A Gift From a Goddess Read online

  A Gift From A Goddess

  A Legend To Love

  Maggi Andersen

  A Gift From A Goddess

  A Legend to Love (Book 9)

  Copyright © 2018 by Maggi Andersen

  Cover by Midnight Muse Designs: http://midnightmusedesigns.com

  Edited by D. Coleman

  BK Editing Services

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is coincidental and are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  ISBN 13: 978-0-6482931-1-8

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  The Legends to Love Series List

  Excerpt from The Duke of Darkness (Book 10) by Cora Lee

  About the Author

  Other Books by Maggi Andersen

  Prologue

  Greece, 1819.

  “Ah, Greece.” Lewis, Lord Chesterton, took a deep breath of pine-scented air, glad to have left behind the cheerlessness and chill of London. He followed his friend, Damen Savakis out of the shady forest into the sunshine. They pushed their way through dense patches of gorse and brier and climbed the steep rocky hill toward the ruined temple.

  He had first met Damen a few summers ago when he’d rescued Lewis from heat exhaustion. He’d been wandering around the Acropolis in Athens and lost track of the time. A poet, Damen had studied at Oxford, but preferred the warmth of the Greek climate and the simple life.

  As they struggled up the steep incline, they left behind the grove of silver olive trees and black cypresses, and the dusky red roofs of the village where Damen lived with his wife and unruly children. Above them, the Temple of Aphrodite stood silent, outlined against an azure sky.

  On reaching the temple, Lewis ran his hands over one of the remaining six sun-warmed marble pillars left standing, and imagined he breathed in the same air as the ancients.

  “It’s good to be here,” he said turning to his friend.

  “Naturally, I am pleased to see you,” Damen said as he perched on a stone slab. “But surprised you’ve come now. Your latest work has just been lauded, has it not? Would you not wish to remain and enjoy the accolades?”

  Lewis shrugged. The ton was fickle in its praise. They preferred to spread vicious lies about him. He was tired after toiling over his last commission for the Duke and Duchess of Rollins. One of his low moods threatened. The sculpture now stood in their great hall. He’d wanted the statue of Diana the Huntress to be perfect, and she very nearly was.

  Damen’s dark eyes studied him. “Might the reason you’re here be a lady?”

  “Indirectly.” Lewis couldn’t blame his periods of despair on Adela. He just had to grit his teeth and wait for the mood to lift. And how much easier it was here rather than London where gray skies and low moods went hand in hand.

  “Your mistress?” Damen persisted.

  His friend wanted to help. But Lewis wished he wouldn’t. “Adela accused me of cheating with one of my models.”

  “Not your style is it?”

  Lewis swept back his dark hair and grimaced. “No, but the model was a flirt. Women are not to be trusted, Damen.”

  Damen widened his eyes. “What happened?”

  “While I was adjusting Marigold’s pose, she kissed me. Unfortunately, Adela walked in at that precise moment. Naturally, she was cross.”

  Damen nodded, a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. “Most unfortunate.”

  “A naked woman in my studio for hours makes me vulnerable to scandal, so I’ve become very cautious. I don’t sleep with my models. But I accept that Adela was justified in being angry.” Lewis glared at his friend who was not taking the matter seriously enough. “Adela stormed out, and I told my model, Marigold, that I no longer required her services. I then had another angry, weeping woman to deal with.”

  “And one with a perfect figure, eh?” Damen shook his head in commiseration. “A terrible position to be in, my friend.”

  Lewis frowned. “When I work, Damen, I think of little else. Adela found sculpting unsuitable for a lord of the realm. She considered a gentlemen’s role was to squire their ladies about to balls and such during the Season.”

  “She wished for marriage?”

  “Not Adela. Married at seventeen to an old man who made her life miserable, she enjoys her widowhood. She wasted no time in informing me about her new lover.”

  “You did not think of marriage?”

  Lewis turned his attention to the rest of the elegant Doric columns, still remarkably intact. “A man and woman’s relationship is one of mutual need, which can be satisfied outside marriage. I’m not in a hurry to fall into the parson’s mouse trap again.”

  “You English call marriage a trap?” Damen shook his head. “A sorry way to view life, my friend.”

  It wasn’t surprising Damen didn’t agree. He and Evania enjoyed a tumultuous, passionate relationship which had produced a large brood of children. Whereas, Lewis and Laura, who were passionately in love when they first married, became mistrustful of each other. Then horror followed horror. Laura’s violent death, and his sister, Emmaline’s miscarriage.

  “You Greeks are a nation of dreamers.” Lewis waved his arm to encompass the ruined temple. “Just look around you. Mythology governs your lives. In my experience, women are mortal beings, not goddesses. And let’s face it, we men are not gods.” Lewis pushed away from the column. “Let’s go down. I fancy some luncheon. I’d hoped to find inspiration for my next sculpture on this trip, but that hasn’t happened.”

  Damen joined him as they slowly descended the steep hill. “Inspiration? I shall take you to see Aphrodite’s Rock at Papos in Cyprus.”

  “Cyprus? That’s a long way.”

  “Ah, but it is known as the birthplace of Aphrodite,” Damen said as they picked their way over rocks scattering loose dirt. “We’ll sail there in my uncle’s fishing boat. It should take no more than a month or two.”

  Lewis frowned. “I planned to return to London to begin work before the heat of summer makes the studio insufferable. Are you sure the journey will be worth it?”

  “In Kouklia there’s a fragment of mosaic that you must see.”

  They reached level ground and made their way along the dirt road toward Damen’s house.

  “According to the legend, Gaia, the Mother Earth, asked one of her sons, Cronus, to mutilate his father, Uranus, the Greek god of the sky,” Damen said. “Cronus cut off Uranus’ male parts and threw them into
the sea from which, born of the sea foam, Aphrodite arose from the waves.”

  Lewis grunted. “I planned to see some ancient statuary, Damen.” But he thought of the beautiful work by the artist, Sandro Botticelli, The Birth of Venus, the Roman’s name for Aphrodite, painted in the 15th century which he’d viewed in Florence. The beautiful goddess blown to shore on a scallop shell by the wind god, Zephyr. “Although, you have me intrigued.”

  “Good. Come. You will be glad you did.”

  At Papos a month later, after viewing the extraordinary rock formation where the sea swirled and tossed up a column of sea foam, said to form into a woman’s body, they moved on to the ancient town of Kouklia where the ruins of a larger and more impressive temple of Aphrodite awaited them.

  Lewis surveyed the remnants of the splendid mosaic of Leda and the Swan. “That’s the most exquisite bottom I’ve ever seen.” He turned to Damen. “Thank you. You have given me my inspiration.”

  Damen laughed. “You do her great disservice. Aphrodite is a powerful goddess. She stands for love, beauty, pleasure and procreation.” He studied Lewis, his smile slipping away. “She can even mend a broken heart.”

  “She can do all that?” Lewis shook his head and smiled mirthlessly. “Hogwash. But wouldn’t it be nice if it were true.”

  Chapter One

  London, 1819

  “If You Could just move your leg a little to the right…” Alberto Bertoletti stroked a hand up Hebe’s leg.

  She slapped it away as his fingers crept higher. “Just tell me what you want, Alberto. I can move without your help.”

  The Italian painter sighed. “You are the most frustrating model I have ever used.” He threw up his hands and turned to the painting on the easel. “Look at this work. It is lifeless! Can’t you unbend a little? Artists need more from their models. A little affection. How can I paint a passionate work? You are meant to be my muse.”

  Hebe rose from the pile of cushions and wrapped the sheet carefully around herself.

  “Now what are you doing?” Alberto roared. “I’ve hardly painted a stroke today.”

  “Because you’ve been more intent on seducing me.” Hebe glared at him. “If I wanted to be a courtesan, I would be one.”

  “If you weren’t such a good model, I would have thrown you out days ago,” he said sulkily.

  She rubbed her arms. A cold draft always wafted into the loft from somewhere. It was a wonder she hadn’t gotten sick. She picked up her clothes and began to dress. “Then I shall save you the trouble. And I’d like to be paid for the work I’ve done, please.”

  “I don’t see why I should…”

  “Unless you want me to tell all the models that you don’t pay?”

  When Hebe arrived home an hour later at their small townhouse in Cheapside, her mother met her at the door. “Why are you home so early?”

  “The innkeeper let me go early today.” Hebe opened her reticule and took out the coins. “Here’s the money for the week.”

  Her mother took it. “My poor girl, working as a maid! I trust you came home in a hackney. I hate to think of you traveling about unescorted.” She sighed. “To think it has come to this. Your father would never have wanted…”

  Hebe no longer listened. She climbed the stairs to her room.

  “Have you given more thought to marrying Mr. Wainscott?” Her mother asked, following her up the stairs. “I know he’s far beneath us socially but seems a decent man and has not changed his mind. He called this morning to inquire after you.”

  The expression in Mr. Wainscott’s eyes, when she’d last seen him, was a curious mix of pity and longing. Hand on the banister, Hebe swung around. “I think I’d rather die than marry him, Mama.”

  “Oh. Yes. I understand, Hebe.” Her mother raised her reddened hands to Hebe’s face. “A pity he isn’t more attractive. He would take care of us and you wouldn’t have to do such dreadful work.”

  Hebe averted her eyes from her mother’s reddened skin. The sight of it tore at her heart. Mama had once been proud of her beautiful hands.

  Her mother retreated, and Hebe shut the door to her room. She took out the box she kept in the bottom of her wardrobe and dropped in the few coins she’d held back. Then she sat before the mirror. She removed the pins from her hair and brushed her long fair locks. The shock of the last year had begun to ebb leaving a hollowness in her chest. She was determined to rise above the scandal that had enveloped her and her mother when her beloved father died. It had left Hebe’s Season in ruins, while her suitors faded away. Gentlemen began to make discreet offers for her to become their mistress, and men who would never have approached her before, stepped forward prepared to rescue her from her fate; men who were too old, or like Mr. Wainscott, a widower left with children to raise.

  She stared at her wan face in the mirror. With the family’s country house and their townhouse in Mayfair, both sold, they’d moved into this depressing narrow little house with just a maid and a cook. The carriages and horses gone, and their staff, some of whom she had known all her life, all put off.

  Hebe became determined to find a way to ease her mother’s worries, but her attempts fell at the first hurdle. She was told she could never be a governess, she was too attractive, and the big houses demanded staff with some experience.

  While Hebe wandered the East End, she was befriended by Sally Green, who modelled regularly for a painter. Sally suggested Hebe try it and helped her find her first job.

  So far, posing for artists kept her and her mother’s heads above water, and allowed her to put a little away. Successful artists paid regularly and not all were like Alberto intent on seducing her.

  Poor Father hadn’t meant to leave them destitute. But he’d considered himself a failure after he’d become involved in some dubious financial scheme and lost most of his fortune. She and her mother only learned of it from the gossip mongers and broadsheets. He died leaving them in debt and burdened with the shame of suicide. Even his family had disowned them, and there was no one left from her mother’s family. Apart from her father’s sister in Brighton who showed no inclination to help them, they were entirely alone.

  Hebe sighed and rose to change her gown. She refused to place her future in the hands of any man and was determined to make her own way in the world. And when there was enough money saved, she would.

  Hebe spent the next afternoon roaming the artists’ quarter. She shared a cup of tea with Sally while she took a break from posing in her artist lover’s dreary attic. Sally pulled across the tatty curtain to hide the painter working at a canvas. The air was thick with the smells of oil paint and turpentine. Hebe wished they could open a window, but Sally was barely dressed, the thin robe stretched tight over ample curves.

  “There’s a gentleman looking for a new model.” Sally tossed back her long red hair and blew into the cup she held with both hands. “He’s very choosy, he’s already rejected Dora and Liza.”

  They were both good models. Perhaps Hebe wouldn’t be suitable either. “Who is he?”

  “Viscount Chesterton. He has a studio in Mayfair.”

  “A wealthy man?”

  “Yes. A sculptor,” Sally said. “His work is very well considered.”

  “Marigold was modelling for some lord.”

  “She was. Him. But he let her go.”

  “Why? Didn’t he treat her well?”

  “He was horrid. She said he made her cry.”

  “Well, I’m not sure that I…”

  “He gave her fifty pounds when he let her go.”

  Hebe stared. “Fifty pounds? What did she have to do for it?”

  “Nothing, she said.”

  “I find that difficult to believe.” Hebe frowned. “Perhaps he scared her into silence.”

  “Lawks!” Sally scoffed. “Marigold? I doubt a herd of bulls on the rampage through Pall Mall would scare her.”

  “Can’t hurt to go and see him,” Hebe said. “I am hardened to rudeness. But first I must spea
k to Marigold.”

  “She’s posing for an artist in Holland Park.”

  “Who?”

  “She didn’t tell me. Marigold likes to keep secrets, doesn’t trust us not to snatch the job from under her nose.” Sally grinned. “Don’t know why.”

  Two days later, in Mayfair, Hebe waited outside Lord Chesterton’s residence, a handsome four-story townhouse in Mount Street. The butler who opened the door looked down his long nose at her. Hebe quickly explained about the note she’d sent and why she wished to see the sculptor.

  “Please use the servants’ entrance in future.” He led the way past elegantly furnished rooms. At the rear of the house she went through a door that gave access to the narrow wooden servants’ stairs, leading from the kitchens up to the attics. “You’ll find his lordship in his studio at the top.”

  Hebe climbed the stairs, her breath shortening with nerves. Should she be here? Was the man a rake or a brute? She’d met lords who were known to be both during her short Season. She’d managed thus far to avoid baring all of herself, but she was prepared for the possibility, should he request it. Silly to be prudish about it. It was only a body after all. Still, some concerns niggled at her. Most artists were as poor as she was and consumed with their work. They were anxious to earn enough from their paintings to buy paints and canvases and pay their rent. This sculptor obviously didn’t have those concerns. Why did he make Marigold cry? She wished she’d been able to find out. And why had he given her fifty pounds?

  She came to the door at the very top and knocked.

  “Come.”

  She opened the door and entered a large airy space where the sun shone through a glass ceiling. A gentleman stood, chisel and hammer in hand beside a large block of pale marble. He turned to her as she entered. “Yes?”

  She stopped at the door, distracted by his penetrating gaze. Tall and dark-haired, he looked strong, and lean, and he frowned at her. Might he already have engaged a model? She half expected him to send her packing.