2. Chapter Two

Things will not be awkward. Things will not be awkward.

Blythe placed her plate of bread and cheese selected from the breakfast buffet on the banquet table, then lowered herself into the seat beside Yvette. Each morning of the house party, a long, grazing spread was laid out for guests to attend to at their leisure, and this morning, about thirty or so early risers sat in scattered groups. She gave a brief ‘good morning' to Julian seated at the head, then to Carlson opposite her. She grasped the teapot and poured herself a cup of tea. Well, she poured the tablecloth a cup of tea, and when she heard the glugging liquid splat against the linen, she jerked the pot upright. A little more spilled, and a few stray drops landed on Carlson's nose. She grabbed her napkin and laid it over the spreading damp, desperately trying to sponge away her inattentiveness.

‘Blythe, you are normally so steady. Did you not sleep well?' Yvette asked as she sacrificed her own napkin to help.

‘I slept,' Blythe said, and in her mind, she added terribly. I slept terribly because all night all I could think of was your father.

Julian leaned back in his chair, extended his arm, and with the slightest flick, gestured to one of the staff. Three of them materialised and with barely a word, the plates were raised, the offending cloth removed and replaced. In the time it took for Blythe to blink and place her napkin into an anonymous outstretched hand, their small segment of the banquet table had been renewed.

Just like that, her error erased. She sipped her tea and settled into the comfortable realisation that this weekend, she wouldn't have to do everything herself. She would be a part of a different world.

The year before, Blythe had met Yvette in London when Yvette was in town for the season. Blythe had been at one of Yvette's friends, cleaning a painting, when they had fallen into conversation. They'd talked about her work, books, dresses, art, politics and the latest mix of gossip, news and recipes from The Times. In all her twenty-three years, Blythe had never met a woman with as ranging a set of interests as herself, and neither had Yvette. All her clients and their daughters were so vague and insipid, and in her work, she was almost always the only skirt in the room.

Apart from her aunt as chaperone, Yvette came to London alone. ‘Father never socialises,' she had said with a mix of faux disapproval and genuine love. ‘Says the season is just a meat market. Really, he misses my mother. I don't remember anything about her but her smile, and that she always wore a string of pearls.' Her gaze glazed, before she snapped back to attention. ‘Come to the theatre. We have a box.'

And in just a snippet of time, Blythe had found herself woven into the canvas of Yvette's life, attending performances, going to poetry readings, and just walking through the parks. Yvette hadn't cared she was an orphan who rented a room in a women's boarding house, hadn't cared that she had no beau, and nor did she want one, and did not care that all her money came from her work. If anything, it had seemed to increase her interest. And when Yvette had invited her to the country house for her birthday weekend, of course Blythe had said yes. The chance to be a part of the world she otherwise only glimpsed from the invisibility of her work was too tempting. And everyone knew these old houses were full of artworks from great masters. She might be able to examine a hidden masterpiece without the watchful eye of a gallery guard. It also offered a chance to shed the drudgery of her frugal life, if only for a few days.

But now, because of her rashness, would everything be ruined?

Julian flicked out his paper and took up a slice of toast, crunching into it as he scanned the headlines. Perhaps she had been alone in the torrent of confusion. Perhaps he met women in the bushes for clandestine encounters all the time. Or perhaps, it had just been what they had said—a ruse to convince Carlson.

‘Let's hope you have steadier hands at the gallery,' Carlson drawled. ‘Otherwise, you might have to fall back on some other employment.'

Blythe stiffened, her insides squirming. She had counted on Carlson's adherence to some unwritten code of gentlemanly understanding to keep it secret that her and Julian were lovers.

Not lovers. Fake lovers.

‘Speaking of Blythe's skills,' Yvette said as she swirled her spoon in her tea. ‘I thought while she was here, she might look at the paintings.'

‘They are everywhere,' Julian said with half a wave at the walls around the hall. ‘She can look whenever she likes.'

‘Not those on display. The ones in the attic.'

A frost crystalised between Yvette and her father for a fraction of a moment. His jaw clenched, and his chest swelled with a tight breath.

‘They can't stay hidden forever,' Yvette continued, not looking up from her tea. ‘I would like to hang them in my rooms. Even take some to the townhouse. Blythe can advise which are suitable for transport.'

During her apprenticeship with her uncle, Blythe had worked enough private commissions to know that family collections could be messy business. They had been paid substantially to restore pieces that were worthless to the market, but invaluable to the clients. More than just the scene or the artists name, some artworks were weighted by memory and sentiment, and often held meaning beyond that which the painter applied to the canvas.

Julian swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing above his collar button. He stared hard at Yvette, who glanced up, before returning to her study of her stirring. Then he looked to Blythe, his gaze probing.

‘Can I recommend my conservator? Someone a bit more…' Carlson looked her over, searching for a word. ‘Experienced?'

Blythe swallowed her retort. She knew what Carlson wanted to say, because she had heard it so many times before. Male. Someone a bit more of a man.

Julian drummed his fingers. A slight scowl furrowed his brows. He folded his paper and dropped it to the table. ‘I trust Blythe. Yvette, show her up, after breakfast. Provided she wants to spend her day locked in a stuffy attic with a jumble of old artworks.'

Blythe half jumped from her seat with surprise. ‘I'll fetch my brushes. My sponges. My—'

‘Sit, sit,' Yvette laughed as she tugged Blythe down. ‘They've been there forever. A few more minutes while you eat won't hurt them.'

‘And I almost forgot,' Julian said as he rose from the table. He held out a small stack of folded booklets, with thick card covers, their spines stitched with coffee coloured string. ‘I found these in my study last night. They're old catalogues from museums and galleries I visited when I went on my tour. The Louvre, Prado, Capitoline, Kunstmuseum. I understand the arrangement is part of a painting's story. I thought you might be interested in them.'

Long ago, Blythe had trained her hands to steadiness, so as she reached for the little stack, she didn't tremble, even though she thought she might combust inside. Although she'd always known love, she'd received few gifts in her life, and none as perfect as the slightly tattered bundle of booklets from Julian. Unable to hold her curiosity, she flicked the top one open and began to scan the listings. At the top of each yellowed page was printed the name of an artist, followed by a painting name, and on some entries, a brief description. She couldn't read the French, or the German, but she recognised Lebrun and Raphael, and could pick out enough words like Jupiter and Satyre to guess what artwork was referenced. She hadn't ever seen the works themselves, but she recognised the titles from etchings reproduced in magazines and books.

‘They're beautiful,' she said, only glancing up long enough to see his normally stoic expression turn warm with a half-smile. ‘I've seen some from London, but never from the continent, and never…' Blythe turned the pages as she chatted, aware she was veering into babbling. A folded corner of paper, a slightly different shade to the rest, caught her eye. She pulled it from between the leaves. Not a printed list, this page was covered in handwritten notes.

Minerva protects Pax from Mars – Rubens

The Birth of Venus – Botticelli

The Pastoral Concert – Giorgione

Danae – Gentischeli

They were all paintings of… heavens.

Blythe stuck the note back into the booklet, quickly folded it closed and gripped the stack tight. She stood with a jerk, her chair squeaking against the wooden boards. Julian's cheeks had blanched, and the lightness had left his face. What was left? Aloofness? Mortification? Or something else? Something… darker?

‘I will fetch my kit and change. Thank you, your lordship, I will treasure these.'

Had he meant to give her the list? Was it part of the ruse they had entered into? Or perhaps just a relic from his days traveling? As she scampered from the dining hall, Blythe tried to control the blush she felt creeping up her neck.

What on earth to make of the list of those paintings?

Gripping the vertical shelves of the bookcase for balance, Julian leaned out a little to survey the hallway before the library. He'd purposefully left the dark drapes drawn, and grey shadows blanketed the solid oak furniture. Tucked away on the third floor, out of the way of the general thoroughfare that guests might take, the library was a small nook of peace when conversation became too much. It also offered an uninterrupted view of the bare wooden staircase that led to the attic.

Julian retreated behind the shelf again.

He shouldn't be hiding. It was ridiculous. He was a baron, slinking around his own home like an impassioned youth trying to catch a glimpse of an infatuation.

But he wanted that list, and also, he wanted to explain to Blythe that he hadn't meant anything by it. Because as she had scanned the names, he had seen the flash of recognition. She knew what they were. He'd forgotten he'd even written the blasted thing. The notes of a randy young man who, finally free from his too strict parents, had revelled in the passion and nudity on display in all those museums. During his year abroad, he'd escaped his father's evangelical lectures on chasteness and purity, and both of his parents' obsession with crude thoughts and the worst horror of all, masturbation. In a quiet, sensual rebellion, he'd kept the list and used it as a type of inspiration, to stroke himself to climax, at least before he married. Once he had a real woman in his bed, soft and enchanting and embracing his passion, he hadn't needed his list or his hand.

Then she'd gone, and since then, he hadn't felt anything so agonising as lust.

Until last night, that was.

As a light step clipped down the stairs, Julian peeped from behind the shelf. Yvette spun in a small pirouette, before descending down the next flight. Once her footfalls faded, he crept along the hallway and ascended as fast as he dared, then slunk into the attic.

He hadn't been up here in years, maybe a decade. He'd always imagined it dark and filled with shadows, perhaps even ghosts and skeletons peering out from dark cavities, but despite the light grey gloom from the dust and faded sheets draped over stored furniture, a soft morning glow from the dormer windows infiltrated the space. Motes danced between shafts of light, and even without heating, the room felt as warm as the lower levels. The clench that had gripped his heart as he stepped onto the bottom stair eased a little, and as he exhaled a dry breath, composure settled through his shoulders.

Blythe, on the far side of the room, had her back to him as she inspected a row of paintings stacked frame to frame. She wore a simple navy-blue gingham house dress, with a light white woollen shawl over her shoulders. Today, her hair was pinned into a simpler bun, the sort of thing she likely did herself. It suited her.

‘Can I explain,' he called into the room. She spun around, shocked. ‘About that list. I didn't mean for you to see it. I'd completely forgotten about it.'

Her surprise faded and was replaced with a teasing smile. ‘It's quite a list,' she said, before returning to the frames. ‘Still, I expected more licentiousness from gents on tours. I didn't realise you only went to look at slightly lewd paintings.'

‘That was just me. It's umm… it's a bit of a story. And not one for today.' Or ever.

So quiet otherwise, here, as Blythe examined each forgotten piece, she moved like royalty. No, nothing so mortal. Like a goddess. Head tilted, her gaze penetrating, she surveyed with the intensity of a woman deciding who might live and who should die. This was her domain, her place in the world, and she knew it.

Her confidence made him giddy.

‘I suppose you sampled as many women as paintings. I have heard that is common for a young man on tour,' she said.

‘It is, but not me. In truth, I've only known one woman. Yvette's mother.'

He couldn't tell if her wide eyed surprise was because he had revealed such an intimacy, or the intimacy itself. Her gaze trailed away from him, over the odd assortment of covered furniture, ranging over the gilt frames, and then the oils themselves.

‘They were hers,' she said with a knowing whisper.

‘No.' His voice rasped. ‘They were ours.'

It was a mundane collection, as far as these things went. They'd both been too measured in their interest to purchase anything as extravagant as a Rubens or a Rembrandt, even though they'd seen them at auctions. They instead purchased artworks they liked, or that fit with the décor of a room. A still life of flowers in a vase, or beautifully dressed couples dancing at a ball, even chubby angels on swings. Pieces that made them happy. And after Penelope had gone, he couldn't even see the pictures when he looked at them. He only remembered the conversation about the purchase, or seeing it hang over his wife's shoulder as they breakfasted together or read in the evening. And after months of torment, it had hurt too much, so he'd banished every piece they'd bought to the attic, in some vague hope to also banish his pain.

‘Do you want me to work on them?' Blythe asked. ‘There's no sin in saying no. People feel like they have to hold onto everything, but if everything ever made was kept, the world would run out of space for new things, new ideas. I won't judge you if you want to leave them to crumble.'

Julian shook his head. He'd exposed his pain, and for once, he hadn't felt judged. ‘Yvette wants them. She asks for so little. And I suppose as everything will one day be hers, I should make sure it's cared for.'

‘Yvette's? But surely everything will go to some cousin, some man who's next in line?'

‘Moncrief is a very old title, by writ. A direct line is more important than a male. My grandmother inherited, as the eldest of three sisters. After I am gone, the title, estate, investments, will all go to Yvette. I've been called progressive for educating my daughter so differently, but really, I'm as traditional as the gargoyles carved into the walls. I've taught her what she needs because one day she'll be baroness, in her own right. She plans to lobby parliament to allow women like her to take the family seat in Lords.'

‘She never said.'

‘She never does. Some know, of course, it's not a guarded secret. But most assume otherwise, so she lets them. It keeps her safe from false friends and insincere courtships.'

Blythe gave a slow walk past the paintings, then gently dragged one out. She held the vertical lengths of the frame and raised it to just below face level. ‘I think I'll start with this one. What do you think?'

She held a landscape of the house and grounds. The ancient stone building that had been renovated over centuries filled most of the frame, the structure surrounded by cascading green lawns and swaying willows. It was actually one he had commissioned before he married, and had stored it here not because of the memory, but because Penelope had redecorated their rooms, and it hadn't matched. It held a hint of her, but a memory he could manage. He gave a silent nod, and with a broad smile, she moved toward one of the windows. He hadn't noticed, but before he had arrived, she must have set up a small workstation. Yvette's easel from her art studio stood waiting, and on a small table beside it sat an open wooden tool box filled with an assortment of brushes, sponges, and unevenly shaped glass containers and vials.

‘Aren't you going to blow the dust off?' he asked. He'd quite like to see her lips form a small, sensual O.

She gave an indignant huff. ‘And force the dust into small crevices? Moisten it with my saliva, and increase the damage? Perhaps you should watch. I won't be able to teach you everything, but you can at least learn not to do anything stupid.'

After she placed it on the easel and sunk into the chair before it, she looked at the painting for a long time. Julian half sat on a table covered by a sheet. Occasionally she leant forward in inspection, or narrowed her eyes in focus, but mostly, she just looked. Then she filled a small, shallow dish with a liquid—it could have been water, or perhaps some special solution she had brought with her. Very gently, she began to dab at the painting with a sponge, occasionally dipping it back into the bowl, swirling and squeezing, before returning to her work.

Her movements were as light and delicate as a leaf on the wind, but fully controlled with exacting purpose and precision. Her focus never wavered from the canvas, and perhaps his never lifted from her, because when a stretch of sun caught his cufflink and cast a distracting shard of light, he realised how far the shadows in the room had changed. His back grumbling in slight protest, he stretched into his fists, then moved to stand behind her so he could see the painting better.

When she had shown it to him before, the film of dust had created a pall over the image, like a fog had hung over the grounds. That was also how he remembered it, remembered everything—through a haze of grey. Her steady work had swept away the detritus, as if the sun had broken through the clouds. It was not only the streaks of yellow and orange light that shone vivid, but also the nuances of greens in the leaves, and the small flecks of red that would have been the hint of blossoms. He had to force a breath, because his memory flashed with the same vividness as it conjoined with the joy and frivolity that he had felt when commissioning a painting in the latest, most looked down upon style of impressionism. He hadn't cared for the philosophy, he just wanted a remembrance of his home. He scanned the grounds through the window, and as if they had also been hidden for more than a decade, he saw the same subtleties. The green variegations in the trees, the first hints of flowers in the gardens, and spring flitting over everything.

‘How did you learn this?' What he really wanted to ask was how did you know, but he couldn't articulate the collision of life and memory that now seemed awakened both on the canvas, and in his mind.

‘Do you mean, how did I come to learn this, or how did I come to learn this as a woman?'

‘You have me,' he said, forcing a laugh and appreciating the chance to return to more familiar conversation. He leant into the window and balanced himself on the ledge. ‘I told you I was no progressive. But yes. I don't think it's a common profession for any woman.'

‘After my parents died, my uncle took me in. He didn't have a wife, or family. Didn't want them. But he and my father were very close, and he missed him terribly. I don't think he meant to teach me, he just liked talking. I listened. As he aged, he needed help. So, I helped him.'

She squeezed the sponges free of liquid, then set them in a little patch of light.

‘What happened to your parents?' he asked.

‘Nothing dramatic. Just cholera. I cared for them as best I could, but I couldn't save them.' While her words were pragmatic, a sadness permeated her tone. His heart thumped with the pain of shared knowledge, and the constant repetition of memories that spun as relentless as a waterwheel, where he replayed what he could have done differently, or what might have changed things. She snapped a little container open, breaking the stillness and resuming her brisk officiousness. ‘They're gone. Them, and my uncle. I can't do anything about them. But I can save these.'

She took up a clean bowl and tapped the contents of the container into it. A light powder, off white and coarse, formed a soft pyramid in the base.

‘What's that?' He nodded at the dish.

‘A conservator never reveals their secrets,' she said with a mocking smile. He hadn't meant to look disappointed but perhaps she saw it on his face. With her little finger, she gestured to a strip along the edge of the gilt frame. ‘It will remove the grime that a sponge won't shift, where the dust has become damp and set. I'll be gentle. I have very steady hands.'

Ever so tenderly, she rubbed the powder over the grime with the tip of her index finger, then dabbed it clean with a sponge. If the transformation before had been amazing, this was stunning. When she sat back and gestured with a slight flourish, he lifted the painting from the easel to inspect it closer, the details again igniting his memory, but instead of sparking anguish, they found only peace.

‘I'll pay you,' he said as she packed her things. ‘It's taken you all day.'

She shook her head. ‘Consider it an exchange for allowing me to be your fake mistress. Here, I'll put it back in storage.' She reached both hands towards the painting but he pulled it close.

‘I think I'd like to hang it. In my room.'

She clasped her hands before her, and her cheeks pinked. As she beamed with thinly veiled pride, he caught sight of that adorable slight gap between her teeth. With the canvas still between them, he leant close, pecked her cheek, then stole a breath of her. She was clementines and cleanliness—no doubt the lingering scent of one of the secret concoctions she used. Her magic potion.

‘Be careful.' She pulled back with a laugh, and placing her hands over his, straightened the frame. Her fingertips had wrinkled from her work, and their raw texture sent a thrilling shiver through him. She shot a look at the door. ‘To maintain the ruse, should we leave together? Or separate?'

He wanted to say together. Together, and fuck the party, come to my rooms.

‘Separate will likely be best. To avoid gossip, and if Carlson is about, to court it. You should go first.'

At the door, she paused, and turned back. ‘It's a little bit exciting, isn't it? A clandestine affair? Even a fake one.' And before he could reply, she slipped out of his sight.

Julian held the painting before him as he navigated the shortest path between the attic and his rooms. He tried to keep a pace somewhere between brisk and casual, hoping to avoid drawing anyone's attention. He held his prize possibly too low, too awkwardly, but it was the only way to cover his impossibly painful erection. As Blythe had said those delectable words, a clandestine affair, he had felt a delicate tingle, like the night before in the garden. By the time he had reached the bottom of the attic stairs, he was completely hard, and his slow breaths and thoughts of cold water were powerless against the endless stream of images flashing through his mind. Every single artwork from that list pounded—Venus, her hand resting on her naked thigh, or Danae, tempting, eyes beckoning, breasts bare. And there were other more sordid images he had only been able to see by private arrangement, where the use of his name and a few notes slipped into a curator's palm had given him access to closed collections. But in every flash, it was Blythe lounging back, watching him, stretched and naked with her tempting, playful smile.

The coolness of his rooms rushed over him. He swung the door shut, it's slam echoing into the stillness. He propped the painting onto the closest chair, loosened his cravat, unbuttoned his coat, then worked his trousers open before taking himself in hand. His cock, already purple, thick and hard, would not settle for anything but release. He stroked feverishly, and the most epically primal pleasure radiated through him.

As he stared at the most mundane of landscapes, all he saw was her delicate fingers dabbing at the canvas. As he rubbed faster, tighter, his palm slipping along his shaft, over his knob, then back, he saw the firm line of Blythe's lips pursed in concentration. And as he squinted his eyes closed and propelled himself towards climax, all he could see was her: thighs spread, eyes lustful, wanting him, taking him, calling his name.

‘Blythe,' he mumbled, grunting and squeezing, his free hand fisting his coat. A light, brief burst of euphoria formed, then a staggered smattering of bliss coursed in him, whimpering before it roared in consumption. His seed shot onto the carpet, then oozed between his fingers. He groaned loud, his throaty expulsion echoing in the quiet room.

As his breath settled, and his cock began to soften, Julian tucked himself away. He found a cloth to dab at the floor. At his washbasin, he poured a small bowl of cool water from the ewer and cleaned his hands. It had been years since he'd done that, since he'd even felt the urge.

Heavens, it had felt good.