Free Lady Wild by Máire Claremont Page A

am just not sure that I should entirely trust him.”
    “Trust him?” her mother scoffed. “Not yet. I said he needs us. He needs us to teach him how to live again.”
    “Mama, is this the best timing?” Ophelia bit down hard on her lower lip, composing herself even as her lungs burned with unshed sorrow. “You are dying.”
    Her mother gave her a look as if it was, in fact, Ophelia who had entirely lost her wits. “And when, my daughter, would be a better time to teach someone to live?”
    She winced. When, indeed? Her mother seemed to possess a knowledge as she neared her death that only the most devoted scholars might hope to attain. Still, Ophelia longed to rail at her mother that she didn’t wish her to waste her energies on a wastrel, that they should go straight back to Sussex and live their tiny life in the quiet cottage, untroubled by the world or anyone in it, despite their lack of income. She longed to have her mother just to herself, to wrap her in lamb’s wool, and keep her as strong as she may, as long as she could.
    There was little doubt in her mind that that was the last thing her mother wanted. Now she had this chance to live life to the very last, Adelle Darlington would burn herself out like a beautiful cinder, glowing until she was at last nothing but ash.
    And so, she wouldn’t argue with her mother or propose their immediate return. Her mother wouldn’t likely last through such a journey, in any case.
    Heart heavy, eyes stinging, Ophelia slipped under the coverlet beside her mother and curved her body around her mother’s little one, recalling the days when it had been the reverse.
    When her mother had cradled her slight from, hugging her.
    So much had changed, yet even as she sheltered her mother, holding her gently, she still felt a little girl, lost in a world of frightening shadows, unwilling to let go of the only protection, perfect or no, she had ever known.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Artists are the most curious and
    remarkable folk in the world.
    -Ophelia’s Notebook
     
    A tavern was no place for a lady. It was as simple as that. More than simple. Every single moment Andrew stood in the loud, booming hall filled with the half-damned of society, he cursed himself. But if Ophelia was to meet the most revolutionary and talented artists of the day, this was where she would do it. The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood didn’t dwell in tea shops, but on the edges of society, reveling in the lives of everyday folk.
    It wasn’t even three o’clock in the afternoon, and the tavern was doing a thriving business. The scent alone could knock one over. Unwashed laborers stood at the bar and sat at the tables strewn about the darkened room, and the cheap perfume of the barmaids coated the air.
    Ophelia stood just beside him, her rosy mouth agape. Two red slashes of color stained her pale cheeks, and her hair, instead of being suitably tucked up, spilled from beneath her navy bonnet in rich, shining waves.
    And that was how Gabriel Rossetti, leader of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and painter, spotted her.
    “Gabriel,” Andrew said, squaring his shoulders, ready to punch the other man if he grew too forward. “I have a prospective model to introduce to you.”
    “My God,” the half-drunk man gushed, his lids fluttering over eyes so blue one might think they were sapphires. The gin-sotted artist’s cheekbones were also so sharp one might cut themselves if they decided to give him a good slap. “Aphrodite,” he proclaimed, his rich voice booming over the din.
    Gabriel Rossetti strode forward and clapped Stark on the shoulder. “You have brought me a goddess, man.”
    The artist dropped his hand from Andrew’s shoulder and circled her rapidly, his gaze suddenly alert, his paint- and ink-stained fingers dancing in the air. “I will paint you as the Madonna.”
    Her lips quirked, and instead of being wary, her eyes danced with amusement. “I thought you said I was Aphrodite.”
    And that brought over