He nodded farewell as he left, slipping into the in-between, paintings carefully in hand.
Fourteen
Art haunted me in the weeks to come, distracting me from working on a new piece forLa Revue des Deux Mondes. My gaze fixated on the sketch I’d pinned from the artist René in the garden. Still smug from meeting the challenge with Death, I saw art everywhere I went now. But as I stared at my likeness, unchanged from 1784, I wondered ... How had he done it? His talent clearly surpassed even that of the artist who had rendered Death for me. How had he managed to capture me? What could he create with proper paints in a studio?
I replayed how he’d held the charcoal in his strong hands, veins running over his muscled forearms, his eyes fixed on the canvas. As the spring warmed to summer, I opened my windows and wished for a breeze, waking up sweating, imagining his fingers trailing across my skin, his lips on my neck, and my legs wrapped around his. It was a surprise, my own visceral desire after pushing away thoughts of sex and love for decades since William’s death.
I lasted another week before I found myself visiting the courtyard of the Palais-Royal, where René said he worked on Tuesdays and Thursdays, dressed in my best green silk with white ruffles and drenched in a new perfume. I strolled along the edge, leisurely pretending to take in the sights.
Other artists were also out, but there was no mistaking him, stationed back toward the gardens. Families sat on spread-out blankets,enjoying the day as children chased each other, the lively playing of fiddle and accordion adding a festiveness, the mood light.
He sat in front of his easel, sketching the gardens, his hand floating across the paper as the scene sprang to life—a smudge blooming into pear trees and magnolia blossoms, a line becoming a neat trellis, all appearing as if by magic.
I didn’t say anything as his hand slowed, and he turned, scanning. I wanted him to see me again. I wanted him to notice me among the crowd. The second his eyes caught mine, a smile spread over his face as sweet and slow as molasses.
“Back again, I see.” He smiled as I drew near, the sunlight a beam of gold on his black hair. I didn’t know how it was possible, but he was more handsome than last time; his green eyes had an apex predator’s energy beneath a veneer of sleek refinement, and his black lashes were thick and long.
“You had an offer I couldn’t refuse,” I said, a pleasant heat feathering along my skin.
“Are you interested, then?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
“Excellent.” He reached forward and added his slashing signature to the drawing.
He dropped the charcoal back in its tray and started packing his papers frantically.
I stepped back. “What are you doing?”
He gestured to the sun. “The light will not last. I’ll have more control in my studio.”
“I see.”
That meant I’d be alone with him ... which probably wasn’t a good thing, but an intoxicating thrill tugged me forward like a will-o’-the-wisp leading me into a dark and dangerous wood. I should’ve been afraid, but I cleared my throat. “How long will it take?”
“Three days,” he said, folding his easel down. “One for the outline and background, the second for details, and the final for finishing touches.”
I blinked. Three days? “I don’t usually go traipsing off with a man I’ve just met.”
“Don’t worry. I assure you that the experience will be safe. Perhaps even pleasurable.” He smiled, the movement slow and sensual. He didn’t move an inch, but heat slunk through me at his gaze as if he were stripping me bare.
I waited for caution to flare, but shivery anticipation trickled down my spine. It had been years since I had been with someone. If he was interested and I was willing, what was the hesitation? There was no one here whose reputation I needed to consider other than my own. There was no Code Noir governing my every move. There was nothing holding me back.
We strolled together, our pace languid, not quite touching. His retracted easel and black portfolio swung between us, occasionally brushing my skirts and nudging me gently. I swallowed and counted the steps to his studio as anticipation built.
His voice broke into my thoughts, soft as satin. “So, do you know what you’d like?”
I shivered at the subtext in his words. “What, sir, are you offering?”
He tilted his head, his errant curls turning in the warm breeze. “That depends on you. How do you see yourself, Mademoiselle Marguerite? What kind of portrait should I create?”
I was used to being addressed by my alias, yet hearing it from René’s mouth made me pause. It was the first time, I thought, it sounded like a lie. “I don’t suppose I’ve thought about it. The regular kind?”
He shook his head. “There is nothing regular about you.” His eyes traveled down my dress. “You, mademoiselle, are unique.”
I flushed at the bold statement. Technically, he was right. I was a woman out of time—or perhaps lost in it. “You must see hundreds of people a day. Why flatter me?”
“There’s something in the way you hold yourself,” he admitted. “That day at the salon, you reminded me of Athena, beholding her subjects, observing as they lived their small lives, wise beyond your years. You’ve seen things. It’s in your eyes. A grief, a weariness that only comes with seeing parts of the world that many do not.”
