Nodding, he looked back at her mother, “Where should I set up, Your Grace?”
“Where do you think best?” her mother asked.
He looked thoughtful, and again, his eyes skimmed over Rachel’s face. “Do you have a solarium, Your Grace? The lighting there should be lovely.”
“Yes, we do,” Lady Mary nodded. “Miss Colton, would you please come with us. I want you to sit in while I am away attending to a matter with the church. His Grace should be back from his morning prayers and will drop in as well.”
“Mother? You are not going to be with us?” Rachel asked, surprised.
“No,” Lady Mary shook her head. “I do not want to impede Mr. Smith’s artistic process as I am made to understand artists can be rather particular with how they work.”
A wash of strange relief went through Rachel, and she only nodded. It was probably for the best as she did not think that having her mother and her criticizing gaze and words would help.
Jane curtsied to her mother and led Rachel and Mr. Smith up the sweeping staircase and down the corridors to the west wing where the public rooms were. The solarium was expensive, and the tall bow and mullioned windows gave enormous amounts of light into the room.
With a look over her shoulder, Rachel realized that Mr. Smith was carrying a wooden easel under his arm and slung over his other arm was the strap of a leather satchel. She looked around, wondering what more they would do there.
“Miss Colton, was it?” Mr. Smith asked, and at Jane’s nod, he continued. “Would you open those drapes to the east window wide and make sure that the space is good enough for me to move this chair there.”
When Jane went off, Rachel took a moment to admire Mr. Smith; his sculpted face, firm jaw, arching cheekbones, thin blade of a nose, and thick brow did not fit the person he was. She could easily see him in a dark ball suit, and meticulously tied cravat with a gaggle of debutantes reaching for him to marry them.
She watched as Jane fixed the curtains, and when they were set to Mr. Smith’s liking, she watched as he single-handedly lifted a wingback and set it at an angle to the window.
“My Lady?” Mr. Smith gestured to her. “Please.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” Rachel stuttered, hoping that the man had not caught on to her staring. Moving to the chair, Rachel sat and fixed her body in a way she thought appropriate for a portrait, face front and with little emotion.
But Mr. Smith shook his head, “No, no, that is not fitting. Turn to your side a little.”
She shifted, but it was not enough, and with more encouragement, she found herself sitting at an angle where she was slanted. Rachel felt the sunlight on half of her face, and the other half was shadowed.
“Would you tilt your face up?” he asked, and she did. “To the left a little.”
She tried to follow his instructions, but after three more ineffective tries, Mr. Smith came to her, notched a knee on the arm of the chair, and asked, “May I touch you?”
Wide-eyed, Rachel’s eyes shot to her maid, who looked as lost as she was. Looking back at Mr. Smith, Rachel nodded her permission. No man, except her father, had ever touched her, and Rachel felt the air in her chest hitch.
His fingertips were rough with calluses, and his skin was warm as he gently shifted her face to the left, where the light was coming from. He pulled away to consider, then lifted her head a little more, then used his thumb to shift her head just a smidgen more.
“There,” he sighed in satisfaction. “That is the best angle. Do you think that you can stay there for a good while?”
“I will do my best,” she said.
He pulled away, but the remnants of his touch still lingered on and under her skin. It took her all her efforts not to shiver at the still impression of his thumb on her chin. Not to mention the feelings that erupted in her chest at the intent look in his vivid eyes. Rachel had a strange feeling that he was seeing more of her than what she saw of herself.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him set up the easel and lay a hard slate on it before putting the paper. He flicked out his satchel, which unfolded again to reveal a section that had pencils slotted through little hoops. He slid one out and then pinned her with an all-encompassing gaze that he held for a long and somewhat nerve-wracking minute.
When he dropped his gaze, only then did Rachel suck in a breath. The burning her lungs startled her a little, and from there, she made sure to take in measured breaths, but not deep enough for her to disturb the pose Mr. Smith wanted her to take.
The frequent tingle of her skin and the sporadic prickle of gooseflesh across her skin told her the times Mr. Smith’s astute eyes landed on her. Keeping her eyes away from him, Rachel wracked her mind; what was it about the man that piqued her attention and strange reaction to him? He made her quiver inside.
She thought back to the few balls she had attended, how the gentlemen would skip their eyes over and find the other more fashionable ladies, as if only they were worthy of their attention. Rachel had felt utterly undesirable and has suffered hours sitting on the sidelines with other wallflowers.
Now, to have the attention of a man secured on her felt strange and exciting. Even if it was only for a portrait, she feltseen, remarkable, and not as invisible as she once thought she was.
Truly, Rachel, he is only a painter; his attention is supposed to be on you. Do not romanticize it, no matter how handsome he is.
Rachel held the pose for a long as she could until strain began to sit into her shoulder. She could feel Mr. Smith’s eyes flick over her while his fingers flew over the paper. Under all her fascination with Mr. Smith, Rachel still felt miffed with her mother and this whole proceeding.
