“And yet, you appear to be the perfect young churchman. Do you model for Berthold to throw a fist in the face of High Church toadying?”
His smile became sardonic. “I model for the money. I know of no other way to earn good coin while doing nothing. Why did you marry Fremont if you knew he was offering essentially a platonic union?”
Jacob hadn’t offered a platonic union, not quite, but Psyche was more interested in discussing Mr. Delancey’s heresies than she was in recalling an awkward honeymoon.
“My father was getting on, and I was doing as girls without a mother are supposedly infamous for doing: behaving with increasing disregard for propriety just when I most needed to appear meek, docile, and marriageable. I planned to revolutionize the art world, following in the footsteps of Mary Moser and Angelica Kauffman and then exceeding their achievements to rival the work of Sir Joshua himself. I’m still determined to prove that women can be fine portraitists.”
“You cite the first and last women members of the Royal Academy of Arts.”
“And those ladies had immediate male family members much respected by the artistic community and the Academy’s other members. I am something of an anomaly in my family.”
“But your mother loved art,” Mr. Delancey said, setting aside his empty soup bowl and starting on his quiche. “And she loved you.”
“Yes.” Psyche herself had not made that connection, not that simply and honestly. “She ensured I had excellent instructors and kept my artistic obsession from my father’s notice. Jacob agreed that marriage would not impede my creative aspirations, and he kept his word.”
Of course, society was the greater impediment to any ambitious, talented female.
“And yet,” Mr. Delancey said, “you still cannot attend a life class without donning a top hat and tinted spectacles. How many other disguises do you wear, Mrs. Fremont?”
“Several. I remain in Town in part because Hazel loves it here. I decided that if I must bide in London, I would at least do what I could to improve my art, and Berthold is an excellent instructor.”
Mr. Delancey allowed Psyche to steer the conversation to artistic matters, about which he was surprisingly knowledgeable for a theological rebel toiling in the bowels of Lambeth Palace. When they resumed work in the studio, the image flowed onto the page without Psyche having to stop, erase, and reevaluate.
“This pose begs for oils,” she said, considering her finished sketch. “Putting the candles on the floor was a brilliant suggestion.”
“Putting a pillow under my head an even better one,” he said, sitting up and running his hands through his hair. “Do I snore?”
“No, but you talk in your sleep. Who is Finny? You thanked him for all his hard work. I nearly jumped a foot, you spoke so clearly.” And politely. Very politely for a man who’d been preaching theological treason over the quiche.
“Finny does work hard,” he said, rolling down his cuffs and fishing in his pocket for his sleeve buttons. “What else did I say?” Even that mundane activity begged to be sketched when he did it.
“You didn’t say anything else, just a polite thanks for all Finny’s hard work. I gather he’s a fellow clerk?”
Mr. Delancey fastened his cuffs and pulled on his boots. “Something like that.” He rose and shrugged out of Jacob’s banyan. “Where did my waistcoat get off to? A fellow wants as many layers between him and the elements as possible on a night like this.”
Psyche assisted Mr. Delancey to dress, though all the while she was trying to determine what precisely had chased her perceptive dinner companion away and left the polite, imperturbable gentleman in his place.
Mention of Finny? “If Finny is a bedfellow, you can say so. I am not particularly sheltered, nor is it my place to judge anybody.” A humility she’d learned at a high and painful cost.
Mr. Delancey looped his cravat around his neck. “Finny is not a bedfellow. She’s a maid who toils long days for little pay, and she never complains. If we’re looking for saints to commemorate, you may keep your bishops and give me your maids, shop clerks, flower girls, and footmen.”
“You are a radical. All my favorite people are, except for Hazel. She’s keen on foundlings and former soldiers, though. Let me do that.” Psyche measured the ends of the cravat against each other and tied as adequate a mathematical as she could with limp linen. Mr. Delancey stood tall and unmoving, as if suffering her efforts.
She fished in her pocket for the money he was owed and passed it over. “I have been wanting to ask you a question all evening, and now the moment grows awkward.”
A hint of his smile—the real smile, not the polite facsimile—softened his expression. “You listened calmly while I denounced settled church policy, Mrs. Fremont. Such forbearance on your part suggests our association can withstand a little awkwardness. If you’d like me to dispense with clothing at the next session, I’ll willingly oblige.”
The remaining quiche, a jar of stewed apples, half a loaf of bread, and a crock of butter sat waiting in a sack by the door. The part of Psyche that had accepted a half marriage of polite breakfasts in a fussy town house begged her to shove that sack at Mr. Delancey and bid him a safe journey home.
But then, that was the same voice that told her ladies were not professional artists. “I hugged you before you took your leave of me last week.”
“You did.”
She could read nothing—not one thing—in his gaze now. Not patience, humor, tolerance, caution. Nothing. In his very countenance, Mr. Delancey excelled at subterfuge, which had to break some sort of commandment.
“Did my forwardness offend you?” She’d settled on that wording after much thought.
“Forwardness? I confess I do not… No. You did not offend me. You surprised me. Pleasantly. Very pleasantly. One doesn’t… That is, I do not often find myself… I was not offended. Not at all. Why would you even think that?”
How lovely. The very reserved Mr. Delancey was fumbling for words. “Shall I hug you again?”
He peered down at her. “No, you shall not. It’s my turn.” He wrapped his arms around her gently—an invitation—and left it to Psyche to accept his overture by bundling closer.
“Am I doing it right?” he asked as she settled against him.
“That’s better.” Psyche did not hug him—it was his turn to hug her, apparently—but rested in his embrace, her hands flat against his chest. She wanted to feel all the muscle and sinew she’d seen on so many occasions, wanted to sense the beating of his heart.
Desire tried to wedge its way into her awareness, but she was adept at ignoring that nuisance. The closeness, the warmth, the pleasure were sufficient without the distraction of howling animal spirits.
“You have a talent for this, Mr. Delancey.”
“Michael. We heretics have all sorts of unexpected skills. If I don’t turn loose of you soon, I will never survive the trip across the river.”
“The coach awaits, and you will take the leftovers.” What a delight, to converse while being hugged.
“I must accept the quiche,” he said, “because Hazel abhors such a rich, delicious offering, and good food should not go to waste. I am on to you, Mrs. Fremont.”