Marguerite Kaye - The Beauty Within

Pleased to discover that he was not the type of man to assume her sex prevented her from understanding such an erudite work, Cressie was at the same time distracted by how lovely the title of the book sounded when spoken by a native Italian. ‘You have read it?’ she asked foolishly, for he obviously had.

‘It is a standard text. You agree with what he says, that beauty can be described in the rules of symmetry?’

‘And proportion. These are surely the basic rules of any art?’

Signor di Matteo began to prowl restlessly about the room, frowning. ‘If painting was simply about getting angles and proportions right, then anyone could be an artist.’

‘How did you learn to paint so well?’ Cressie countered.

‘Study. Of the Old Masters. In the studios as apprentice to other painters. Practice.’

‘So it is a skill. A craft, with rules which can be learned. That is exactly my point.’

‘And my point is that art is not simply a craft.’ There was anger in his tone now.

‘I don’t understand what I’ve said to upset you, signor . I was paying you a compliment. The primary purpose of art is to adorn, is it not? And if it is to adorn, it must be beautiful. And if it is beautiful, then it must conform to what we know is beautiful—to the mathematical rules of symmetry and proportion which we see in nature, as your countryman Signor Fibonacci has shown us. To be reckoned the best, not only must you have mastered the technical skills of the draughtsman, but you must obviously have the firmest grasp of these underlying rules.’

‘So I paint by rote, that is what you are saying?’

‘I am saying that you are a master of the rules of nature.’

‘Yet nature has created you, my lady, and you hardly conform to those rules. By your process of deduction, you cannot then consider yourself beautiful.’

The cruelty of his words was like a slap in the face. She had been so caught up in propounding her theory that she had unwittingly insulted him, and his response, to turn her own plainness against her, was much more painful than it ought to be. The light of intellectual conviction died from her eyes, and Cressie tumbled back down into harsh reality. Signor di Matteo possessed the kind of looks which made women cast caution to the winds, though most likely the caution they cast was physical rather than intellectual. ‘I am perfectly well aware, signor , that I am not beautiful.’

‘There is beauty in everything if you know how, and where, to look.’

He was standing too close to her. She was acutely aware of his brooding physical presence. Cressie got to her feet, intending to push him out of the way, but he caught hold of her arm. His fingers were long, tanned and quite free of paint, she noted absently. Her head barely reached the broad sweep of his shoulders. This close, there was no mistaking the strength which lurked underneath that lithe exterior. Being so near to him made her breathing erratic. It was embarrassment which was making her hot. Every propriety must be offended. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Unhand me at once.’

He ignored her, instead tilting her chin up and forcing her to meet his piercing gaze. She could escape quite easily, and yet it did not occur to her. ‘It is true,’ he said softly, ‘that your nose is not perfectly straight and so spoils the symmetry of your profile.’

Cressie glowered. ‘I am perfectly aware of that.’

‘And your eyes. They are too wide-spaced, and so not in the proportion to your mouth which Pacioli requires.’

One long finger traced the line he mentioned. His own eyes had a rim of gold at the edges. The lashes were black and thick. His touch was doing strange things to her insides. It made her jittery. Nervous. Was he flirting with her? Definitely not. He was merely punishing her for her unintended insult. ‘And my ears are out of alignment with my nose, the ratio between my chin and my forehead is wrong,’ Cressie said, with an insouciance she most certainly did not feel. ‘As for my mouth …’

‘As for your mouth …’

Signor di Matteo trailed his finger along the length of her bottom lip. She felt the most absurd urge to taste him. He growled something in Italian. His fingers splayed out over her jaw. He bent his head towards her. He was going to kiss her.

Cressie’s heart thudded. He really was going to kiss her. The muscles in her calves tensed in preparation for flight, but she didn’t move. His fingers slid along her jaw to tangle in her hair. She watched, urging herself to escape, but at the same time another part of her brain was enthralled, mesmerised, by that perfectly symmetrical face. Let him, she thought. Let him kiss me, if he dares!

His lips hovered a fraction over hers, just long enough for her to have a premonition of melting, a premonition of what it would be like to cede, to unleash whatever it was he kept restrained. Just long enough for Cressie to come to her senses.

She yanked herself free. ‘How dare you!’ It sounded very unconvincing, even to herself. She was struggling to breathe, praying that the heat which flooded her cheeks, which was surely mortification, was not too apparent. The nerve of him! He was outrageously attractive and he obviously knew it. Also, he was Italian. Everyone knew that Italian men were quite unable to control their passions. Obviously, it was not such a cliché as she had thought.

‘To return to your point, signor , I concede that my mouth is too wide to be considered beautiful,’ Cressie said, relieved to hear that her voice sounded almost composed.

‘Beauty, Lady Cressida, is not exclusively about symmetry. Your mouth is very beautiful, in my humble opinion.’

Giovanni di Matteo did not look the least abashed. ‘You ought not to have kissed me,’ Cressie said.

‘I did not kiss you. And you ought not to have spoken so scathingly of my work, especially since you have never seen it.’

‘Do not assume that I am so ignorant as my father. I have studied it, and I did not speak scathingly! I merely pointed out that you—that painting—that any art—’

‘Can be reduced to a set of principles and rules. I was listening.’ But even as he curled his lip, Giovanni had a horrible suspicion that this wholly unorthodox female had somehow managed to get to the root of his dissatisfaction. In the early days, when he painted for the simple pleasure of creating something unique, he had channelled that tangible connection between canvas and brush and palette and blood and skin and bone, painting from the heart and not the head. It had earned him nothing but mockery from the so-called experts. Naïve. Emotional. Lacking discipline and finesse . The words were branded on his heart. He learned to hone his craft, eradicate all emotion from his work. To his eye it rendered it soulless, but it proved immensely popular. The experts acclaimed it, the titled and influential commissioned it. He chose not to disillusion any of them. Giovanni made his bow. ‘Much as I have enjoyed our discussion, Lady Cressida, I must go and continue with the more prosaic task of capturing the likeness of my current client. I bid you good day.’

He took her hand, raising it to his lips. As he kissed her fingertips, the spark of awareness took him by surprise. Judging by her shocked expression, he was not the only one affected by it.

Giovanni leapt down from the gig as it drew to a halt in front of Killellan Manor, the country estate of the Armstrong family, airily dismissing the waiting footman’s offer to escort him to the door. He had travelled to Sussex on the mail, which had been met at the nearest posting inn by Lord Armstrong’s coachman. It was a cold but clear day, the clouds scudding across the pale blue sky of early spring, encouraged by the brisk March breeze. Pulling his greatcoat more tightly around himself, he stamped his feet in an effort to stimulate the circulation. There were many things about England he admired, but the weather was not one of them.