" 'I sing the body electric .' . ."'he began, his tones slow and lilting. "'The armies of those 1 love engirth me and I engirth them . . ."'
The room was hushed, the rise and fall of breathing pulsed around Imogene. She saw the rapt faces of those listening, the flushed cheeks and glittering eyes.
" '. . . And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul? And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?' "
She took another sip of wine, and another. She thought the glass was almost empty, but when she looked down again it was full, and she wondered if she'd really been drinking it at all, or if she'd just imagined it, too caught up in the words of the poem to remember the drink. She blinked, looking up at Tremaine, who gestured softly while he spoke.
The words were so pretty, graceful and full of sound, like a lullaby. Imogene closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, feeling drowsy and warm and good, feeling herself sway to the cadences.
"'. . . You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other . . .' "
The poem was seductive—innocently so, the way a spring day was seductive—full of light breezes and sunshine smells. His voice encompassed the rhythms of the words, and she got lost in the sounds and forgot to hear the meaning. It was so easy to fall into it, into darkness and song, to drink the soft, soothing wine and feel her limbs grow heavier and heavier, and listen the way they all did, enraptured, one collective breath, connected by the fine mesh of words and music.
"'This is the female form ... it attracts with fierce undeniable attraction . . .'”
She wished it could go on forever. In the caressing melody of the words, in the heady warmth of Whitaker's care, she almost believed she wasn't plain Imogene Carter. She almost believed she was really part of this night, a Bohemian artist like the rest of them, a philosopher. For the first time she felt capable of offering an opinion on something, on the beauty of Whitman's words, the sublimity of his vision. Yes, she could tell them that. She opened her eyes, feeling a rush of excitement, and leaned forward, ready to speak at the first opportunity—
" 'Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused, Stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching, Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous—' "
The words were razor sharp, startling and so lurid they scattered her thoughts, sent heat flooding her face. She caught her breath, heard the sound echo in the stillness of the room, too loud, too shocked. It cut Tremaine short. There was dead silence.
Tremaine took his glasses off to look at her. From the corner of her eye she saw Anne lean forward, felt the combined breath of anticipation. Imogene felt suddenly sick. In a matter of seconds, she was a pretender again, an outsider who didn't belong and never would. It was ludicrous that she'd thought she could talk to them. She was a fraud, nothing more. A fraud who was shocked at a few lines of a poem they accepted as inspiration. Lord, what a fool she'd been to think she could belong here, how horribly, horribly naive. "Shocked, my dear?" Tremaine asked with a smile. She stared at him, unable to answer. He seemed to be wavering against the red and gold wallpaper, the edges of his body blending into it, soft shadows, blurred details.
Anne laughed breathlessly. "You were right, Davis, it is quite . . . scandalous. 1 loved it."
"Nothing like a little decadence to brighten up an evening," Childs drawled quietly. "Is there, Anne?"
Anne flushed, her eyes hardened, her smile was too bright. "I'm surprised you didn't like it, Frederic," she said brittlely.
"Oh, I think we all liked it," Tremaine cut in. "Except perhaps for Miss Carter."
Imogene flushed. She felt their eyes on her; bright, expectant eyes, and she was immediately tongue-tied. "I—it was fine," she whispered.
"Except for those last lines," Tremaine insisted. "Didn't care for those, did you?"
"Down, Tremaine," Childs said wryly from his place behind her. "Be a good boy."
Davis Tremaine glared at Childs, and then his gaze slid back to Imogene. She felt its scrutinizing heat against her skin.
"For discussion's sake, what was it that offended you, Miss Carter?" he insisted. "Assume you're familiar with the human form—I know you've seen Homer—"
"And having seen Homer, was offended by its simplicity." It was Whitaker's voice, soft and firm and fast with feeling. "Art offends, great or otherwise."
"You're saying if it didn't, it wouldn't be art?"
"I'm saying we all see art differently," Whitaker said. He surged forward, his eyes glittering, his body tense with feeling. "You see it in 'Women with Sheaves,' and I see it in—" He twisted around, and before Imogene could move or think, he grabbed her hand, pulled her to her feet. "I see it in this."
She stood there, too confused to move, too uncertain to comprehend what was happening, or why Whitaker had brought her forward. She was dimly aware of Childs taking her glass, but mostly all she saw was that they were staring at her—all of them.
"Careful,
mon ami
," Childs said. His voice was soft and chiding.
Whitaker ignored him. "Look at her. Look at her and tell me you don't see art." He talked quickly, his words falling over themselves. "It's as Kant says, everything is point of view—how we see something gives it significance. When I look at her I see art in all its finest forms—art that encompasses the entire universe. Look at her, Tremaine, and tell me you don't see it. Tell me you don't see the whole of life in her face. She is much more than eyes and hair and breasts—she is . . . like music—like the parts of a symphony. Think about it—every instrument is separate, every note, but together they shape the music—they are the music. It is only separateness that offends—sex without interpretation, naked limbs without reference. The notes without the symphony. I can take her clothes off and offend half this room, but it won't change the essential truth of her, and it won't make her any less a work of art."
"Good Lord," Tremaine said eagerly. "And beauty is the same, then? Just an interpretation?"
"Or essential truth?" Anne asked. "Do you think ..."
Their voices swirled around Imogene; she felt dizzy and strange, sick with wine and confusion. She looked at them all around her, at their avid faces, their lips flushed with wine. She looked at Childs leaning languidly against the chair, watching them talk with that lazy, too-jaded gaze, and at Whitaker, who had forgotten her in the heat of discussion, and she felt bewildered and oddly humiliated, an outcast again. She stared numbly at the others. They were gathered around each other now, talking wildly, eyes intense, words fired with inspiration.
She did not belong here. The thought slammed through her, a painful revelation that hurt doubly now, because she knew what it felt like to be part of things, because she'd had those first few minutes of basking in his sun. Misery made a knot in her stomach, pressed behind her eyes in the ache of tears. Slowly, carefully, she made her way through the crowd, slipping past the others until she reached the entryway and then the hall. It was an old habit; during her father's parties she'd often sought refuge in empty rooms. There was a reassuring familiarity in the quiet, in the sound of distant talk echoing from the salon. Now she needed that solitude, needed the comforting stillness to creep inside her until she could tell herself it didn't matter, until her tears disappeared along with her illusions and she became plain Imogene Carter again, a woman who was tired and hungry and wondering what time it was.
Imogene took a deep breath, looking at the rapidly dwindling row of cloaks and mantles and coats hanging on the pegs near the door. It felt late; perhaps she could find a place to lie down. Just for a while, just until Whitaker and Childs were ready to leave.
She wandered down the hall, feeling graceless and clumsy from the effects of wine. The candles only went as far as the foyer; the rest of the corridor faded to darkness. She stumbled along it, exclaiming with pain as she bumped into something. A settee. She reached out and felt the slippery hardness of satin and wood. With a sigh of relief, she sank into it, pulling her legs up and leaning her head back, closing her eyes. The upholstery was slick and hard, and combined with the slickness of her gown, it was difficult to keep her balance. But she was so tired, and her limbs felt so heavy, and her mind was befuddled with drink and confusion. She couldn't think, not about tonight. Not about Tremaine or Whitaker, not about anything. But sleep— sleep sounded good now, a way to forget her humiliation, her failure. She let her head fall back, let her hands drop. Just a short nap, just until they came for her—
She heard the step in the hall an instant before the dreams came. Imogene opened her eyes.
Whitaker was standing there, holding a single candle —a candle that sent light glowing around him like a halo. It turned his skin to gold and put colors in his hair, touched his deep-set eyes with radiance and sent his black-clad form disappearing in shadow. For a moment, she thought he was a dream—a vision conjured by her wine- and sleep-befuddled mind. For a moment, she felt no surprise at all, only a warm, reassuring acceptance.
Then he spoke.
"Genie," he said. "Don't run away from me." And his voice was a deep, soft whisper that floated on the soundless air, a voice that hinted of temptation and the dark, secret places of night. A voice that belonged to every nightmare she'd ever had.
And every fantasy.
Chapter 13
S
he groped for something to say, an "I'm not running," or even a simple, composed "hello." But the words seemed suddenly unnecessary, superfluous, and instead she just stared at him as he moved toward her, a mysterious man of shadow worlds and dream places, a man who existed far better in her imagination than in reality.
A small smile touched his lips as he stopped in front of her. "You look frightened," he said, and his voice was low and sensuous and touched with amusement. "Are you frightened?"
"No." It was true. He didn't frighten her. He never had. He filled her with a sense of promise, of potential, and the only frightening thing about that was the thought that she might not fulfill it. "I'm not afraid."
His smile broadened. He knelt before her, setting aside the candlestick, and took her hand, enfolding her fingers in his long, elegant ones. "I want to show you the world, Genie," he whispered. "Ah, what a ride it will be. . . . Will you come with me?"
There was an urgency in his words, a harsh persuasion, and she realized that he believed she might refuse him. As if she could refuse him anything. His words shivered inside her, an echo of the ones he'd spoken to her earlier, a promise that hovered in the air and made her weak with longing. All her uncertainty, all her questions, faded away, and she no longer cared why he paid her so much attention or what he wanted from her. It was enough that he was paying attention to her. It was enough that he wanted anything from her at all. No one had ever wanted her for herself. Not even Nicholas. Especially not Nicholas.
She looked up into Whitaker's eyes, shadowed as they were by the dim light of the candle. "Yes," she said. "Of course I'll come with you."
He laughed, a short, exhilarated sound, and stood, pulling her to her feet, leaving the candle to burn unattended in the hallway as he led her down the hall. His step was fast. She stumbled over her skirt and gripped his hand for support, but he didn't slow, not until they were almost to the foyer and she looked up to see Childs waiting by the door, holding her mantle and Whitaker's hat in his hands.
"So you found her then," he said as they approached. "Hurry along,
chérie
, before Tremaine finds us again. He's taken quite a fancy to our brilliant friend here."
Whitaker only smiled. He dropped her hand to take the hat Childs offered, and she shrugged into her mantle, barely having time to fasten it before they hurried her through the door and out into the clear, chill night.
At the bottom of the stairs, Whitaker stopped short, his whole body stiffening as he stared up at the sky. "Christ," he murmured. "Look at that."
She followed his gaze. The night was beautiful; the clouds that had brought the rain earlier were gone, the sky was clear and dark blue, scattered with thousands of stars that twinkled like chips of ice in the freezing air. Imogene hugged herself against a sudden breeze, saw her breath, frosty and smoky in the darkness.
"What am I looking for?" she asked quietly.
"The gods," he said, and then, before she could ask him what he meant, he laughed and grabbed her hand again, striding with great, quick steps to the carriage Childs was hailing. "Hurry," he urged. "The night is disappearing."
Childs gave him an inscrutable look. "We've hours yet," he said, standing back from the door so she could climb inside. When she had pulled her skirts around her, he took the seat opposite, lounging in the corner with his usual indolent grace. "You may want to provide Miss Imogene with a meal,
mon ami
," he said when Whitaker settled into the seat beside her. "I imagine she's starving, since we took her from her dinner."
The moment Childs said the words, Imogene realized he was right. She'd forgotten all about dinner, and now that the wine she'd drunk was settling poorly in her stomach, she felt the faint but growing pangs of hunger.
Whitaker blinked as if Childs's words confused him. "A meal?" he repeated blankly. He looked at her, his gaze boring into her as if he could somehow assuage her hunger with a glance. "We've no time to stop," he said, and there was a faintly accusing tone in his voice, as if he blamed her for needing something as prosaic as food.
"I'm all right," she said quickly, not wanting to anger him, afraid he would leave her behind if she admitted to hunger. "1 don't need anything, really."
"Don't humor him,
chérie
," Childs said dryly.
"I'm not," she protested. "Truly, I'm not hungry."
Childs didn't believe her, she knew, but he said nothing as the carriage started. The jerk of the springs forced her against Whitaker, and he grabbed her hand and kept her there, anchoring her to his side, not releasing her even when the carriage swayed and it was obvious he could not support himself with his false hand.
She wondered why he didn't just let her go. It would be so much easier for him. But she was glad he didn't, even when she saw how he pressed his feet into the floor to keep from falling into her on the turns, even when she felt the flex of his hand, the tightening grip of his fingers. And when he looked down at her and said, "So how did you like our little party, Genie?" she had the absurd feeling that he cared about her answer, that her opinion mattered.
She hesitated, struggling to find the right thing to say, something worthy of his respect. But his regard was too new and too unfamiliar, and she couldn't concentrate. Finally all she said was, "Your friends are very interesting."
From the corner, Childs snorted.
Whitaker laughed. "Friends? Ah, no, darling Genie, I wouldn't exactly say they were friends. Acquaintances, more like. There are more vipers in that room than in the whole of South America, I'd warrant." He looked at her, his eyes gleaming in the passing light. "But some of them are brilliant. Their philosophies are interesting even if their morals aren't. These people
can make gods or destroy them, darling. And we were making gods tonight."
She stared at him in confusion. "Making gods?" When he didn't explain, she turned questioningly to Childs, who shrugged but made no attempt to answer. Yet his expression was strangely thoughtful; he watched Whitaker with a careful scrutiny that was somehow disturbing.
She had no time to discover why. Within moments the carriage stopped, and when she looked out the window she saw they were in front of the studios. Imogene felt a quick stab of disappointment. It was too soon. Whitaker had led her to believe he was taking her someplace else, someplace special, and she wanted that—oh, how she wanted it. But now it was obvious the night was already over. Her throat tightened; she tried not to show her frustration as they got out of the carriage.
She gestured toward Thomas's brougham, which still waited by the curb. "I should go now," she said politely, reluctantly. "You must have—"
Whitaker spun around so quickly she faltered.
"Are your promises so easily broken, Genie?" he demanded. "Or are you frightened after all?"
"No," she said. "No, I—"
"Then send your man away."
"You're safe enough, Miss Imogene," Childs drawled softly, glancing at Whitaker. "Though it may not seem like it."
The relief that surged through her was overwhelming.
"Rico, tell him to go on home, won't you? We'll send Genie later."
Childs smiled wryly. "I'm sure he'll be ecstatic."
Whitaker ignored him. He urged her toward the steps and the front door. "Hurry now, we're wasting time," he said, his hand a gentle pressure at her waist. He opened the door and nearly lunged inside, ignoring the people crowding the huge open room of the gallery, propelling her toward the stairs at the back of the room as if the other artists and their guests didn't exist.
She glanced behind her, searching for Childs, but when she saw him enter they had already reached the stairs—she had just enough time to see him follow a man into another room before Whitaker pulled her with him up the steps so quickly she could barely catch her breath. She had no chance to worry about the fact that Childs had left her alone with Whitaker. They were upstairs before she knew it. It felt as if her feet barely touched the ground as Whitaker led her down the hall to the door of his studio.
He released her long enough to open the door and usher her inside. Then he was grabbing her again, pulling her with him toward the tapestry-covered doorway at the far end of the studio.
His bedroom.
Imogene tensed. His words came flooding back.
"I want to show you the world, Genie ..." "Ah, what a ride it will be. . . ."
Suddenly she thought of the way he'd pressed against her all those days ago, the way his hand stroked hers, the rough desire she'd felt, and fear washed over her, making her throat tight and her mouth dry.
He gripped her hand tighter and turned back to give her a sensual smile. "Don't tell me you're afraid now," he said gently, in that low, charismatic voice. "Not now."
She stared at him, unable to speak. Her heart raced, she felt the tingling of a strange anticipation in her stomach.
"Come along," he said, and even in her fear she couldn't resist. He pushed aside the tapestry and went inside, and she saw the newel-posted bed in the corner, rumpled and unmade, its threadbare quilt slipping to the floor, saw the paint-stained clothes he'd abandoned in tousled piles, and before she realized what was happening, he was dragging her past them, through a small doorway half hidden by the bed, up a narrow, dingy flight of stairs.
"Wh-where are we going?" she asked, stumbling behind him.
"To the roof," he said. He paused at the top, where the passage was barred by a beaten, rickety door, and released her hand. "Here we are," he said, satisfaction filling his voice. He flipped the latch, pushed open the door. She felt the instant rush of cold wind. "There are whole worlds up here, Genie," he said. "Come and see them with me."
Then he plunged through the door and disappeared.
I
t seemed to take her an eternity to follow him. Jonas stood outside the door, throwing off his hat to feel the cold breeze in his hair, to feel the night brush his skin and welcome him. He shrugged off his frock coat, loosened his silk tie until it hung limply around his neck, dragged at his shirt so the chill, crisp air caressed his chest. God, the world was beautiful from up here. He hurried to the edge of the roof, looking at the street three stories below, at the gaslights casting their glowing halos onto the flagstones, painting highlights on horses and carriages that moved like dark shadows in the night. The silhouettes lengthened before his eyes, a kaleidoscope of sound and movement. Ah, yes, so beautiful.
He was so caught up in the vision he didn't hear her when she finally stepped onto the roof, not until she was right behind him.
"What are you looking at?" she asked softly.
He turned to face her. It was only a quarter moon, yet the night was clear enough that its light touched her face. He saw the way she looked up at him, the dark luminosity of her eyes, the way her lips parted, and it was so much like his vision of the courtesan he was momentarily stunned.
She gave him a small smile and glanced away. "It's a lovely night."
Her movements were so delicate, so fragile. He stared at her profile, drinking in the sight of her, the line of her jaw, the straight, short nose, the slope of her chin. He watched the shadows shifting on her face, each movement accenting something else, a highlight on her skin, her mouth, her eyes. He saw the way the moonlight glanced off her bonnet. Christ, that bonnet. It was the ugliest thing about her, the ugliest thing about the whole evening, and he grabbed at the ribbons, ignoring her startled jump as he jerked the hat from her head. He heard her "oh" of surprise when he tossed it over the side of the building.
Then it was only a shadow in the darkness, catching the wind and fluttering to the street, startling a carriage horse, who nickered and shied away. The shout of the driver echoed in the night, the reins jangled as he brought the horse sharply into line.
Jonas looked back to her. Her hand went to her head, she pushed back strands of hair that had loosened with the bonnet, escaped from the barely held- together chignon. She tried vainly to straighten it, tucking tendrils back into the bun, shoving at pins.
"Take it down," he said.
A startled breath again. She stopped midmovement, looked at him with wary eyes.
"Take it down," he whispered.
She hesitated. Then she licked her lips and looked away, and he waited while she pulled the pins from her hair, loosening it a little more with each movement, until she held a handful of pins and her hair was falling around her shoulders, straight and heavy and glinting silver and gold in the moonlight.
"I've been wondering what it looked like," he said.
She gave him a funny little smile. "Why?"
"Why? Ah, why?" He laughed, seeing the confusion on her face, a wistfulness that was charming and innocent. The little moth was turning into a butterfly before his eyes, and he wanted more, so much more. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to one of the thick chimneys breaking the shadow plain of the roof, sitting near it and urging her down beside him.