Faith stared at him, sure that he was annoyed with the situation even if it was unavoidable. She nodded.
“Thank you, Mr. Harris,” she said, only to see him turn his back on her as he left the room.
Was there a ruder man in all of Scotland? Surely not, and yet, the look he had given her was far from his usual glower. It had almost been one of, well, desire.
Faith blinked. Then she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to stop her train of thought. What a preposterous thing to think.
“Do not pay any attention to my son, Miss Sharpe,” the elderly man said, causing her to turn around. “He’s rarely in a good mood, but we won’t let him dampen ours.” He looked at his daughter. “Now, what will we be having for supper?”
Chapter Four
What a devilof a thing to occur, Logan thought as he stalked his way through Harris House. What were the chances of having Faith seek shelter at his home during a storm?
Well, the probability for that was somewhat high, actually. They were neighbors, after all, and to be caught in a spring storm wasn’t unheard of in these parts. But seeing her again, after being tormented by his latest acquired painting? It was as if he were staring directly into the eyes of the subject painted inOdalisque Reclined.
Was it really her? Certainly, the resemblance was uncanny. But it didn’t seem as if it could be possible. In her bearing and personality, Faith was so unlike the alluring lady in the portrait. Surely it must be a coincidence that she and the model looked so alike. Or did he simply wish to believe that because he did not care to admit that he found the piece—the piece that looked so very much like Faith—to be unbearably tempting? Looking at it made him question all of his beliefs about Faith and himself. He was not the sort to simply succumb to a beautiful woman, even if she was his ideal in every physical way. He was an intelligent man and required substance to his attraction. Layers of depth that would unfurl like a blooming rose, and he was certain Faith didn’t possess any of that.
And beyond that, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that she would sit for a portrait like that. It was scandalous. She was innocent, regardless of how blistering she might be. There wassimply no way that someone as cold and snippety as Faith had sat for such a provocative piece.
Logan returned to his room, eager to remove the clothes that were soaked through from his trip to Glencoe that morning. Dr. James Hall had been visiting his country office as he did every first of the month when he would return from Glasgow to tend to his mother. Logan had a standing appointment with the doctor to document his dark spells and continuing insomnia. But it seemed there was nothing to be done for Logan’s anxious occurrences besides living through them. Dr. Hall had suggested a dram of strong scotch at night, but alcohol was never a sure thing when it came to mitigating Logan’s anxieties. Sometimes, it would be a comfort to fall into a drunken stupor, while other times, it would only enhance the feelings of powerless misery.
It was best to simply go on as he had. Silently and alone.
He kicked off his boots and eyed the painting leaning against the wall. The mischievous glint in the model’s eye seemed to mock him as if she knew about his nervous bouts. He had stayed up late the night before, pacing the floor of his room as darkness descended around him, with only this painting as company, as Jaco preferred to sleep in the kitchens.
He took a step toward the painting and tilted his head. He wondered what she might say, having witnessed his restlessness.
“No doubt something scathing,” he mumbled, aware that his fits of panic were the crux of failures. “Especially if it were her.”
Her, of course, being Faith. The longer he gazed at the piece, the more it seemed she was smirking, as if this inanimate object could somehow acknowledge him. He wished that she would simply speak and confirm his suspicions.
Pulling a wooden chair directly before the painting, Logan sat, searching the artwork for any hint of confirmation. Her head was turned over her shoulder, showing three-quarters of her face. Though the green eyes were more flirtatious than hehad ever witnessed in real life, the dark, arched brows really caught his attention. One brow was arched slightly higher than the other, just like Faith’s. While it could be understood that the model had simply lifted one brow in a gesture of amusement or seduction, Logan couldn’t shake that the artist had captured a genuine characteristic of his model. It had been one of the first things Logan had noticed about Faith, particularly because it gave off a superior air.
Sighing, he leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. How could this possibly be Faith? He frowned at the painting as his eyes traveled down the length of her curved back, the yellow velvet draped over her backside, and the long, shapely legs, one tucked under the other. Then his eye caught on something.
A spot, or rather, several spots, just between her ankle and her Achilles tendon. Squinting, Logan moved closer to the painting. Perhaps it was a speck of dirt that had managed to get on the canvas during its travel. He swiped gently with the pad of his thumb, but it would not be removed.
It was a small grouping of freckles. A birthmark.
He squinted at it as his mind began to work. Well, then. If this was an accurate depiction of the model’s skin, all he needed to do was get a glimpse of Faith’s bare ankles, and he would know for sure. But how would he do that?
Standing up, he began to ready himself for dinner. With the continuous booming of thunder overhead, he made his way down the stairs and into the dining hall, where an unlikely sight met him.
Faith and his father were dancing while his sister clapped in rhythm, grinning at the two of them. Jeanne was standing with her back toward Logan, blocking the view of the dancers as she clapped along too. It was hard to process, as he had never seen his father dance. Logan believed him too weak to even consider it. It wasn’t pretty, as they both seemed unable to avoidmissteps, but they moved about the room in a circle, smiling at one another as they went.
“You are a fine dancing partner, Miss Sharpe,” his father said. “One of the best I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harris,” Faith said. “But I must admit, waltzes are my favorite.”
“Bravo, Papa!” Arabella said joyously. She sat in a chair and turned around from the dining room table. “I did not know you could dance.”
“Of course I can,” he said, his breath strained, causing Logan an ounce of worry. “My dancing enticed many a lady in my day.”
“Then you are woefully out of practice,” Logan said, entering the room.
Faith’s smile disappeared as her eyes met his. Jeanne turned around as his father and sister beamed.
“Isn’t Papa impressive?” Arabella said, standing up and going to him. “I shouldn’t have thought it possible.”
