longer, and I scurried back to where Greer was waiting across the way.

“What happened?” she asked me.

“Hollis was at home,” I panted, trying to catch my breath.

“Did he see you?” Greer asked in horror, her stare instantly tracking me for injury.

I shook my head and mounted my waiting horse. “No, I overheard him talking to someone called Atkins about how frustrated he is because Sister Mary paid her bills. He’s furious.”

“What does that mean?” Greer asked.

I grinned. “That our plan is working.”

Rafi stood in front of an easel with a painting that he was putting the finishing touches on. In the past week and a half, his studio in Covent Garden had become a secret rendezvous for both of us, even though it was risky. Gemma accompanied me for propriety’s sake, but she usually sat in the front parlor doing needlework. There was also a pianoforte so I could practice my music, and I enjoyed watching him paint.

I was burning to ask whether he knew about his uncle’s gaming hell plans for the Welton property…and what the viscount had meant about Rafi not coming to heel with his inheritance. I knew Rafi was wealthy from his mother, and from what I’d overheard, it sounded like if the banks ultimately decided not to fund Hollis’s gaming project, Rafi would become his coin purse. But Rafi wouldn’t kick out a bunch of orphans and destroy a school for the sake of his birthright, would he?

Then again, capitalist logic was a monster in itself. And to be fair, he’d promised his mother….

“What made you decide to become an artist?” I asked instead, biting into a pear that sat on a table beside me, the very one he was painting. “Did you wake up one day and think, that looks like fun!”

“No, not exactly.” He glanced up and scrubbed a thumb over his chin, leaving a streak of white paint behind. “I was visiting my mother and her new husband, and the art in the palace was like nothing I’d ever seen before. The colors were so vibrant, the textures so realistic. I would spend hours in the gallery, seeing something different each time.” He shrugged. “I wanted to produce something like that, and my mother was permitted by the shah to indulge me with lessons from the royal artist.”

“What was it like,” I asked, curious about his eastern family. “Meeting and getting to know your stepfather? Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“A brief acknowledgment and dismissal can hardly constitute getting to know him. I have over one hundred stepsiblings.” At my look, he sighed. “In addition to his four wives, including my mother, he also has hundreds of concubines. I’m my mother’s only child, however.”

“Good gracious, he must have been busy.” My eyes widened. “And exhausted.”

Rafi stared at me before bursting into laughter, his eyes sparkling. I joined him, nearly choking on my pear as I convulsed with chortles. When we’d calmed, he peered at me over the top of the canvas, his eyes drawn to the half-eaten pear. “I did not give you leave to eat my chosen subject, my lady.”

Grinning audaciously, I took another bite, feeling juice run down my chin as well as the press of his stare tracking the movement before I wiped it with my sleeve like an absolute boor. That was another thing I loved about being here in Rafi’s studio. There were no rules, no disparaging stares, no judgment. “You were done with it, and I was hungry,” I said. “May I see the final product?”

He lifted the canvas and flipped it. The painting was so lifelike it looked like it was popping off the background. Various hues of green and chartreuse shimmered off the pear’s skin, making my mouth water even though I held the actual subject in my palm, but it was so real that I could have reached out and plucked it off the page. I could almost taste it. That was a testament to the artist that his work was so evocative.

Rafi’s talent was astounding, but his arrogance was not, so I schooled my features into a neutral expression. “It’s satisfactory,” I told him with a sniff.

His jaw dropped in fake outrage. “You’re a hard one to please,” he said, and shook his head with a grin as he replaced the canvas, knowing I was teasing him. I never gave him my true opinions, though sometimes I could not hide my awe at his talent. He was that good…and he knew it. “ Satisfactory, she says. What on earth must I do to earn your heartfelt favor, my lady? Paint something comparable to Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam ? Bleed onto my canvas? How shall I astound you?”

“You could paint me,” I blurted before I could stop myself, cheeks on fire at my boldness, but it was out there now, landing with the subtlety of a bomb. “Like that girl you had in here a fortnight ago.”

Rafi went still, eyes fastened to me. “That would not be proper,” he said quickly, resuming his brushstrokes, though the painting was already perfect in my opinion. He was a bit of a perfectionist when it came to his art, as though getting it right was deeply personal. It was yet another anomaly. The Rafi everyone saw didn’t care about anything, or at least, he pretended not to.

“Why?” I demanded.

His brows rose. “You are a lady, Zia. Some rules are simply unbreakable. Your reputation is important.”

I scoffed. “As if me being here, alone, unmarried, and practically unchaperoned in your presence isn’t ruinous enough. That ship has long sailed, Mr. Nasser.” I wasn’t jesting—notwithstanding Gemma’s presence, if we were to be caught, my reputation would suffer. And the ensuing gossip would fuel the ton for the entire season!

“Rafi,” he murmured, reminding me of our agreement to be less formal with each other when we were outside the public eye. That intense gray stare lifted once more, pinning me like a butterfly against the velvet back of the chaise that I was propped upon. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking. You do realize she was disrobed.”

My mouth dried as I picked at a piece of imaginary lint from my skirts. “I am aware. Perhaps not as en déshabillé as she was, but I wish to be”—I cleared my throat—“your subject.”

The words felt racier than I’d meant them and made me squirm in my seat, but I refused to drop my gaze. I was not this forward when it came to getting what I wanted, but I desperately desired him to paint me. Like the pear, I wanted to see myself through his eyes. I was inordinately and suddenly obsessed with the idea of Rafi as the creator and me as the creation.

It was untoward, of course, what I was asking, but I was sick of everything being perfectly mapped out for me, including the marriage I was supposed to be securing. The intimacy of it was much too appealing to be eclipsed by something as pedestrian as decorum. I supposed it was a form of reinvention—portraiture through the artist’s eyes. Or perhaps it was that the press of those very eyes on me made me extraordinarily unsteady.

“I want you to,” I said firmly. “Paint me, unless of course you are too worried about propriety.” Rafi didn’t answer my jab, but he did switch out canvases for a fresh one. I panicked when he prowled toward me, my breath catching in my throat, pulse flying high. I instantly lost my bluster. “Wait. I didn’t mean right now !”

“No time like the present.” His voice was taunting as though he expected me to retract my request, payback for suggesting he might be caught up with modesty. That slightly cocky beat of challenge had my spine stiffening. “Do you want to change your mind?”

“No,” I said in a breathy voice when he stopped short of the chaise longue.

“May I adjust you?” he asked politely as if he were asking me for a dance, but this wasn’t a simple dance or even a waltz. This was rather much more intimate. Scandalous, truly. I should have been clutching my imaginary pearls. And yet, I’d never felt more alive. Skin prickling, my breaths went shallow as I gave a tiny nod. “Ineed words, Zia.”

“Yes,” I practically squeaked.

His eyes did not leave mine as his hand descended, and I sucked in a sharp breath. He touched my knee, and it was all I could do to stop from bursting into flames at the point of contact even through layers of silk. “Legs, here.” He seemed completely unbothered, squinting critically as I did as he’d ordered. “Shoes and stockings off, I think. Is that acceptable?” The rasp in his voice had my blood rushing through my veins as though he wasn’t as unaffected as he seemed.

Thankfully, he didn’t intend to perform the task for me, or I might have expired on the spot. The idea of him watching me was enough to give a girl conniptions. Not enough to stop, however. Boldly, I kicked off my shoes one by one, but not so brazenly, I dropped my stare. Reaching down with trembling fingers, I loosened the ribbons above my knees and quickly rolled down the stockings, pulling them off before arranging my skirts back into position.

When I finally managed to meet his eyes, his cheekbones were flushed a dull red, and I couldn’t help myself even though I’d learned that taunting Rafi never went unanswered. “You’re blushing, sir. Were you this embarrassed with the other model?”

That smirk appeared for a half second. “She wasn’t you. My best friend’s bratty little sister.”

The tingles that followed the first part of his reply disappeared immediately with the second. Keston would bloody murder me. Murder us both. Which was why I’d been avoiding him like the plague. Ela had let slip that she’d conveniently lost the newssheets from that day—for which I was grateful—but had told me in no uncertain terms that Rafi and I needed to come clean to Keston before he found out. I pushed the thought of my brother from my mind. This had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me. Being here was my choice. Asking Rafi to paint me was my choice. Undressing was my choice.

“She was a woman, no?” I pointed out, feigning nonchalance with an idle sweep of my palm. “The subject of the flesh is the same. I hardly see how one bodily form or another matters to an artist’s eye.” I was shamelessly fishing for more. I knew my reasons, but what were his ?

His scent overwhelmed me when he reached up to loosen the pins holding my hair in place, the copious bronze and brown-gold spirals falling every which way. The ends curled and caught around his fingertips as if they never wanted to let go. In that moment, I knew how they felt. Sliding his fingers through the tight ringlets, he tucked several tendrils away over my shoulders, his stare dropping to my lips for an infinitesimal moment.

“I didn’t kiss her, did I?” he said softly.

Ah. The kiss. The pivotal moment that had led us both here. Led me here. The heartbeats stretched out, each one louder than the last, as I slowly exhaled, my eyes clashing wildly with his. How could gray be so hypnotic? We were so close I could see the silver shards in his irises and the hint of blue at the center. But that wasn’t what kept me immobile. One inch more and our lips would rediscover each other.

“Did you like it?” I blurted. “The kiss?” And then I wanted to kick myself for sounding so desperate.

His lips quirked. “What do you think?”

“You haven’t mentioned it until now,” I said. “Maybe it was the worst kiss you’ve ever had, and you blocked it from your mind. Maybe you kiss so many girls that you forgot.”

“Hardly.” Soft laughter left him, his sweet-scented breath gusting over my chin. “I tried to block it from my mind, but only because I couldn’t stop thinking about repeating it.”

“Oh.” I could barely control the flush that rolled through me at the unexpected confession. He wanted to kiss me again?

A finger lifted to brush my cheek. “These freckles are an artist’s dream.”

I stifled the burst of pleasure at his touch, unconsciously leaning in for more, but then he sat back on his haunches, the sudden loss of him disorienting for a sharp second. I cleared my desert-dry throat and moistened my lips, ignoring the way his gaze darted there. “Is this pose sufficient?” I asked, bringing us back to our task in case I did something absurd like fall off the chaise into his lap and crash my lips to his, giving us what we both clearly craved.

Stop! Focus! None of that!

He sourced a cushion from another chair and directed me to sit up before he placed it at my back. “Prop your back knee up and bring your hem up just to your ankles on your other leg,” he said. “One arm up over your head and the other holding the pear to your mouth.”

He moved back to the easel, concentration written on his face. “Eyes on me,” he said. “Chin slightly up and to the left. Just so. Display that long neck of yours.”

“Is it a good neck?” I nearly groaned out loud.

“A very good one, in fact,” he replied. “Very sketchable. Very paintable. Very long.” He coughed.

Given the number of very s in that response, perhaps he was as edgy as I was. Still, the compliment warmed me. He liked my neck. He’d thought about kissing me again. I heard the rasp of pencil over paper as he sketched the outline, and I didn’t dare move a muscle.

He let out a sound of amusement after a few minutes when I had an unbearable itch on my arm that was growing by the second and was certain I was sweating from holding it together. “You can relax a bit. I’ve already drawn the basics.”

I scrubbed at the infernal itch. How did artists’ models sit for so long? It was definitely a lot harder than it appeared. Perhaps one could meditate. Though my nature was much too impatient for that. And all I could think about was kissing…and the fact that he’d thought about it, too.

“What’s next?” I asked to distract myself. He’d explained his painting process before, but I wanted him to talk so that I wasn’t forced to fill the silence with more nonsense.

“I start with a couple of initial drawings in pencil to get the pose right and then a larger one when I’m satisfied. Then I’ll paint a warm sepia imprimatura hue over the sketch. After that, I’ll add a color wash and the individual paint colors in the first go.”

“And what do I do in the meantime?”

He glanced up as he made wide passes over the canvas, presumably with the sepia hue thing. “Sit there and look pretty.”

“You are armed with compliments today.”

He stilled, eyes tracking the exposed skin and a muscle flexing to life in his cheek, but kept his voice light. “I thought I’d made it known that I shall throw my lot in with the other witless sycophants. Your beauty outshines the sun. Your smile makes the heavens weep. You are a gift to everyone around you. Your charm is a bounty upon which poets—”

“Stop, stop, that is enough, truly,” I said with a giggle at his grandiose statements.

He smirked. “But I’m not finished, oh Diamond.”

“Please, I beg of you, desist.” I snorted. “Stick with painting.”

Our amusement faded as I lay back on the chaise. While Rafi kept working with the occasional glance in my direction, I stared at the ceiling. There was a mural painted upon it, one of wide green meadows and bucolic rolling hills. It looked idyllic and peaceful. I wondered if Rafi had painted it, but the paint was too faded to be recent. It wasn’t quite his style, either, the colors much too flat and untextured.

“Do you own this place?” I asked.

“I lease it from a friend,” he said. “A mentor of sorts. Why do you ask?”

“I was pondering who painted that mural.”

His eyes flicked up. “Not me. It’s a little bland for my tastes, though I suppose pastel landscapes are the rage these days.” I much preferred the unapologetic boldness of his art. “I enjoy the use of color, as you can tell. Perhaps a smidge too liberally as the owner of this place says.”

I wondered whether his mentor was the older artist I’d seen instructing him in this very room. It was incongruous, really, how much common ground we had between us. He, too, sought instruction from someone who might not be approved by the ton and who viewed the world with discerning eyes. I wanted to escape via my music, and he pursued the same via his art. We were both pretending to be people we were not in public, living in skins that didn’t quite fit as they should.

“Rafi,” I asked, peeking at him. “If you could be anyone else living anywhere in this world but here, where would you be?”

“It’s probably a cliché, but I’d be a painter in Paris,” he said without hesitation. “Montmartre, specifically. You?”

“Perhaps Venice or Vienna,” I said softly. “Or even Paris as well. I’m fascinated with the French musicians of the Baroque period. I’d play my music in theaters in front of hundreds.”

He smiled. “Wouldn’t it be grand if we journeyed to Paris?”

I kept my mouth shut, imagining the two of us living our best lives and following our dreams in peace, without the weight of expectation and duty hanging over our heads. Other images ensued, memories of that kiss that made my skin heat and my body warm, followed by fantasies of us living together as a true couple that made my breath hitch.

Racy thoughts aside, what would life with Rafi be like, if he was in his element? Seeing him like this all the time? Unguarded. Happy. Would I be the same? I couldn’t quite envision myself as simply Zia the musician as opposed to Lady Zenobia, duke’s daughter and society heiress, but it was a dream worth savoring for a few seconds.

“Who is your favorite musician?” Rafi asked, drawing me out of my reveries.

I thought for a moment. “Vivaldi, probably, which is why I said Venice or Vienna. He was born in Italy but died in Austria. His music is so wild and arresting, you can’t help but feel like you’re being caught up in the middle of a fierce thunderstorm. The way he viewed the world was unique. He’s best known for the violin, and also the cello as a solo instrument, but I like transcribing his compositions to the piano.”

Rafi’s lip was caught between his teeth in concentration, but he glanced over at me. “I’ve heard you play. You’re undoubtedly talented, but even that is ambitious. His transitions are absurdly fast, I mean,” he added when he saw that he’d caused affront. “Not that it’s ambitious for you. Just in general.” He closed his eyes. “I’m bungling my words.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, wondering if he would think the same if he heard me play in my own singular style or if he would be like everyone else, wanting the overly ornamental and overdone compositions of current musicians. My ambition when it came to music had no boundaries.

“You should play,” he said.

I frowned and sat up from my reclining position. “What about the painting?”

“I’ve practically memorized all of you,” he explained, and then flushed as if he hadn’t meant to admit that. My heart skipped a slow beat when our gazes collided. “I mean I have what I need to finish,” he said, and pointed at the instrument. “Now go. Perhaps it will add more dimension to my piece. I’ve always said art and music go hand in hand. Both forms of expression filtered through the hands of the creator.”

He waggled his fingers around his brush for emphasis, while I clenched mine in my lap.

“I can’t,” I said. “I don’t have music with me.”

“I’ve seen you play without sheet music before. What about the Vivaldi transposition you were mentioning before? Come on, Firefly, don’t leave me in suspense.” He eyed me with just enough provocative arrogance to have my spine straightening. “Or was I right in saying how ambitious it was?”

It was uncanny how he knew exactly how to get a rise out of me. In truth, my competitive streak would probably be my downfall one day. But not today. With a huff, I stood and walked over to the covered instrument and gently unveiled it. My breath caught. It was a gorgeous walnut Conrad Graf fortepiano, per the paper label above the keys. I recognized it instantly because we had one at our home in Berkshire and in my studio. What would something like this be doing here?

Pianists like Beethoven and Schubert played on Graf’s instruments. I ran my fingers lovingly over the black and white keys. The piano was expensive and well loved, but if it had been sitting in disuse, it would not be playable. I pressed the C note, and it rang clear. Then I played the chord, which did the same. The notes fell over me like sunshine.

“Do you have a screw or two around here?” I asked Rafi, looking over my shoulder. “And might I have a piece of paper?”

He frowned. “Whatever for?”

Oh, he was in for the full musical extravaganza of Zia Osborn. I’d only ever kept my playing traditional for fear of what others might think. “You’ll see. Now, hand them over.”

Although skeptical, he dug into a nearby box to provide two mismatched screws before tearing a piece of paper from a sketch pad and handing it to me. I made my way over to him and perused his desk to see if there was anything else I could use. The thing about this special style was that it never sounded the same. The shape and weight of the items used were different each time, and that impacted how they interacted with the piano strings. And it took patience and preparation. But Rafi painted in silence while I got the pianoforte ready.

I could sense his curiosity, but he was more than familiar with the creative process. In fact, I’d watched him cycle through some truly bizarre actions—like stretching and calisthenics—before facing the easel. Creative types were peculiar. Once I was satisfied that the instrument was prepared, I sat on the stool and ran my fingers through a quick exercise before breaking into an arrangement of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons “Summer.”

Each time the hammer hit the lower register strings that had the screws attached to them, it rang with an unusual discordance one would never expect from a piano. It was undoubtedly an interruption, but it did something special to the piece, adding an element of menace to the already-sharp melody. On the upper register, the weight of the paper was less obvious, but it still added a layer of subtle complexity.

I could feel Rafi’s eyes on me when I stood and used the end of one of his paintbrushes to span some of the strings as one would a guitar, then continued the measure smoothly. When I was finished, I was afraid to look at him.

Slow clapping made me turn. “Consider me corrected,” he said. “That was like nothing I have ever heard before.”

“Is that good?” I asked, covering up the instrument and returning to the chaise.

“Zia,” he said, awe written all over him. “Like you, it was one of a kind.”