Page 38

THIRTY-EIGHT

A Pose

Paul

“What the hell are you doing?” Merlin throws his hands in the air, exasperation riddled throughout the frazzled disarray of his hair. His harried stride and the warbling in his voice only add to his frustrated display.

I try to calm my father down, but Merlin paces in a circle, tugging out of my grip when I try to capture him, slow down his tirade, and reason with him.

“It’s going to be okay.” I reach out, trying to catch his arm.

“She’s a Faulks.” Merlin points an accusatory finger at me. “Do you know what that means?” His bony fingers clutch at the hair sticking out from either side of his head, gripping tight and tugging. “It’s like you’ve gone deaf, dumb, and blind around the woman.”

“She’s not like him.”

“How do you know?” The fire in Merlin’s eyes could melt ice. “He’s the devil’s spawn, and she’s cast from that mold.”

“She is not.” I enunciate the words, forcing Merlin to listen. I lower my voice, afraid of our conversation carrying down the hall.

“Is, too.”

“Don’t argue like a child, and stop rolling your eyes.”

Merlin’s fiery passion simmers at a low bake most days, but when stirred, he can explode with devastating consequences.

“I’m not arguing. You’re not listening, and you’re too blind to see the danger you place us in.”

“She’s different, and we’re not in any danger.” I take a step closer, my voice firm.

“How so? Because she seems to be learning all our secrets. She knows who you are, and now, you’re bringing the Crow into conversation. How long will it be before she discovers who I am?”

My father rarely mentions Nicholas by name, preferring to spit out the epithet instead. Merlin carries the weight of Nicholas’s sins too heavily on his shoulders, but that’s a conversation for another day.

My father stretches his arms over his head and shakes them, his frustration and anger building. I need to calm him down.

“She despises her father.” I take a deep breath, steadying myself. In this, I’m certain.

We’ve spoken little about her family, but I’ve gleaned that familial obligations weigh heavily on her shoulders. Vivianne has a passion for the arts. Her work imbues her life with purpose, and I fear what would happen if that is ever taken from her.

The way her eyes sparkled and brightened when she saw the recovered art in the cave made my heart swell. I want to feed her hunger and encourage her to pursue that which she so obviously loves. In truth, I want to be the source of the pristine joy I witnessed on her face.

Perhaps I’m being selfish and divulging too much.

“Still a Faulks,” Merlin mutters. “That blood is poisonous.”

“Brigitte’s blood flows in her veins, Papa.”

It’s wrong of me to insert Brigitte’s name into the conversation. I don’t mean to cast that stone, but from everything I’ve heard about Merlin’s lost love, Vivianne inherited Brigitte’s gentle soul along with her beauty. It’s unfortunate how the wounds of Merlin’s past fester. He’s never recovered from the depths of that betrayal.

Merlin stumbles, coming to a trembling stop between one step and the next. He turns and levels the full force of his wounded soul on me. “Do not bring Brigitte into this.”

“And why not? Isn’t she a part of this?”

“Not this. Not now.” Merlin’s voice rumbles with the ravages of past wrongs. “We’re not seeking that—now.”

“But she’s a way in.”

“Is that all?” Merlin’s glare spears me in the gut because truth balances on those words. “Because it seems you’re infatuated with her. I wonder where your head is at. Or which head has been doing all your thinking these past few days.”

“No reason to get vulgar.” My jaw tightens. I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. “I’m in control of myself.” I’ve learned from my mistakes too.

“Really?” He jabs at the pile of feathers and furs. “Is that why you’re painting her? Is that why you’re creating a collection?” He runs his fingers through his gray hair. “And how dare you name it The Swan .”

“She’s an epic beauty, and the name is fitting. You know this could be the work that finally legitimizes my career. Do you ever consider I might be tired of copying others? That I might want to stand on the merits of my skill as Paul de Gaulle?”

“You don’t need legitimacy,” Merlin spits. “You’ve conquered the world with your talent. Your works hang in nearly every museum and in countless private collections. You’re the master of masters.”

“But none bear my name.” I gesture toward the archway leading out of the room. Lowering my voice, I glance at the door. “And keep your voice down. She’ll return any moment.”

“You’ve brought chaos into our home.”

“I’m bringing restitution,” I clarify.

“You believe she will lead you to The Swan ?” Merlin’s voice trails off, and he grips his chest, hunching over. A gasp escapes him.

I rush forward, panic tightening my chest. My heart races as I grab his arm, searching his face for any sign of serious distress. He waves me off, dismissing my concern with a weak gesture, his eyes narrowing as if trying to will himself into steadiness.

“It’s nothing,” he says, his voice rough but insistent.

But I’m not so certain. The relentless press of years weighs heavily on my father. It will be a race to see if I can recover The Swan before it’s too late.

“Does she even know if it’s there?” Hope threads through Merlin’s voice as he straightens to his full height, bringing the force of his intimidating stature to bear.

“That’s not something we’ve discussed.” My fists clench, and I frown.

“But you will find out?” Merlin mumbles beneath his breath, tapping his fingers against his chin.

Merlin’s failed countless times to discover the fate of his family’s legacy. Even Nicholas returned empty-handed the two times he attempted to penetrate the Faulks estate. No one knows if the gem still resides with the Faulkses or if it was bartered away in one of many business transactions.

“In time, but to do so, I must build trust.” Yet, I need far more than simple trust.

Merlin believes I will use Vivianne to restore the rare gem to his possession, but I want something far more valuable.

Over the years, I’ve shared many moments with many women, but none have ever captured me—not once has one struck me as anything truly special. My life doesn’t afford me many opportunities to pursue my passions, and while those around me find and hold onto their perfect match, I remain restless, always searching, moving from one fleeting liaison to the next.

Vivianne confuses me because she stirs something deeper—a sense of possession I can’t easily dismiss. It’s there, lurking in the recesses of my mind.

Perhaps, if I can paint that indefinable quality, I can put her out of my thoughts. But a small part of me knows she’s gotten under my skin, and that feeling won’t be so easily purged.

It makes me question what I truly want with Vivianne. Can I ever be satisfied with just this short liaison, or do I want more? And if the answer is more—if I can’t let go—then what will I do about Prescott Harrington and her upcoming marriage? That answer still eludes me, but I know one thing: for now, I can’t let her go.

I deserve more, and I’m not afraid to go after what I want.

“Now, come. Help me prepare.” I nod toward the room, trying to shift the focus.

At any moment, Vivianne will return, and I pray our voices did not carry to her sensitive ears.

“What are your plans for this collection?” Merlin asks. “It’s not like you can put a painting of Vivianne Faulks in the Louvre.”

“I can, and I will. She asked me not to reveal her face. I’ll make a masterpiece to rival the Mona Lisa.” I meet his gaze, unflinching.

Merlin stares at me with a penetrating gaze. “You might just be the one to accomplish that feat, although hundreds have tried throughout the centuries.”

“I might indeed.”

A soft sound behind me catches my attention.

“Hi,” comes Vivianne’s lilting voice.

I love the tinkling melodies laced within the barest breath of her words. Of the many things I enjoy about her, that’s my favorite. And, while she speaks with a gentleness, which hints at her refined nature, there’s nothing weak about the force of her personality. She’s been groomed to captivate a room with her silent presence, which she does to great effect now.

Merlin places the sheepskin rug in front of the fire. He stretches, placing his hands on his hips, but his gaze holds the ravishing beauty standing before us. For a moment, I wonder what thoughts linger in Merlin’s head.

Does he see Vivianne Faulks?

Or does Merlin view the haunted beauty of Brigitte’s lineage?

Vivianne is elegant and breathtaking. I close the distance between us in four ground-devouring strides. Draped in the white silk, her complexion is the creamiest ivory.

Perfection.

The pink of her cheeks and her rosebud lips shine beneath the golden glow of the chandelier and the flames from the fire. She wrings her hands, an uncharacteristic fidget, and refuses to meet my gaze.

“You look exquisite.” My hands rest gently on her arms. I bend down, getting level with her eyes. She squeezes her lids shut, and I pause, surprised.

“Thank you,” she says in a whisper so low I barely hear the words.

“Look at me.” I tilt her chin gently, urging her.

Slowly, she tilts her chin upward and opens her eyes. In that moment, her cheeks flush, brightening her features. She unclasps her fingers and brushes at her arms.

“Are you nervous?”

She curls her lower lip between her teeth. “A little.”

“Don’t be.” I offer her a reassuring smile, my fingers brushing lightly against her arm. “You and I are going to create a masterpiece.”

I escort her back across the room to the sheepskin laid out before the fire. “We’re still getting set up.” I place downward pressure on her arms. “Sit and make yourself comfortable.”

Merlin drags one of the armchairs away from the fire, placing it against the far wall. “Do you want me to move the other?”

I take a moment to glance around the room. I envision five paintings, all composed in this room, a gradual unveiling of the woman beneath the silken robe.

“Yes, please.” I need room to make this work. “And if you could bring in a chair for me?”

“Of course,” Merlin says with a bow. He’s back in the role of the butler even though Vivianne knows more is at play.

When Merlin leaves to get the chair, I walk up to kneel behind Vivianne. She faces the fire and clasps the edges of the robe tight around her body. The light of the fire cascades over her face, turning her golden hair a darker shade, layering in deep undertones of shimmering gold.

“I like this pose.” I sweep her long, wavy hair off her shoulder. “We’ll begin like such.”

“How do you want me?” She looks at me, her face flushed from the heat of the fire.

I slip the edge of the robe off her left shoulder, letting the fabric drape down her back where it reveals the gentle curve of her spine.

“Just like this.” I press my lips to her bare shoulder. “Don’t move.”

She takes in a breath, holding it until I lift my lips from her skin. Crouching behind her, I comb out her hair, watching it cascade down her back.

“I will sketch first and grab the essence of the pose. Painting will be done later.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointment flooding her voice. “I was hoping to see it finished.”

“You most definitely will. Like I said, we have all night. The sketches won’t take long. I merely need to get a sense of what I’ll be painting.”

She squints. “You don’t need me to sit the whole time?”

“No. Once I have the image in my head, I know what to paint.”

Her soft but hesitant laughter lightens the room and warms my heart. “I trust you know what you’re doing. All I remember from the previous times I posed were the hours and hours of torture from trying to hold still, my father yelling at me, and the frustration of the artists when I shifted ever so slightly.”

“That is a shame.” I brush a lock of her hair aside, fingers lingering. “While I would love nothing more than having you captive to my brush, I do not require such long sittings.”

A light touch pushes off the other sleeve of her robe, and she allows the front fabric to drape, letting the silk flow.

“Turn your head to the left,” I say. “I won’t paint your face, but a hint of your profile will be in each one.” I position her the way I want, appreciating her cooperation with my direction.

“Like this?” she asks.

Stepping back, I assess the effect. “No, too much. Turn a bit back to center but tilt your chin down a touch.”

The arch of her neck bends down, revealing the curve of her ear and the soft angle of her jaw. Only the corner of her eye will be visible in the final product, but it isn’t her face that draws me.

The soft lines of her neck, the gentle contours of her shoulders, the graceful sweep of her spine, and the fall of her hair tumbling down her back all form the most exquisite image.

I trace a finger down her spine, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my touch. Her sharp inhale stabs the silence.

The robe clings loosely to her form, hinting at the promise of what lies beneath the silk whispering across her lower back.

I decide to leave it that way, preserving the allure of mystery—a slow reveal for the final piece in the collection. Each painting will display a little more, each stroke of the brush recreating her beauty with deliberate intimacy, inviting the viewer to follow the journey I take now, inch by inch, and layer by layer.

“Now,” I say, “don’t move.”