A footman rolled in the tea tray, arranging it neatly beside the dias and providing a welcome distraction from the wicked turn of his thoughts.
Benedict cleared his throat. “Can I interest you in some tea, Mr Winters… Miss Winters?” They both looked up, but politely declined, going back to the work as Benedict sighed and indicated for the footman to pour. Benedict sipped on his tea as he considered whether he would be able to sit for hours alone with Miss Winters.
Never had Benedict felt such a sudden loss of command. He was a serious man, a member of Parliament. A man of words, and logic, not emotion.
Benedict decided he needed reinforcements, to remind him of his sanity.
Perhaps Silas and Honora. His sister would be the perfect distraction and would surely spend her time nattering away about paint and the like with Miss Winters while Benedict learned how to ignore his reaction.
Benedict needed this painting to cement his election into the Albany Club, a society for polyglots that was notoriously exclusive. It was an elaborate way of securing entry, but a tradition nonetheless. To gain admission, one had to hang a portrait in the hallowed halls of the institution along with the rest of the esteemed members. There were no two ways about it.
Mr Winters clapped his hands, indicating that all was arranged to his satisfaction. “I will leave you now, but I will return and check on Emmaline’s progress in three days.” With that, the man bowed his way out the door, leaving Benedict alone with his daughter.
Miss Winters briskly tied on an apron and positioned herself before the canvas, arranging her skirts neatly as she shifted to the best situation. She glanced up at him as she took up the paintbrush, luminous brown eyes sparkling with something like mischief.
“Now, My Lord, where shall I have you?”
CHAPTER TWO
Emmaline staredwith fascination at the arresting male specimen before her as the most ridiculous words in all of Christendom fell from her lips.
“Where shall I have you?
She was innocent but not ignorant, for heaven’s sake.
Heat rose in her cheeks as Emmaline snapped her mouth shut, but it was far too late. Blast her tongue, it was always getting her into trouble of some sort. She had an annoying habit of losing her good sense when she was nervous.
Lord Seton paused mid stride at the words, glancing at her before moving forward again, and Emmaline swore she saw the faintest hint of a smile curve the corner of his sensuously shaped mouth.
No, it must be her imagination. There was no way that a man such as he, with his serious, almost sombre expression, had an iota of humour in that lean, lithe body.
The lord stepped up onto the dais that had been erected and draped elaborately for the portrait, elegantly lowering himself onto the couch and crossing his legs in a nonchalant manner that did funny things to her belly.
Some low, fluttery feeling like a buzzing sensation inside of her that Emmaline was sure she had read about in the illicit novels she smuggled up to her bed chamber.
Her father did not approve of romantic fantasies. Those were for others, people who did not need to worry about putting food on the table.
Shaking herself out of the stupor, Emmaline took a deep breath and surveyed her subject in all his glory.
Squinting slightly, to separate the shadows from the light, she observed the narrow planes of his face, almost wolfish, his blue eyes were hooded but slightly slanted. His wardrobe was pristine black - black superfine jacket, waistcoat, black pantaloons and footwear. It was broken only by the snowy perfection of his shirt and intricately knotted cravat, topped by the fashionably tousled dark blond hair that fell across his brow.
From the light catching the crown of his head to the manicured tips of his fingers Lord Seton was a perfect specimen of male power.
It was one of the many luxuries Emmaline enjoyed about painting portraits, the opportunity to stare unabashedly at people. People, of all kinds and classes, fascinated her. Never was there a face that did not offer some small unique quality that did not cry out for her to sketch it down quickly, gathering faces and features with her pen or charcoal as selfishly as a child hoarding sweet candy.
The lord cleared his throat, then again, more loudly, and Emmaline started on her chair, smiling with embarrassment as her hand started to move across the canvas, the brush tracing wash lines across the surface with light, energetic movements.
She squinted at the lines and tones already laid down, noting the inconsistencies and shaky lines of her father’s hand. More and more he was leaving her to do the bulk of the work. Theywere trading on his name alone at this point, as he had not finished a painting start to finish in more than a year.
Lord Seton looked steadily back at her as she worked, and Emmaline felt herself grow hot under his view. Her gaze flicked up to his on more than one occasion to gauge what she could see there. His eyes were a startling clear blue framed with thick dark lashes, and they flashed with something that made Emmaline squirm in her seat.
She needed to change the atmosphere, it was getting too hard to concentrate, her hand wavering unsteadily as it picked up some fresh paint with the brush.
Her tongue took control once again. “You look like a Puritan, My Lord,” said Emmaline with a daring tilt of her head. “Surely your valet despairs at the austere palette of your dress. He must long for a brightly coloured waistcoat.”
The lord narrowed his gaze and cleared his throat, eyes running from her head to the tips of her toes where her plain calfskin half-boots peeked out from under her hems.
“And you, my dear, look like a sensible young woman. It seems we must both be wrong.”
