All the people here were so different, but had one thing in common: their passion. Here, in this manor, there was so much collective love for not just the arts but alsocreating.
“I feel like…” she said softly, “I’ve found the place I truly belong.”
Maxwell glanced at her, as though startled, but she didn’t look at him. Her gaze fixed on a small statue, possibly Greek in origin, mounted on a small pedestal.
“It is like,” she continued, not wanting to break the hush, but knowing she had to let the words free, “I can finally breathe. There’s no shame here. No expectations.”
Maxwell’s hand found the small of her back again, but did not lead her onward. He was just reminding her that he was here, sharing this with her.
She would not have chosen anyone else to be in his place.
They moved from the saloon into a smaller room, lit by a collection of candles all burning low, with clay and water and a selection of small figurines that had evidently been made earlier.
Now, though, there was no one.
Clay was one of Thalia’s favorite mediums; it was so malleable and gave her the option of seeing her vision come to life before her eyes.
Anna’s laughter at seeing she had inadvertently recreated the Duke came to mind, and she had an idea.
“Sit for me,” she said, positioning herself before a lump of clay. “An artist must have her muse.”
Shock appeared to render him mute; he opened his mouth, then closed it. His throat bobbed. She watched as he brought his fingers to his chin, scraping gently at the stubble gathered there at the end of the day. When had he last shaved? Just looking at itmade her wonder what the short hair would feel like againstherfingertips.
She had never touched a man like that, and damp heat bloomed between her legs at the thought of that mouth against hers, the scrape of his stubble against her mouth. Against her neck. Further down—across her breasts, and?—
He met her gaze, and her thoughts disintegrated. “Where would you like me?” he asked, his voice low and rasping.
Naked, she wanted to say.Splayed before me so I might see all of you.
Instead, she said, “On the chair, if you please.”
He sat on the stool, legs slightly spread, and after a moment, rested his elbow on one knee and rested his chin on his fist. It was a pensive pose, appealing but restrained.
He shall be a fallen angel, she decided in a rush, wetting her hands to shape the clay. A man who had known heaven and hell and now contemplated them both.
I could want such a man, she thought.
Shedidwant such a man.
Silence fell between them as she worked, eager to capture his likeness before her inspiration faded or he became tired. The clay was a little stiff, a little dried, but she worked with it carefully, bringing her image to life before her.
By the time he rose, stretching out his back, a full thirty minutes later, she had almost finished.
“I took some liberties,” she said almost apologetically when he came to stand behind her shoulder, looking at her work. “And I made some assumptions regarding what you look like without your clothes. I do apologize.”
Fallen angels, she had decided, did not wear shirts and waistcoats and coats. And so, she had carved rough muscles across his chest and stomach, carving him as she had seen when he had been boxing.
Her stomach bottomed out at the thought.
Maxwell was silent so long behind her that she felt sure he was offended.
“It’s still rough yet,” she said quickly. “If I were working at home, I would have time to add details and smooth over some of the lines. I know the wings are not very defined either. I wanted them curved over your back because I felt as though that suited your pose, but?—”
He turned her on her chair, turning her face up to his. “Thalia,” he said quietly, intensely. “You are one of the most talented people I have ever met. And that includes every single person in this house.”
She flushed, smiling, absurdly pleased with the compliment. “I… I work hard at my craft,” she said, as though to neutralize the statement.
“So does anyone with any success. But you have far surpassed anyone else.”
