Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Three days. Three days that were quite long and three nights that were even longer. Evangelina had been holed up in the Marston house, awaiting some danger that likely would never come. If she’d spent it all in Zeke’s arms, the time hardly would have been noticeable, but instead, she spent it desperately trying to entertain herself as everyone else had something better to do. Her mother was there, but Patrice and Deirdre had formed a fast and strong bond, and Callista was about making whatever mischief she always managed to find. Though, at least, now she kept a footman with her at all times, and the handsomest one in the house. Not that Evangelina was looking, or so she told herself, but it was hard not to notice when the man was that tall and good looking.

The truth was, Evangelina was bored. Excruciatingly bored. Never in her life had the amusements of her own head failed her so miserably, and what a time to have such a thing happen! Right when she needed the comforting nature she’d always found in solitude, it deserted her. Evangelina attempted to relocate it between the pages of her favorite volumes, from Sense and Sensibility to Gulliver’s Travels. And yet, the magic she had always found there seemed to be lost as well. It was almost a physical pain, being so devoid of the things she usually had to support and care for her. Even Samira was busy elsewhere, usually hers and the Viscount’s bedroom, and Evangelina would not dream of disturbing them. She knew they’d talked of a honeymoon, France or Scotland even, but they had postponed for her sake, though they had made up other excuses as to why. Until things were sorted out, Samira didn’t want to be far away. That almost made Evangelina feel worse than if they’d just come out and said it. She knew things would be easier for everyone involved if she was not there, but they didn’t have to do her the disservice of assuming her too stupid to come to that realization on her own.

Rowan and the Marquis of Conway were working behind the scenes to ensure that the Earl had no ability to claim Evangelina for his own if he tried to go through the courts. A contact of the Marquis’s, a lawyer by the name of John Fletcher, stated that the Earl had not made any overtures to the court, and indeed had not been seen in London society at all.

"That is good news then?" Evangelina had asked when Rowan had shared this.

The hesitating looks exchanged between Zeke, Rowan, and Samira at that hardly seemed reassuring. If it did not indicate that he was giving up, then what did it mean? Yet they did not tell her. Evangelina was going to go out of her mind if something didn’t change. She was determined to make it change. Finally, after three days of being locked away like a princess in a tower, Evangelina decided to go out. Zeke was gone to his studio, he’d told her over a breakfast they’d shared after another night not spent in each other’s arms. He planned to sculpt that day and likely would be gone through the afternoon. Though she had smiled and nodded through the meal, Evangelina decided she was, quite simply, sick of it. Rowan and Samira were abed, still, and it was eleven o’clock. Callista was out on some sort of mysterious errand, Thalia was still a distant figure to Evangelina, and Joel was out of doors doing something masculine. Evangelina could have gone with him, she supposed, but she didn’t want to do masculine things. She wanted to be a woman, to do womanly things, primarily with her husband, the sort of things that made the occasional sound erupt from Rowan and Samira’s room and turned her scarlet.

Instead, Evangelina decided to go to the bookstore. The coachman agreed to drive her and accompany her; Evangelina might have been feeling neglected but she was none so foolish as to try to go anywhere alone with a crazed man on the loose who might be trying to abscond with her for some unknown and nefarious intent, though that was nearly impossible now that she was wed. That had been the whole point of the wedding, and it was obvious Zeke had not wed her for any other reason. So Carson handed her in and drove her first to the bookshop.

Evangelina was glad to feel at home there amongst the various volumes and tomes, the many words people had poured out of themselves onto the pages…vast knowledge, secret thoughts, grand ideas, personal tales. It was a compendium of the human experience, and it always made her feel very close to her fellow man.

"I can wrap these up for ye miss," offered the kindly shopkeep as she handed him the three volumes she’d selected on art and artistry through the ages.

"That would be lovely, thank you," she said.

The first and biggest thing Evangelina found she was beginning to get used to was the money. It was almost a miracle to be able to purchase what she wanted when she wanted it, not to have to scrimp and save and carefully count coins until she had enough for the novel she wanted or the ribbons she coveted. Money was a kind of magic that made things simply appear before her, that made them hers when she wanted them, even made people kinder when it was clear she had it. All for some paper and coins worth only what everyone said they were. It was a strange and heady reality.

Deciding to take thorough advantage of that fact, Evangelina moved away from the books her husband would have liked and into the ones she herself did. Oh, she could have those art books to peruse; a bit of common interest never hurt anyone. But he was clearly not tying himself in knots in order to understand her hobbies or interests, so why should she be the only one making an effort. With relish, Evangelina selected The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Count of Monte Cristo. She brought them up to the clerk, who happily rung them up, and she readily handed over the money, feeling a little better now that she had gotten out of the house and done this thing for herself.

With her new books in her lap, a sense of eagerness fell over Evangelina. She would get started reading, and when Zeke got home, would be able to start a conversation with him about what she had learned. She would start with sculpting, since that was his current passion, and perhaps some of that passion for his art might be transmuted to her. Then, annoyed with herself, she thought she really ought to start in on one of the fiction books she’d gotten for herself. That Udolpho one sounded quite interesting and thrilling. Still, she was not so bitter yet as to think that there was no hope for her in her marriage. Perhaps Zeke only needed a bit of encouragement to see that she wanted him as her true husband in every way.

As they rolled down the street, Evangelina glanced out the window and realized they were passing Madame Seraphine’s shop. Before even thinking, Evangelina called for Carson to stop the carriage, and she hopped out onto the street. A sudden idea, a plan, formed quickly in her head as she looked at the shop window with its beautiful gowns and fabrics on display, and one that likely involved something only Madame Seraphine could provide, something akin to the red corset Rowan had given Samira to wear.

Evangelina’s blood raced in her veins at the mere thought. It was a glorious idea, and she grinned as she stepped unhesitatingly into the shop. It seemed to be a slow time as only a pair of other ladies browsed about the fabrics. One of the shop girls greeted Evangelina with a bobbed curtsey and a "Miss."

"No, this is now Missus!" cried the lovely voice of Madame Seraphine. "Mrs. Marston now, I have heard!"

Evangelina blushed. "Yes."

Madame Seraphine beamed. "The blushing bride indeed. A bit of hastiness to the nuptials, no? Quelle romantique!"

Evangelina’s blush deepened. "I would hardly say that."

Madame Seraphine laughed lightly. "Oh, but I would!"

Evangelina only nodded, and the modiste looped her arm in Evangelina’s.

"What can I do for the lovely bride today? Since you likely did not get a trousseau, something for that perhaps?" she suggested.

Evangelina felt extremely grateful to Madame Seraphine for giving her such an opening. "As a matter of fact, yes,"

Madame Seraphine’s eyes lit. “How wonderful. Come come, and we shall make sure you have the perfect thing!”

Evangelina followed the modiste back toward the tables that contained books of sketches. Madame Seraphine quickly selected a few of the books and handed them to her customer. Evangelina began to leaf through them, seeing gorgeous creations that were lovely but rather tame. Nightgowns, wrappers, perhaps very fine, but also very demure. Evangelina glanced up and the woman looked expectantly at the new bride. Evangelina smiled.

“Something more fitting for a new bride, I think,” said Evangelina carefully.

Madame Seraphine seemed pleased, pushing another compendium toward Evangelina. “This one then.”

Evangelina perused a few pages. These were more like it. She even noticed a sketch of a red corset that looked remarkably like the one Madame Seraphine had sent to Samira. This was the right book then.

“Perhaps if you tell me what you are looking for,” Madame Seraphine hedged. “Or…even the effect you are hoping to have on your amoureux?”

Evangelina practically glowed pink as she chewed her lip. Well, this was why she was there, wasn’t it? she demanded of herself. This woman was here to help her with exactly the sort of thing she needed, but the modiste could not help her at all if she didn’t tell the woman what was going on.

“I am having a bit of a problem, Madame Seraphine,” Evangelina confessed.

“Ah,” Madame Seraphine whispered softly. “Come with me. Let’s talk about it alone so we may be free to speak as we must.”

Madame Seraphine guided Evangelina back into a soft room filled with fabrics and pillows and a pair of chairs. The modiste drew Evangelina to one and sat in the other herself, folding her hands in her lap.

“Now, dear, please tell me what has happened,” Madame Seraphine said.

“Well, it is what hasn’t happened that is the issue,” Evangelina confessed. “In our marriage bed, to be precise.”

Madame Seraphine raised her eyebrows. “My dear, before we talk further, I fear I must confess something, and if you feel you do not wish to speak to me any longer, I shall understand. But…Mister Marston and I have a history.”

Evangelina’s jaw dropped. “You mean…a personal history? He has…” she blinked, trying to make the words come. “He’s had you?”

She could barely speak. Madame Seraphine nodded. The woman did not drop her eyes, did not look ashamed to say or that she had done so, but she did look sorry for causing the other woman pain. Evangelina leapt to her feet and turned away.

“Oh, my God!” she gasped, pressing her hand to her mouth.

Madame Seraphine stayed put, watching Evangelina pace back and forth, her hand on her stomach.

“I know my husband is not an innocent. I know he has had a life before our vows, and I accept that, but, Madame Seraphine,” Evangelina turned desperate eyes to the lovely modiste, seeing her now as a woman in all the ways Evangelina was not. Older, poised, experienced… “What is wrong with me that he does not want me?”

“Oh my child,” Madame Seraphine stood.

Evangelina gasped. “That’s it, isn’t it? I’m a child! To you, to him, to everyone. I’m nothing more than a little girl playing at womanhood!” Evangelina crossed her arms around herself and sat down hard. “What true man would ever want that when he could have a woman…a woman like you?”

“Darling,” Madame Seraphine reached out and cradled Evangelina’s hand in hers. “No. A husband, a man, any man, he would certainly look at you with desire. You are very beautiful, very desirable, I assure you.”

“Apparently not to my husband,” said Evangelina, looking at her hands as she peeled them back from the modiste. “Not that I should even call him that. He is not my husband, not in truth.”

Madame Seraphine clicked her tongue. “Je devrais battre cet homme sur la tête.”

“What?” Evangelina’s head spun, and the rapid French was beautifully disorienting.

“Listen to me: men do not know what they want,” said Madame Seraphine. “You tell him.”

Evangelina swallowed hard. “I don’t think I could s-say things like that. It would be too embarrassing.”

Madame Seraphine gave a small, sly smile. “Then you tell him with your body. You tell him with your clothes. You tell him by showing up to him, grabbing him by his ostentatiously colored cravat, kissing him with everything you have, and dragging him to the nearest bed. Or table. Or chair. Or the floor. You are Mrs. Marston. His own femme. His body is yours as your own is his, and you tell him what you want and what you need.”

Evangelina was not sure why, but tears started in her eyes. “You think I can do that?”

“But of course!” she said firmly.

And Evangelina believed her. “All right.”

“Good,” nodded Madame Seraphine. “Now, we must find you the perfect thing to wear. The right ensemble gives a woman the confidence she needs, especially in the bedroom. I may even have something here.”

Evangelina balked. “Something already done?”

Madame Seraphine cast her a knowing smile. “When a woman is out to seduce her husband, she cannot waste a single moment.”

A flutter started in Evangelina’s belly, and she broke into a broad smile. “All right. Let me see.”

Madame Seraphine gave instructions in French to one of her helpers, and the young girl brought forth a box. Madame Seraphine unpacked it quickly and produced one of the most gorgeous, complicated garments Evangelina had ever seen. It was all black lace with a series of intricate ribbons and bows, a short skirt that would barely cover anything, and a surprising amount of structure that would display certain things remarkably well for having so little fabric.

“What do you think?” asked the modiste.

“It is quite impressive,” Evangelina’s mouth went dry at the thought of putting it on. And yet…

“Parfait! It shall be yours,” said Madame Seraphine. “Come, off with your gown. We shall put it on you.”

Evangelina’s jaw dropped. “Now?”

“Not a moment to lose,” Madame Seraphine snapped her fingers for her assistant to begin helping Evangelina out of her gown.

Evangelina attempted to swallow, but she couldn’t. She allowed herself to be stripped and the piece jerked and yanked onto her. It was an entire production, with some squeezing, loosening, pinching, and patting. Finally, Evangelina stood in front of the mirror in the black creation.

“Who was this intended for?” asked Evangelina.

Madame Seraphine sighed. “A jilted girl, poor thing. Her fiance up and left her a few months ago, after she gave herself to him, too, I understand, bastard.”

Evangelina smiled a little at the vitriol, her heart breaking for the poor young woman. The modiste smiled back.

“At least this lovely piece will be put to much better use now,” she said.

Evangelina breathed deeply, making her breasts lift. “I hope I don’t lose my nerve.”

Madame Seraphine yanked Evangelina’s shoulders back. “You are a woman. Look at yourself; no one could mistake you. And you will do what women were born to do. You will learn who you are and what it means to hold the title of womanhood with your man by your side. Or on top of you, or beneath you, as you please, for this is your right.”

Evangelina dropped her eyes, blushing, but smiling all the same.

“Celeste, let me in!” Zeke banged on the door. “Now!”

Zeke had left the house earlier that morning with the intention of sculpting, but the singular subject was starting to haunt him. He pounded harder on the solid wood.

“Celeste! It’s Zeke!” he shouted. “I need you.”

This was the fourth place he’d come, and really the last on his list of options, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and Zeke had never felt quite so desperate in his life.

Finally, the exquisite woman threw open the door. “What? We are not friends anymore, Marston.”

He huffed. “None of my usual models can see me today. Even George wasn’t available.”

“How flattering,” she sniffed. “Now get off my doorstep.”

“Wait!” he put his hand on the door. “Please.”

She lifted her pale brows. Celeste was blonde with almost icy blue eyes, a slender, lithe figure that made her look like a moonbeam.

“I’m listening,” she hovered, crossing her arms over her chest.

She was flat, almost boyish. Sometimes he even used her as a model for boys in his paintings. He had always thought it rather a good thing that he’d never found a great deal of attraction in the woman beyond using her as a truly glorious model. She could strike a pose and hold it for hours, and she was one of the most perfectly symmetrical creatures God ever made. But Celeste had not appreciated the lack of stirrings Zeke had toward her when she’d attempted to push things outside the realm of art and into the more intimate. Zeke well understood why a woman might take offense, and he certainly wouldn’t have considered it a chore to take the woman, but he hadn’t wanted to jeopardize the working relationship he had with his best model. Yet he’d done exactly that.

“I have something to show you,” he said quietly.

He passed her the folio of the works he’d been at for the last three days. Zeke had no idea why he was doing it; he hadn’t planned to tell her anything, and she was like as not to throw them back in his face. They were of another woman, a woman he wanted with every bit of him, body and soul, and he had poured himself onto those pages in a way he never had before. Suddenly, Zeke felt as though he had carved out his heart and served it to Celeste that she might devour it in a single bite as she eyed the pieces.

“They are very good, Zeke,” Celeste whispered.

He swallowed hard. She had no training, but she had been a model since she was an angelic child – Zeke had seen some of the paintings of her as a girl. A few of the pieces featuring her hung in the National Gallery. Celeste knew what was good and what was not.

“They’re all of the same woman,” Celeste noted.

Zeke could only nod. She raised her eyes.

“Why don’t you just use her as a model?” asked Celeste.

“Routine is the death of creativity,” Zeke whispered. “If I am not challenging myself, I am not growing.”

“Yet your mind returns to her again and again,” Celeste traced Evangelina’s cheek, making something start to ache in Zeke, ache to do the same himself, on Evangelina’s flesh rather than the mocking reproduction he’d forged. “So perhaps some part of you recognizes that she is a challenge, again and again.”

Zeke breathed deeply. “I don’t know.”

“Are you sleeping with her?” asked Celeste.

Biting his lip, Zeke shook his head. “I am not.”

Celeste heaved a sigh and closed the folio. “Poor boy. All right, I’ll go with you.”

Zeke felt his shoulders relax. “Thank you.”

“Let me get my things together,” she said, disappearing back into the house and not inviting him in.

Zeke leaned on the doorframe, clutching the papers to his chest. This was good. He would sculpt Celeste, his hands aching to work in a more tangible medium that day, and he would get over this strange obsession. He knew the perverse denial of his desires was making his need for Evangelina worse, but he could hardly go to her as the mess of neediness and undisciplined hunger. He could frighten her, hurt her; not on purpose. Never on purpose, but he’d never wanted anything badly. He’d never cherished something enough to wait for it, and it left him feeling terrified.

He had to get a better handle on himself if he was going to be a husband to Evangelina, and that started with the crux of his very being: his art.

“All right,” said Celeste, coming out as she tied the light cloak under her chin. “Let’s go. But I expect double my usual rate for the late notice.”

“Of course,” said Zeke, just glad she was coming with him.

He wanted, he needed, to disappear into the revelatory process of his craft, and he needed help. It was the only way he was going to get himself back toward anything like sanity.

Evangelina felt the pinch of the fabric under her gown as she descended the carriage. When a woman is out to seduce her husband, she cannot waste a single moment. Taking a deep breath, Evangelina stepped toward the little studio that Zeke kept for his work. It was in a shabbier part of town than the house, but it was not seedy. There were enormous windows at the front, likely to gain as much light as possible, and Evangelina stepped up to the door. Her heart pounded a rapid rhythm and she matched the pace against the wood.

She waited a minute, then knocked again. She turned back to the driver, Carson, who stood by the carriage. The man shrugged.

“Sometimes he gets too caught up in the work to hear, ma’am,” he explained.

Nodding, Evangelina reached for the handle and shoved the door open. She entered a brightly lit, open room, warm with the summery day, and stopped in her tracks. There were no doors, and if someone had peered in the window, they would easily have perceived the scene inside. A woman, naked as the day she was born, reclined on a chaise, pale blonde tresses cascading over her shoulder, soft waves that framed her small breasts, her elegant legs crossed at the ankles. The displayed woman caught sight of Evangelina but she said nothing, her eyes going wide and her lips tightening.

Zeke was half a room away, seemingly transfixed on the clay before him as Evangelina tore her eyes away from the woman to look at her husband. Evangelina hadn’t realized her mouth had dropped open until she heard herself make a shocked sound. His hands, those glorious hands she adored, coveted, dreamed of, the hands she had wished on her body a hundred times, the hands that cradled her, shielded her, treasured her, were playing over the clay with the authority of a god fashioning his creation. Zeke dragged his palm up the earthen curve of the statue’s hip, his thumb splaying out along the rib until he shaped the ridge of a full, firm breast.

The next sound Evangelina made was louder, almost a sob, and she fled. She burst back outside, the back of her hand against her lips, trying to fight off the wave of nausea that washed over her. She was a fool. Madame Seraphine could prop her up all she liked, but when push came to shove, Evangelina would crumple. Evangelina knew she was not made of the sternest stuff, and this had proved it.

“Eva!” Zeke burst out behind her. “Are you all right?”

Her bottom lip quivered, and she did not turn. “Perfectly.”

Reaching out, Zeke moved to place his hand on her shoulder, but clay smeared across his fingers, up to his knuckles, and he drew his hand back rather than soil her. “Evangelina, please look at me.”

She sniffed and slowly turned. His heart shattered like glass when he saw immense tears welling in her large, dark eyes.

“Darling,” he stepped closer. “What’s wrong? Is it that I have a woman with me? Because it’s just art, and I assure you–”

“You were…t-touching her!” Evangelina gave a small, hiccoughing sob, blinking so that a pair of tears slipped from her eyes and rushed down her cheeks.

“I wasn’t!” Zeke defended himself. “I wasn’t. I didn’t touch her. Celeste models for me, and that’s all. I promise.”

“Not her!” snapped Evangelina, wrapping her arms tighter around herself.

Zeke blinked, taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

She shook her head violently, feeling stupid and foolish and so out of her depth she wanted to curl into a ball and cry. “Nothing. Nothing.”

“Evangelina,” he spoke her name so softly it threatened to break her. “Do…do you mean the sculpture? The clay?”

“No!” she bit her lip. “Yes. Maybe, I don’t know.”

Zeke wetted his lips. “You are telling me you’re jealous of a lump of clay?”

“Not jealous,” Evangelina snapped. “But you were touching it, touching something you were imagining as a real woman, and you’ve never…” her voice dropped low and her eyes welled. “You’ve never touched me like that, and I am your wife.”

Zeke rocked back. “Eva–”

“No!” She raised her hand to him. “No, please, no excuses. I cannot bear it. Do you know how I have wished for you to see me? Do you know how desperately I have wanted to be your wife in truth? And you have ignored me!”

Zeke bowed his head. “I promise you, Evangelina, I see you. I see you all too much.”

Evangelina furrowed her brow. “What does that even mean?”

Zeke raked a hand through his thick, dark hair, leaving streaks of drying clay through the dark strands. It might have been funny if Evangelina wasn’t shattering before his eyes.

“Let’s go back inside, please," Zeke coaxed. "And we can talk about things.”

Evangelina hesitated, looking back to his studio, where there was a woman of flesh and blood he would rather look at than her, a hunk of earth he would rather touch and caress. She shook her head.

“No, no I need to clear my head,” Evangelina said firmly. “I’m going to walk for a bit.”

“Fine,” he said. “You have Carson with you?”

She nodded, looking back to the driver who sat on the carriage seat, his gaze tactfully turned away. Zeke knew Evanglina was likely safe now that her last name was Marston, but no one would put something dastardly past the Earl when he was desperate, or simply for revenge. The latter possibility made him as nervous as anything, and Rowan seemed to be convinced that the Earl was nowhere near done.

Zeke watched another man guide his wife toward the small, heavily treed park across the street, and cursed low. Of course, it was only Carson, but still, it smarted. Digging into his jacket, Zeke produced a cigarette and lit a match. He didn’t usually smoke to try and regulate his moods, but he was all out of sorts and it felt utterly necessary.

Yanking his gaze away from Evangelina, from the acute torture of staring longingly at her when she was worse than angry with him but instead hurt by his own actions, his own inattention, Zeke smoked slowly, lazily, until the cigarette was barely a nub. Zeke felt a little better for the moment, but like most things in his life now, it was only a temporary reprieve from the perpetual state of fervor and insanity that was apparently his constant at this point. He crushed the end of the cigarette under his boot and reentered the studio. Celeste had thrown on a robe and was snacking on bits of bread and cheese Zeke kept around, enough to sustain life if he wanted a marathon session.

“That’s her,” said Celeste. It wasn’t a question, so Zeke didn’t answer. “She’s more beautiful than your pieces.”

Zeke snorted. “Don’t I know it?”

Celeste smiled then, which he thought was inordinately cruel. “Was she jealous?”

Zeke placed his hand on clay. “Of the piece.”

Celeste’s brows shot up, but she didn’t comment, instead moving back to the chaise.

“You’re not going to say that’s odd? That I would be in a room with a naked woman, and what makes her jealous is that I have my hands on a statue?” Zeke pressed.

Celeste dropped the robe and tossed it aside. “No.”

Zeke huffed. He should have known that if he wanted support, Celeste would argue, and if he wanted an argument, she would be utterly accommodating. And yet, she was not arguing, not exactly. She was simply stating facts that contradicted his own, and it was infuriating.

“You think that’s normal?” demanded Zeke.

Celeste sighed, resuming her position. “What do you want from me, Ezekiel?”

“The truth,” he snapped.

Her brows shot up. He never snapped. Not after hours of struggling to get the same square inch of canvas to look how he wanted, not when the light was wrong or the pose was awkward and he couldn’t get them right no matter how hard he tried. Not when he had to throw out something he’d spent days on.

“The truth then,” said Celeste. “I think you’re in a great deal of danger.”

“Danger?” Zeke echoed.

Celeste smiled knowingly. “She understands you far too well if she knows her true competition is your art, not the naked woman in the room with you. But she doesn’t know she has nothing to worry about, that they’re one in the same.”

Zeke jerked his head. “What are you talking about?”

Celeste gave him a pitying look. “Oh you are addled over her, aren’t you? Look at that piece you’re making; that isn’t me.”

Zeke’s breath caught as he realized she was right. The lush curves, the beginnings of hair far wilder and curlier, the soft quality to the lines and shapes, it was nothing like Celeste’s ethereal beauty. This was earthen, true, and pure, and it was perhaps the best blend of subject and medium he had ever achieved.

“I have to go,” he stepped back.

“I thought you might,” he heard Celeste say as he quickly toweled off his hands and rushed from the studio.