Chapter Four

 

London

 

Since the sale of the painting three weeks ago, Gina and Milo had dined like royalty. At the market, she found cheap bolts of material. She stitched bright calico curtains for the windows and made a cover for the worn sofa. She distempered the dingy, tobacco-colored walls working around Milo as he painted. He now had better sway with the landlord who sent someone to fix the leak in the roof. It was the least he could do to have a famous artist living in his attic.

Gina tucked the single yellow rose she’d bought—roses were so expensive, into her hair. She pushed back her heavy, waist-length tresses and settled into her pose for the new work, a swag of burnished silk wrapped around her that would soon be fashioned into a new gown.

A knock came at the door.

“Who can that be?” She abandoned her pose. “Are you expecting any of your friends?”

Milo shrugged and continued to work violet shadows into the folds of painted cloth.

The knock came again.

Gina wrapped the fabric around her body, and opened the door a crack. “Who is it?”

An elegant stranger stood outside. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was dressed in a dark blue coat, dove-gray silk waistcoat, and gray trousers. He removed his bowler hat. His hair curled over his neck, black as soot. A smile of recognition lit his blue eyes as if he knew her. “Mr. Blair Dunleavy, miss. I’ve been told that Milo Russo lives here. I recently bought his painting, Aphrodite.”

“If you’ll please wait, I’ll fetch him for you.”

Gina shut the door and leaned against it. She placed her hand on her breast, feeling the rapid beating of her heart beneath her fingers. She’d never seen the like! He was so handsome! She gathered her wits and rushed into Milo’s studio. “There’s a man come to see you. He says he purchased Aphrodite.”

Milo grabbed a cloth and wiped his hands. “Perhaps he wants to purchase another painting. Where is he? Didn’t you invite him in?”

She scowled at him. Really, was Milo ever on this earth? “You let him in. I’m not about to do so dressed like this.”

She ran to her bedroom and shut the door. The smartest among her sad array of dresses was the apple-green satin she’d trimmed with tartan. She struggled into her stays and pulled on petticoats and red stockings, thankful that her dress fastened in front. As she buttoned her leather shoes, she heard Milo conversing with the stranger. The man’s voice had a pleasing lilt to it. Irish. She twisted her hair into a bun and secured it with the deft placing of her mother’s tortoiseshell hair combs. Pinching her cheeks, she bit her lips, opened the door, and ventured out.

The Irishman perched on a stool, studying the canvases Milo had pulled out for him to inspect. He stood as she entered and smoothed a hand over his dark hair. Her attention focused on the unruly lock that sprang from a widow’s peak, slightly off-center. It made him look a little less ordered, more appealing somehow.

He studied her intently while Milo fussed among his canvasses.

“May I get you coffee?” she asked, pleased she could offer it. Coffee was the first thing she had bought with Milo’s money. A luxury she couldn’t resist.

Black lashes fringed his smiling blue eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”

“Where are my manners?” Milo straightened up still holding a canvas in his hand. “Mr. Dunleavy, my step-daughter, Giovanna.”

“So, the lady in the painting,” Mr. Dunleavy said in his attractive voice. He held out his hand.

A jolt passed through her body at the touch of his fingers. As if her entire skin from top to toe had come alive. She turned away, afraid he would read her thoughts. “Or tea. Everyone here seems to prefer tea.”

“Coffee will be fine, thank you. When did you leave Italy?”

“Eight years ago. I was twelve.” She bit her lip realizing she’d given away her age. Her mother said a lady never revealed her age. Her cheeks burned. “I’ll get the coffee.”

At the door, she turned. Mr. Dunleavy had dropped one of his gray gloves and bent to pick it up.

As he straightened, his eyes sought hers across the room.

Her hands shook, and a pulse beat in her throat as she piled the cups and saucers, milk jug and coffee pot onto a tray. She carried it carefully into the studio. He was studying the painting of a woodland scene, one of Milo’s recent works. Milo had captured her in oils sitting beside a stream where wildflowers floated in the water. She wore a filmy white slip which clung to her body, and her hair hung about her waist garlanded with flowers.

“Shakespeare’s Ophelia,” Mr. Dunleavy said. “This is beautifully done, Mr. Russo. More reminiscent of Hughes than Millais. You have made Giovanna a wood nymph.” He smiled at her. “I’ve won a bet I made with a friend…” he paused, and something in his gaze made her body heavy and warm, “… that I’d discover the model of the painting to be more beautiful in the flesh.”

Milo chuckled. “How much was the bet?”

“One hundred pounds.”

“One hundred pounds?” Gina echoed, aghast at the waste of money.

Dunleavy smiled. “I should have made a larger bet.”

“I think you gentlemen have more money than sense.” She set her hands on her hips. And, a decided lack of propriety. If he began to utter empty compliments laden with insinuation, like so many others, she would throw the coffee in his face. Even if he was a customer.

“I’m afraid you may be right, Miss Giovanna,” he said seriously, but his eyes danced.

“Gina is beautiful, is she not?” Milo interrupted, turning from his easel where he’d picked up a brush.

“Not in any way to devalue your work, Mr. Russo, but even more so in real life,” he said gravely. “It is difficult to capture a goddess. But you have, superbly.” He reached into his coat pocket and drew out his wallet. “I should like to buy the wood nymph, if I may.”

“I place a higher price on my work now,” Milo scratched his head with the end of the paintbrush. “It’s a smaller painting than Aphrodite though, so, let’s say… three hundred pounds.”

“A bargain.” Blair peeled off some notes and handed them to Milo.

Was he hinting at buying her services too? The thought made Gina’s stomach churn with an excitement she quickly tried to suppress. “I don’t believe it is like me,” she said with a quick frown. “But it is a good painting.” She didn’t want to deter him from buying it.

Mr. Dunleavy studied her and then looked back at the painting. “It is an excellent work. It captures your essence.”

She tucked a stray wisp of hair back behind her ear with nervous fingers. “My essence?”

“Your soul or spirit. I’ll take the painting with me, if I may.”

“Of course. Wrap it, Gina.” As if they’d wasted enough of his time, Milo turned back to his easel.

“I’ve interrupted you long enough,” Mr. Dunleavy said. “Please don’t worry about wrapping it. I have a cab waiting.”

“It will take but a minute.” She hurried from the room.

“May I call again?” he asked when Gina returned with the wrapped canvas.

“Come anytime and welcome,” Milo called from the studio.

“Goodbye, Mr. Dunleavy,” Gina said.

As she began to close the door, he put his hand up to forestall her. “I would like to see you again.” His eyes were as blue as a Tuscan summer sky. Their intense expression made her quiver.

She hesitated. It would be unwise, but how beguiling he was.

“I don’t believe I put that well.” He captured her eyes with his. “I must see you again.”

“You may come any time to view my father’s paintings, Mr. Dunleavy.”

He nodded. “I look forward to that, Giovanna.”

Gina ran to the window and watched the tall, graceful man enter a hansom cab. She went to her room to change again. Stripped naked, she studied herself in the mirror. She cupped her full breasts as a man might and ran her hands down over her softly rounded stomach to the vee of golden hair at its base. Her body felt strangely heavy and ached to be touched between her legs. Shivering slightly, she wrapped the thin silk tightly around her. She shook her head sternly in the mirror. “Never,” she said firmly. But she knew he’d come back. And when he did, it would be hard to resist him.

“I’ve stoked up the fire,” Milo said when she returned to the studio. “A nice fellow, didn’t you think?”

“Perhaps.” She settled back into her pose, staring up at the smoky sky through the skylight in the attic roof. She liked what he said about her essence. Not just empty words of flattery. But she wouldn’t allow herself to dream. He came from another world. One she would never be able to enter.