RemissionChapter Five
Gerard was beyond disgusted. He had gladly accepted Angelus de Lourdes’s commission as an easy and profitable one. A family portrait of two, only the man and his ward, should have been easily executed.
It was not. Angelus refused to pose in natural daylight for Gerard to sketch him. The artist argued vainly that the truest portrayal of skin textures, facial features, and colouring were only possible in daylight. Angelus shrugged and pleaded skin problems and a tendency to headaches.
But the girl, Ramadevi...Gerard sketched more than necessary just to savour her exceptional beauty. He spent long lazy afternoons in the courtyard of Angelus’s elegant town house, or in the Champs-Elysees sketching her sweetly rounded heart-shaped face and graceful cheekbones, the wondrously large wide eyes and lushly full mouth.
Her beauty was exotic and regal. An artist dreamed of a model like her. She fulfilled every fantasy of an Eastern Queen. Cleopatra. The exotic dancing-girl. The Hindi courtesan. The beauties in a Sultan’s seraglio: pampered, accomplished in love’s pleasures.
“She’s really his daughter, isn’t she?” Gerard asked Alain one morning as the bland-faced manservant served him breakfast in the kitchen.
Alain’s mouth twisted in a mirthless smile.
“They share blood,” he replied shortly.
Gerard understood. Why else would a man take custody of an Eastern child and raise her in luxury in his own house? He simply didn’t claim her to avoid a scandal on his name. Of course, Angelus’s entire air indicated he didn’t care a whit about what his neighbours–or even society in general–thought about anything. So why shouldn’t he parade his bastard heathen daughter around like she was a prize from Heaven?
“He must’ve loved the mother very much,” Gerard commented wryly. His romantic sensibilities imagined a doomed love affair between the hard-looking Angelus and a lustrous-eyed Eastern beauty (though why it was doomed, he couldn’t imagine, Angelus had no family to stop him from marrying if he liked.) Perhaps Ramadevi’s mother had died in childbed or of some exotic disease. Angelus had loved her and could not bear to part with her child.
Alain’s neutral expression never altered. “I don’t believe he knew her very well at all,” he replied, bowed briefly, and left the room.
Ramadevi showed him a courtesy and grace Gerard was completely unaccustomed to from his employers. Most regarded him as than a servant, albeit a very talented and expensive one. The idea of being in love with her held extraordinary appeal for Gerard’s romantic nature.
Not that Gerard would have dared to take liberties with her. One glance of Angelus de Lourdes’s fierce dark eyes was enough. Gerard was certain Angelus would kill anyone who even thought indecently about her. If he had not already done so. There was a coldly indifferent stillness to Angelus when he dealt with people, an honest unapologetic apathy.
Excepting, of course, his lovely young ward...
It’s almost like he’s dead, Gerard mused, and Ramadevi revives him.
* * *“You’re very anxious today,” Gerard commented. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing,” Ramadevi answered briefly. I am tired of doing this!
Angelus seemed to have no trouble posing at all. He could probably sit in that hard-backed enamel-and-gilt chair without moving for however long it took. With Ramadevi standing beside and slightly behind him, one glittering hand resting lightly on his massive shoulder.
She wondered why she had been surprised when Angelus told her to take off her gloves. He loved the bracelets to be seen, loved what they stood for and what they reminded her of. It made perfect sense that he would want them visible in the portrait. Still, it hurt.
Gerard sighed lightly when Ramadevi fidgeted and turned to the shaded window for the umpteenth time, disturbing his work.
“Perhaps Mademoiselle should rest today. She is uncomfortable with sitting.”
It was on the tip of Angelus’s tongue to argue with the foppish artist. He wanted the painting done before the month was out. He planned to give a fine reception so it might be seen.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he heard himself answering calmly. Angelus covered Ramadevi’s hand on his shoulder with his own fingers as he rose from his chair.
“The portrait is very nearly half complete,” Gerard declared blithely. “I can work from memory. Or I could do more detailed work on you, Monsieur,” he added. “The details on your coat, your ring.”
“Balls, Angelus! Can a man get a dish of tea here? Tell Michelangelo to close shop today!”
“Charles, man!”
Ramadevi smiled as the dandified Charles Rhoaldes and his stately wife, Ligeia, strode airily into the room like they owned it. Alain swooped in behind them, breathless.
“I advised them to wait in the parlor, M’sieur,” Alain panted.
“That’ll do, Alain.” Angelus waved him off casually.
Ligeia hugged Ramadevi and the girl hugged back with real affection. Ligeia was one of the few truly kind people Ramadevi had ever met.
“How are you, dearest?” Ligeia asked warmly. She patted the girl’s rosy cheek. “You look wonderful.”
“Is there a scone to be had in the whole damn house! I’m starving!”
“Mr. Rhoaldes!” Ramadevi beamed as Charles clasped her hands in his and kissed her cheek. “Alain, send for tea at once. Please excuse me,” she added, bowing slightly before she left to change her dress.
“Here.” Angelus carelessly tossed his signet ring to Gerard, then turned back to Charles.
“Angelus, I think a trip to the dressmaker’s is due?” Charles raised his eyebrows at his friend. Angelus returned his look uncomprehendingly. “Your little girl’s growing up, man! Her dress is too short! I can see her ankles!”
“That’s the fashion now,” Ligeia explained patiently, smothering her desire to laugh at Angelus’s confusion. “Lots of ladies are wearing shorter skirts this season.”
Angelus led his friends out of the library towards the front parlor. They might as well use it. It was Rama’s favourite room.
“Hmmmph!” Charles sniffed. “The entire bloody continent’s headed for a moral collapse!” he grumbled. “What with shorter skirts and that new dance the children do–you know, the one from Austria where they hug each other?”
“Waltzing, dearest, we enjoy it.” Ligeia smiled gently.
“We’re also married! I swear it looks like making love standing up! A ballroom of people doing it is practically an orgy!” He followed Angelus into the parlor and drew his wife beside him on a white brocade settee. “Next thing you know, women’s skirts won’t cover their knees!”
Angelus felt his lips twitch but he resisted the urge to laugh.
“Probably,” Angelus agreed. “It’d make the orgy easier.”
“Angelus!” Ligeia reproved him with a ladylike lift of brows.
Angelus smirked back with a hint of real warmth. He liked Ligeia Moncrieff, she was actually one of the few humans he could like.
He’d never be able to kill her, after all, so he might as well like her.
“We brought this for you, Angelus.” Ligeia busied herself with a rectangular package wrapped in plain paper.
“Don’t you believe it! I didn’t buy you a thing! Ligeia thinks everybody should have a present every time we go somewhere!”
“Charles.” Ligeia spoke gently.
“So that they’d know we were thinking about them.”
“Charles.” A note of censure entered Ligeia’s tone.
“If we weren’t thinking about you why would we even be here?”
“Dearest.” Ligeia rested an entreating hand on her husband’s arm. Only the barest trace of steel entered her voice. Their eyes met and Charles smiled sheepishly.
“Right,” Charles said briskly. “Angelus, we brought this for you in Portugal.” He held his wife’s hand in his and winked.
Ligeia’s grey eyes brimmed with laughter and she handed Angelus the package.
“Thank you.” Untying the strings to the parcel, Angelus pondered Ligeia’s complexity. How did she moved so smoothly between her mortal world and her husband’s demonic one? He should have been irate with Charles for esteeming a human pet, making him her equal, protecting her with his name. Although Ligeia’s powers on their own were formidable. Perhaps she functioned so well in both worlds because she belonged in both.
Still, it was a weakness, their self-admitted love! He, Angelus, would never be so weak!
Not even for her.
Angelus heard Ramadevi’s soft footfall as she made her way towards the parlor. He heard the delicate swish of her skirts as her legs moved beneath it. If he really tuned in he could even hear her breathe.
“Beautiful,” he said involuntarily.
“I thought you’d like it,” Ligeia replied warmly.
It took Angelus a moment to remember what Ligeia was talking about. It truly was a fine sketchbook of beautifully tooled leather. The pages were a good dense stock with gilded edges.
“Yes,” he continued gracefully. “It’s a fine book.” As if that was what he’d meant all along. “Thank you,” he added.
Angelus and Charles both rose from their places as Ramadevi entered the room. It made her feel painfully shy, this custom so contrary to her home. It was considered unseemly in her country, for men to take too much notice of women, rude to stare or even look at her too much. In Europe, whenever a new female entered the room, every gentleman was expected to stand respectfully.
Ramadevi tried to get used to this attack on her modesty, but she could not stop the soft pretty blush creeping over her face. She had donned a white muslin tea dress (at least her old governess had told her it was a tea dress. Ramadevi herself saw no difference between it and any other dresses.) The high Empire waistline, collar, and cuffs were all trimmed with white eyelet lace ruffles and pink satin ribbon. Marie had carefully bound her abundant hair into a loose knot at the back of her head, allowing swirls of ringlets to spill freely around Ramadevi’s face and shoulders.
Ramadevi was completely covered. From the high ruffled collar to the long sleeves and ruffled cuffs, to the long skirt, stockings, and pink peau de soie slippers, no flesh was visible except her hands and her face.
Angelus’s hungry look stripped her naked in a second. Ramadevi felt an answering quiver in her lower belly. She had seen him without his clothes, now. She knew how beautiful he was.
He’s a monster! He keeps me here by force!
“My precious.” Angelus crossed the space between them and guided her to her chair.
As she strolled beside him, Angelus wondered at her height, compared to his own. She was more than a head shorter than he, but he rarely noticed it unless she was right beside him. There was a majesty to Ramadevi, a naturally superior air that left no doubt who she really was. It made her seem taller. And she is mine. He felt another surge of satisfaction. She was nervous inside, erotically aware of him, excited at being close to him. Her expression betrayed nothing, but she could not control her body’s temperature.
”Unless I want it as much as you it will never be true!”
Alain brought an elegant cart of tea.
“Thanks be to God!” Alain declared. He plucked a fig tart off the tiered desert tray and swallowed it in two bites.
Ligeia watched Angelus once Ramadevi was seated and began pouring tea for them all. Angelus was as restless as a stallion kept out of the breeding shed. Her elegantly groomed brow furrowed. What had they been doing? Or rather, she corrected herself with an inner laugh, what hadn’t they been doing and why?
“No sugar but a little lemon?” Ramadevi inquired politely, although she knew perfectly well Ligeia never took sugar and always took lemon.
Yes, indeed. Ligeia thought while she nodded and smiled, Angelus has coached and tutored and tortured her into becoming a perfect little lady of the ton. Why should I be surprised? Angelus always does what he says. What’s more surprising is Angelus is acting like a gentleman of the ton!
“Ramey, I don’t believe Ligeia bought one piece of fabric or jewelry for herself without buying you one! My man will send the trunks of loot out later today!”
Ramadevi turned a serene pearly smile to Charles. "How kind of you both to think of me!" she replied charmingly.
Angelus had told her the mortal Charles Moncrieff had been a nobleman and an adviser to Mary Queen of Scots before he was made. (What a queer expression for converting humans to demons through their blood! Made, like a pair of boots. Surely the actual experience was more profound than that!)
Fierce envy stabbed Angelus’s entrails. Such dimples, such perfect teeth. He had her passion, her pain, her struggling submission. He would have her smiles too.
“This is one thing I wanted to give you myself, dear, and it was too delicate to put in the trunk.” Ligeia handed Ramadevi a tissue-wrapped package.
Angelus watched Ramadevi decorously tear away the tissue paper. She was still smiling and he wanted to watch as long as he could. He sensed that Charles was looking very amused but chose to ignore him.
“Oh! Ligeia it’s so lovely! Thank you!” Ramadevi exclaimed.
“I can’t imagine that shade of pink in anyone else’s hands but yours, Ramey, I hope you enjoy it.”
Angelus and Charles shook their heads and rolled their eyes at each other as the two ladies went through the social ritual of kissing each other’s cheeks and praising each other for generosity and graciousness. All over a fan made of thickly luxuriant ostrich plumes dyed frosty pink.
“Women!” Charles chastised them jovially. “All this fuss over feathers and ribbons! Mary Stewart wouldn’t have noticed feathers on her clothes unless one of her own women told her about them.”
Ramadevi giggled and smiled pertly. She liked Charles and felt very comfortable with him. His manner towards her was affectionate and paternal.
“Mr. Moncrieff, they’re lovely feathers and you know it!” Ramadevi said saucily.
“Nay, Ramey, I don’t know feathers, I only paid for them!” Charles Moncrieff had spent most of his human life in France, but he’d never lost his Scots heritage. The blunt words were completely out of taste in a Paris salon.
The room filled with hearty laughter, Angelus’s included. Ramadevi met Angelus’s eyes in surprise when he laughed out loud. He winked at her, and she shyly turned back to the tea service beside her.
“But Mr. Moncrieff,” Ramadevi objected. “I thought one of the great complaints of the Scots against Marie Stuart was her vanity.”
“And so the political propaganda would have you believe, darling. In truth Mary was the least goose-ish woman I ever met. Didn’t like to fuss with clothes much. She even wore britches to dance! Practical and quite fetching given her legs!” Charles ducked a feigned slap from Ligeia. “But the fogey Scots courtiers didn’t like it, called her an unnatural woman.’ Charles shook his head sadly. “If I’d been what I am now that lot would’ve paid for their treachery. Mary was too good-hearted, she had no understanding of the traitorous vipers set round her when she came home from France. She treated ‘em all like good honest men.”
“Charles,” Angelus drawled languidly, “you’ve always been the victim of a petticoat.” There! That was better! Ramadevi did not look so terribly interested in Charles’s story now! Her eyes were on him, Angelus, instead.
“I don’t see how loyalty to one’s liege is putting oneself at the mercy of a petticoat,” Ramadevi contested him calmly. She bit on her words, made her accent as clipped as she could. “Mary Stewart was the rightful ruler of Scotland, was she not? And Queen of France–for a year or two–through marriage?”
Angelus wanted to kick someone. Charles Moncrieff had lived a fascinating life. Why did Rama have to be so interested in it? She never asked him about any of the history he’d witnessed.
“Angelus,” Ligeia began cautiously. Her expert ear had picked up Angelus’s displeasure, he was jealous! Perhaps dangerously so. As Charles had been in their beginning. “Have you read Sir Walter Scott’s latest novel?” She lifted her cup of cooling tea to her lips. “It’s very good.”
“Ivanhoe!” Ramadevi had to put her cup and saucer down to clap her hands together. “I’m dying to read it, everybody says it’s wonderful!”
“You look healthy enough to me, precious.” Angelus eyed her smugly. “I’ve heard critics say Scott’s novels are romantic trash.” He strolled over to the table and helped himself to a bread-and-butter sandwich. It tasted surprisingly good and he ate another.
“The critics themselves are trash,” Ramadevi replied. “Scott’s novels are fascinating.” She smeared a slice of spiced bread with honey before she began to eat it. “They’re very well-written,” she added.Angelus reached for a marzipan candy at the top of the tiered desert plate. The sweet almond confection was delicately molded and decorated to look like a large pink raspberry. Wondering at his sudden appetite for human food, Angelus tossed the sweet up in the air and caught it in his mouth. Wonderful! Better than he remembered! He wondered if there was anything chocolate in the kitchen.
Sweet trills of laughter bubbled out of Ramadevi. Charles grinned. Ligeia smiled serenely. Angelus found himself smiling. Laughter set Ramadevi’s black opal eyes to sparkling. Beautiful dimples, bright eyes, rosy cheeks, that sweet sweet face hiding an indomitable will. Soft ringlets danced about her face as she slowly composed herself.
“My brother used to do that with sweets,” she told him, with a soft smile.
Angelus thought briefly of his little sister, Kathy. She’d had raven-black hair but it did not swirl and curl like Rama’s. He had amused her in the same way when she was little. Tossing sugared almonds up in the air and catching them in his mouth.
Darla had taunted him for killing Kathy so mercifully. The child had never known what was happening to her. She’d been half-asleep but so happy to open the window for him, nestling closely when he lifted her in his arms.
“Liam! You’re an angel now!” Kathy clung to him, sleepy and happy, until the blood loss loosened her hold.
“You’re a demon! Act like it!” Darla had been furious. “What do you think that damned brat would’ve thought if she saw who you really are now?”
“But she didn’t, did she?” Liam tenderly arranged the limp body against the kitchen wall. “And now she never will.” Somewhere in my life someone loved me truly. That will never change. He would take a new name, Angelus, since Kathy had died believing it.
He’d done his best to please Darla afterwards, tearing, mauling, terrorizing his other half-siblings and his step-mother. His father he saved for last...
“Would you like some cake and honey?”
Angelus glanced down at the paper-fine china plate Ramadevi offered him. He looked at her, watched her softly blush and drop her eyes.
A woman offering food–hospitality. Females only served their close kin and friends of the family. And lovers...
Angelus’s fingers brushed hers lightly as he accepted the plate and nibbled the cake. It was still warm and aromatic, the honey was thick and sweet. He met her eyes frankly, licking honey from his mouth.
This time, Ramadevi did not look away.