CHAPTER ONE
LONDON, 1820
Benedict,the esteemed Viscount Seton, had been staring stonily into space for what felt like hours when suddenly a vision in sensible grey cotton walked into his line of sight. The appearance of this divine apparition sent his heart thudding and a rush of sound to his ears so intense, that Benedict could not hear a word spoken to him.
The unknown woman stood in front of him, her mouth moving as Mr Winters, the wizened old painter Benedict had hired, stood nodding beside her. Benedict sat forward, enthralled, watching perfect rose-pink lips form words that must surely be making sense as the room slowly returned to focus around him.
He shook his head, attempting to clear the spell he had apparently fallen under. The goddess tilted her head, mouth pursed as she placed her hand on what Benedict noted was a particularly generous and curvaceous hip.
Goddess… really? Never had the word even crossed his mind in connection with a female.
“My Lord?” The woman’s voice floated towards him, an edge to the soft dulcet tones.
“My Lord?”
Reality crashed into him, and Benedict started, trying to focus on what appeared to be a serious conversation. Mr Winters stepped in front of the woman, and Benedict gratefully switched his attention away from her distracting presence.
“My Lord, may I introduce my daughter, Miss Emmaline Winters. She will be taking over the painting process for me while I see to an emergency. Emmaline is extremely competent, I assure you.”
Miss Winters executed a very demure curtsey, just low enough that Benedict caught a glimpse of bountiful cleavage, unsuccessfully covered by a light fichu that only drew attention to the mysterious shadow beneath. As she rose, her gaze lifted, running up his body to his face, seemingly observing him just as he did her.
Benedict frowned, confused and unaccountably aroused. He managed to form a question. “The portrait?”
“Will be completed on time, I assure you of that, Lord Seton,” replied the painter hastily, lifting his hands placatingly. “My Emmaline has a talent not often found in those of her sex.”
Benedict stifled a sigh of annoyance, glancing towards Miss Winters’s tormenting person, and then back to her father. “I am sure your daughter is quite proficient if you say it is so. Her being of the feminine sex is of no importance to this conversation.”
With a flourish of his hand, he dismissed the matter. The only thing that mattered was that the portrait was completed without any delay.
As inconvenient as it would be to have Miss Winters take over the painting, Benedict did not agree with the common sentiment that women were inferior to men when it came to talent.
Why, his sister Honora was a woman of many creative gifts and he did not doubt that there were many highly skilled painters hidden amongst the ladies of the ton. After all, it was a classic woman’s pastime, painting. Admittedly, it mostly applied to watercolours and whatnot.
What on earth had happened to his faculties? His brain had obviously stopped working coherently if he was reduced to considering the various merits of feminine handwork.
Mr Winters spluttered an apology, and if Benedict wasn’t mistaken, Miss Winters bit back a shy, almost grateful smile at his words. Benedict frowned at the sight, suddenly and inexplicably annoyed by Mr Winters’s words.
Miss Winters dipped her head at him, nodded to her father and took herself off to the makeshift studio that had been erected in the corner of the ballroom, busying herself there as Benedict stared after her like a sailor thirsting for water.
“Would you like to take a break, My Lord?” asked the painter, tugging on his beard and then hurrying off to instruct his daughter on the finer details. Clucking over her and gesticulating wildly as she quietly arranged the paints to her satisfaction on the table beside the canvas.
Benedict grimaced, shifting in his chair awkwardly. Thank goodness he was arranged with his legs crossed, or the inconvenient bulge inside his pantaloons would be blatantly on display. He carefully withdrew his pocket watch, making a show of consulting the time as he slowly counted down the seconds. Praying for his excitement to subside without embarrassing him.
When he had himself somewhat in hand, Benedict rose and called for the Hutchins, the butler, ordering tea and an assortment of treats. The errand thought of Miss Winters biting into an iced cake almost had him undone all over again, but he determinedly got himself under control.
While he waited on the refreshments, Benedict strolled aimlessly around the room, stretching stiff legs as he watched the painter and daughter out of the corner of his eye.
How the artist was still able to work was a mystery. Mr Winters was an ancient stick of a man with a tuft of white hair on his head and a gold-rimmed spectacles that fell off his nose almost habitually. However, he was the best portrait artist of the time, and Benedict knew that fashion dictated he should employ him. A pity no one had warned him about the temptation Miss Winters would pose.
Benedict took a deep breath, trying to understand this irrational reaction to the woman.
She was comely, yes, but he had been in the company of many pretty women. Under his employ, it was his duty to protect Miss Winters, not ogle her like the lowest rake in London.
She might not be a lady of his circle, but she was still a woman of quality. Miss Winters deserved his respect and a distant sort of acknowledgement. Nothing more.
Unfortunately, his gaze would not stop straying back to her.
There was something about her presence that intrigued him. It seemed ironic that a woman who should be arranged in all her voluptuous glory as a muse for someartistein a fashionable salon would be the one holding a paintbrush.
