Chapter 22 Gideon ‘Then’ #2
I grip Arabella’s hand and drag her around the corner.
The garden opens into a beautiful glade, each wildflower touched by pale moonlight.
At the bottom of the slope is a long pool – a crystalline mirror reflecting the midnight sky.
A man sits beside the pool, moonlight dappling his features as he hunches over an easel.
It’s Claude.
“It is you, brother,” he tips his beret.
“And the lovely Arabella Macquart. We have missed you both at La Petite Mort. I am in debt to your brilliance. Ever since I started painting outside, I have found the voice. Now I feel the landscape. I can be bold and include every tone of pink and blue. It’s enchanting.
It’s delicious! Pierre-Auguste, Berthe and I are putting together an exhibition to launch our new art movement. How can I ever repay you?”
“You should paint Arabella,” I suggest.
“He doesn’t want to do that,” Arabella snaps.
“I do. Very much.” Claude stands and kisses Arabella’s hand.
“It’s been a long time since you last sat for me, Mademoiselle Macquart.
You were always my favourite model. The light has never looked more perfect than at this exact moment, and with that necklace around your neck, you are already a queen. Will you honour me by sitting?”
“Very well, if I must.” Arabella sighs, but there’s a musicality to it that lets me know she’s pleased. “Where do you want me?”
“Perhaps there?” Claude points to a statue comprised of several fallen pillars, arranged to look like a Greek temple half-submerged with waterlilies collecting at the base.
Before I can do anything, Arabella climbs over the side of the pool and wades towards the statue.
She settles herself among the columns and shrugs off the crimson dress.
I gasp as her full nakedness is revealed in the moonlight.
She is resplendent. She is poetry.
Every curve of her is music, every limb an exquisite dance of flesh and bone. She catches my eye, and I cannot hide my awe. The corner of her mouth quirks up into a satisfied smirk.
It’s that little smirk, more than anything, that makes me hard.
How is this woman real?
Arabella drapes herself over the ruins like a panther sunning herself on a savannah. Only, there is no sun beating down, just the inky moonlight that makes her skin shimmer like a galaxy and rings her eyes in gold.
My breath hitches as her fingers trace the jewels around her neck. My cock strains painfully against my trousers as I follow the swell of her breast, the curve of her hip, to the enticing mound between her thighs.
I’m seeing her.
Naked in body and heart.
Arabella Macquart, free from the constraints of her station, free of the position society and prejudice have laid out for her, free of her own rules, is a force of nature.
I feel the way an archaeologist must when unlocking the door to an ancient tomb – a witness to history, the first to uncover a precious treasure.
Claude bends towards his canvas and picks up his brush as if he hasn’t at all noticed that he’s in the presence of a goddess.
My body is wrecked with wanting, with all the ways that this woman is so far beyond me.
The only sounds are the stroke of Claude’s brush and the pounding of my heart in my ears.
I have no idea how long I sit beside the painter, my cock a rigid, painful thing, refusing to touch myself and ruin the spell she has over me. Every moment is an exquisite torture, especially when her gaze falls on my tented trousers, and that satisfied smile tugs at her lips.
Finally, Claude stands, brushing off his overalls and carefully tucking the canvas beneath his arm. “Now, we must wait for the paint to dry. I shall bring the finished work to La Petite Mort once I am satisfied.”
I get to my feet, painfully, and draw my purse, but he waves my hand away.
“This is my gift. Perhaps, one day, if this impressionism idea ever takes off, it might even be worth something.” He waves at Arabella as he bustles off. “Good evening, Mademoiselle Macquart.”
“A pleasure as always, Monsieur Monet.”
Arabella starts to get up, but I hold up a hand.
“Don’t move.”
My command pulses through her body. I smell the pleasure it causes her to lie back again, to obey, to give me this tiny sliver of herself. The night air thickens with myrrh and ginger, and the slightest tang of raspberry.
Arabella wets her lips.
I hurl myself over the edge of the pond. The water is a welcome shock to my stiff, lust-addled body. I wade across to her, pulling myself up onto the columns, my clothing soaked through, my skin almost as cool as hers.
“You will ruin that fancy Italian suit,” she scolds me, raising up on her elbows, allowing me to drink in her beauty – her slender neck and narrow shoulders, draped with glittering jewels, the delicious dip of her navel, her small, round breasts with their large dark nipples, and the dark triangle between her thighs.
I smile down at her. “Maybe I’m ready to be ruined.”
I cup her chin in my hand. Her skin is cool from the evening air. I should offer her my coat, which is still mostly dry, bundle her up and take her somewhere warm. But I’m too enchanted by her.
I cannot go another moment without kissing her.
So I don’t.
I bend down, and I press my lips to hers.
I hold my breath for a moment, half expecting her to disappear into fog.
Instead, she kisses me back.
Her lips are cool against mine, and soft – so soft that my chest aches. I part them with my tongue and explore her, tasting raspberries and moonlight. A mewling sound escapes her, and she is no longer soft, but a tiger, fierce and hungry with wild need, devouring me whole.
Our bodies move together. The wretched longing that has twisted inside me – since the night I first saw her dance – unfurls. I think I wanted her before I even knew she existed.
“You were right about coming out tonight,” I moan against her.
“I know I’m right,” she gasps between kisses. “I’m right about everything. I’m right about things you haven’t even heard of yet.”
I laugh as I smother her mouth in mine.
Arabella presses her hand against my chest, fisting my shirt, pulling me closer. She might as well be squeezing my heart. She could tear it from my chest and eat it in front of me, and I wouldn’t care. Whatever she wants, I’ll give it to her…
“Monsieur Rougon, it is you!”
Arabella curses, biting my lip. I feel a sharp prick and taste my own blood. She sucks on my lip, but I pull away, turning towards the sound of the voice and the revolver I keep in my coat, thinking only to protect Arabella.
“Who goes there?” I yell into the gloom.
A shadow moves along the edge of the pond.
A familiar voice calls out, “It is I, Monsieur Rodin. I’m sorry for interrupting you.
” Auguste Rodin steps into the moonlight and bows his head.
He carries a sketchbook under one arm and something clenched tight in his fist. “I was sketching in another corner of the garden when I heard you in conversation with Claude. I did not wish to disturb you.”
“An excellent idea,” I call back.
He doesn’t get the hint. “I’m creating a large work that I’m thinking of calling The Gates of Hell.
This sculpture will represent the tragic love story of Paolo and Francesca from Dante’s Divine Comedy.
I wandered past after Claude left, and something of your love story captured me.
” He nods to the sketchbook in his hands.
“I have been struggling with how to capture the raw beauty and tragic desperation of the kiss. But when I saw the two of you, the work came to me in a flash.”
“But our love story isn’t tragic,” I say.
“All love stories are tragic,” Auguste shouts back. “I thought you should know that I’m not the only one watching you.”
My blood runs cold. “No?”
He nods towards the sycamore trees. “There was a fellow in the bushes there. He ran away when he saw me. And Gideon?”
“Yes?”
“He left this behind.” Auguste opens his hand, revealing the butchered body of a songbird. The head is nowhere to be seen. “And he had a dagger in his hand.”