Chapter Nine #2
“Because I wanted to. I missed my sparring partner. Who else will debate literature with me? Who else will point out I am wrong? Or take me to task? I have friends, but no one whose opinion I crave so much as yours.”
He was speaking with her heart then, she knew. But this time, she instigated the kiss. She reached for him, cradled his face in her right hand, and gently touched his lips with hers.
The feel was magical. His lips were rough, but his touch was warm and sent tingles down her spine. His hands had somehow gotten entangled in her hair, and he pulled her closer to him. She didn’t mind.
They kissed, but it went deeper than feather-light kisses.
The moment for those was gone, and now his tongue sought hers and teased her.
He wrapped one hand around the back of her neck and pulled her in even closer, his left hand in her hair feeling sensuous and luxurious as his right hand danced down her spine.
She made a sound in her throat and felt his chest. The feel of his cravat, his waistcoat, and the warm body beneath, made her shudder and feel overly warm.
“You are wearing too many clothes,” he murmured. “What I wouldn’t give for a library right now.”
She laughed. “You’re not the only one.”
He looked up at her. “You mean that?”
She paused. “Yes, I do.”
He took her hands and kissed them. “Then until we find a quiet library to ourselves, allow me to…”
“What?” she asked, a little breathless.
“Allow me to tease and tickle you a little. If you are not disapproving of the notion.”
She swallowed. “But you already are.”
“Not quite.” He kissed her hand and laid her down on the stone bench.
“What are you—?” she stopped.
He said, “Shhh. I read about this in a book.”
“What sort of book?”
“One you won’t find on any proper young woman’s bookshelf.”
That made her gasp.
“Trust me, Miss Clifton. I won’t hurt you,” he said.
She took his direction and lay down on the stone bench, feeling its cool surface against her back and hair.
The night air felt delicious against her bare skin.
Leaning over her, Mr. Heyter kissed her lips, madly, deeply, and trailed more kisses down her neck, working his way to the curve of her chest.
Her chest rose and fell, and she felt positively indecent. But she loved it and enjoyed how he made her feel. It might have been considered wrong by society’s standards, but it felt oh-so-right. But then he stopped and moved over to kneel by the edge of the bench, slowly raising her skirts.
“What are you—” she started.
“Ssshh.” He lifted her skirts and gently pried her legs apart, kissing the tops of her knees. He gave her sweet kisses along the tops of her thighs, working closer and closer to her womanly center, and then…
He kissed her there. Her most sensitive part. She squeaked, and it tickled. But then his tongue darted out and teased her, licking her, and she let out a quiet moan.
He teased, touched, licked and titillated her, making her writhe and twist in his arms, her legs clamped about his shoulders as he pleasured her, making her breathe heavily and gasp, until she was ready to scream.
She clamped a hand over her mouth to stop from shouting and saw stars in the darkness above.
Then gently, her legs trembling, Sibyl’s entire body trembling, he knelt back and eased her skirts back over her legs.
Mr. Heyter helped her sit up and put his suit jacket around her shoulders. “You’re cold.”
“No, I’m not.”
“But you’re shivering.”
“Not from the cold.”
“Oh.” He smiled, his eyes dancing. He looked delighted and kissed her hand. “Are you all right?”
“What sort of a book did you learn that from?” she asked.
He laughed aloud. “Clearly, a good one.”
There was nothing that could be done about her hairstyle, for that was in complete disarray.
Fortunately, Mr. Heyter ushered her back inside the main gambling room and into the hands of Margaret, who took one look, her eyes wide, and whisked Sibyl away to the ladies’ rooms on the upper level, where she might repair her hair and rearrange her dress.
“What were you doing?” Margaret asked, standing by as Sibyl attempted to straighten her dress, still her trembling legs, and put her hair back up into some semblance of order.
“I was out in the garden. Mr. Heyter was trying to console me.”
“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Margaret raised an eyebrow and laughed.
Sibyl blushed.
“Oh, here, let me. I’m useless with hair, but you need help.” She sat Sibyl down on a seat before a mirror and began pinning her hair up into a simple style. “There. If anyone asks, you can say it came undone in the chaos with the painting and the crowds.”
“Thank you, Margaret.”
“Don’t thank me. I didn’t do anything.”
“But you have. You’ve been so kind to me, and you’re such a good friend…”
Did a shadow pass over Margaret’s face?
“Nonsense,” Margaret said with a little laugh. “Same I’d do for anyone. Although I suppose men’s hair would be a bit harder to fix.”
Sibyl laughed but couldn’t help feeling a trifle hurt. Here she was thanking Margaret, and yet the young woman had somewhat rebuffed her. That stung a little.
“Why does she do it? Why does she hate me?” Sibyl asked, looking at Margaret through the mirror’s reflection. “Why does Miss Harvey hate me so?”
“She doesn’t hate you. At least, I don’t think she does.
You’re simply in the way.” Margaret leaned against the table.
“All her life, Kate has gotten everything she wanted. She’s been lucky that way.
She hasn’t had to struggle for much, not like others.
She’s grown up in a wealthy household, but not necessarily a loving one.
I suspect she was spoiled a bit too much as a child. ”
Margaret looked down at her shoes. “Kate is a good person, but she has a temper. She’s spirited.
And growing up where her father was always chasing down the latest gossip, speaking and writing about people for a good story, it put the idea in her head that to be important, to be valued, she had to be someone worth talking about.
Worth writing about. Namely, someone famous, in the public eye. Or at least, that’s what I think.
“And she’s fancied Mr. Heyter for years.
Their families used to know each other, until Mr. Heyter’s family moved away, he went into the Navy, came back, and then they had their separate social circles.
I think Kate always held a bit of a torch for him or assumed that one day they would marry. But that all changed once he saw you.”
Sibyl looked away. “I don’t know about that.”
“From what I can tell, he likes you very well. You two are of a similar mind; you have like tastes. He reads. The most Kate has read is a lady’s magazine.
That’s nothing against her; she just has different interests is all.
And Mr. Heyter is one of them. So she views you as a rival, and you’ve beaten her out to be a muse for an artist. In her eyes, you’re achieving everything she wants. ”
Sibyl nodded. “Still. That’s no reason for her to treat me so rudely. And the painting…” Just thinking about it almost made her emotional. The hours and days Phillippe had spent painting, all for Kate to slash open the canvas. It was heartbreaking.
“I’m not defending her. I agree: her behavior and actions are unpardonable. She should never have ruined that piece of art. I’m just telling you why I think she treats you so. I don’t believe you deserve any of the ill treatment you’ve received.”
Sibyl looked at Margaret. Something about her tone made her think Margaret’s last few words held a double meaning.
Did she mean that Sibyl didn’t deserve Mr. Heyter or her newfound fame and success, either?
Sibyl felt a little sad. She had thought Margaret was a friend, but perhaps her true loyalty lay with Kate. It made her wary of the young woman.
Sibyl rose and patted her hair. “I should get back. Thank you, Margaret. You’ve been a real help.”
“The pleasure is all mine.”
The young women curtsied to each other and quit the small room. But as they walked out, Sibyl felt more alone than ever.
The next day, at breakfast, Sibyl was nibbling on some toast and butter when a footman came into the room with the morning paper.
“Oh, give it here, Jacob, thank you,” Mrs. Clifton said, eagerly reading.
“Mama?” Sibyl started.
“Yes, what is it?”
“You rarely read the paper.”
“Well, I do today. Especially when—ye gods!” Mrs. Clifton dropped the paper on her plate, knocking over her teacup in the process. She stood back from her chair and stared at the offending paper.
“What is it? What happened?” Sibyl asked, jumping up from her seat.
A footman came in immediately to help clear the mess.
“That. That.” Mrs. Clifton pointed to the paper. “That… monstrosity.”
“What are you talking about, Mama?” Lucy picked it up gingerly, as the paper was now covered in marmalade and buttered toast crumbs on one side and was rapidly getting soaked with tea on the other. Lucy dangled the paper in her hands and set it down. “This is disgusting. I’m not touching that.”
“You’re telling me. Sibyl, you read it.”
Sibyl glanced at her mother and, using two napkins, picked up the paper. She read a bold headline:
Artist’s Debut Ends in Disaster
The London art world was set to be impressed by the debut of Phillippe Mercuse and his new muse, Miss Sibyl Clifton.
Taking inspiration from the young woman’s name was nice enough, but clearly, this was a charitable endeavor, for the artist needed to take a lot of inspiration aside from her pretty face in order to achieve his work.
“What the…?” Sibyl started.
“Read on,” her mother said.
Sibyl read:
It comes as disappointing news to this editor that it has been mentioned more than once that Phillippe has a way of becoming acquainted with his chosen muses that is more than just a bow or polite conversation over tea.
Rumor has it that he was open to painting Miss Clifton, provided she offer him some physical enticement, namely, her virtue.
One woman, Miss KH, said, “I heard that he is very wicked and seeks out wild women to be his models. No well-bred young woman would even think of such a thing. Posing for an artist is the height of arrogance, I would say. But, having met Miss Clifton, I can’t say I’m surprised.
She’s no pretty face, so she would need to do more than just pay the artist if he was going to take her on as a muse. ”
Rumor also had it that the talented singer, Clara Belle, the Countess d’Arbley, newly returned to London, was involved in a not-so-discreet relationship with the artist and posed for him for a quite scandalous portrait for a private patron of hers.
For those who were in attendance at Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s establishment yesterday evening, it will come as no surprise to learn that the painting featuring Miss Clifton met with an unfortunate accident.
Could this be divine providence, or a fortunate twist of fate?
Either way, it is perhaps a mercy to us all that audiences will not be forced to gaze at her portrait any longer.
The sooner Miss Clifton’s pictures end up in a dusty attic, the better.
Sibyl lowered the paper with trembling hands. “I cannot believe this. I cannot. It’s slander. It’s libel. It’s…”
Her mother and Lucy were staring at her.
“It’s a filthy lie. You both were there the entire time we were together.
You chaperoned, remember? You saw. Mr. Mercuse is no more interested in me than a fly.
He is very sweet and some would even say handsome, but I have no romantic interest in him.
There was no such inappropriate relationship between us, and I never would have engaged in such. ”
“We will call on Mrs. Dove-Lyon immediately. We’ll write to the editor and demand he print a retraction. This cannot be allowed to go on.” Mrs. Clifton struck the table, sending bits of toast and marmalade flying.
A footman was spattered with dribbling bits of tea but wisely said nothing.