“None of your concern,” said Silas quickly, but it was too late.
“A wager of seduction is it? Didn’t think you had it in you,” grinned the man, clapping Benedict on his shoulder. “Carry on!” he cried and wandered back to his table.
“Now look what you have done,” said Benedict. “Imagine it was Honora we were discussing now, you would never have allowed her name anywhere near such a conversation. You would have called me out.”
“Branwin won’t even remember this conversation in the morning, I assure you. But you are right, I apologise.” Silas raised his hands placatingly.
But it was too late, Benedict was already storming out of the club in a fury.
CHAPTER FOUR
Painting Lord Setonhad become an exercise in control for Emmaline.
There was just something sensual in the act of tracing his form on the canvas, each slow drag of the brush describing the masculine contours before her in a language only she could understand.
Sometimes they spoke, sometimes they sat the whole day in silence, but always Emmaline was thinking.
For heaven’s sake could she please just stop thinking?
Thinking about the tone of his voice, the veins that lined the back of his hands, the way he clenched his jaw when he was deep in contemplation. All the details that one noticed if they spent hours examining a person.
The worst was the feeling that she was growing to know him. That was themostdangerous.
Emmaline had to constantly remind herself that although he might be telling her stories of his boyhood, his sister or details from his day, he was not opening up to her in actual truth.
He was merely bored.
Emmaline had worked on being easy to talk to, she had some practice in making her clients comfortable. That was all.
Anything to bring her down from the clouds and ground her in reality.
He was a Viscount, a peer of the realm. She was just a lowborn woman who was painting his portrait.
She wasworking.
Emmaline looked down at her hands and grimaced at the sight. That was a reminder enough of the divide between them. Her hands were calloused from holding the brushes and constant cleaning with turpentine. Her nails were a travesty, and paint was perpetually embedded in her cuticles.
These were not the hands of a gently bred lady. She would never be anything but plain, practical Emmaline.
Just at that moment, a lady walked into the ballroom, a vision in white ruffled muslin. She was blonde and pretty, her cheeks glowing with health and her eyes sparkling with good humour.
The woman waltzed up to Benedict and stepped up to the diaz, bussing his cheek affectionately as she greeted him.
Looking between them Emmaline noticed a resemblance, they must be related.
It was chastening how relieved she felt at the realisation.
Viscount Seton stood up and led the lady over to where Emmaline was seated before the canvas.
Emmaline jumped up and stepped back with a bow of her head, giving them space to view the progress of the work as she tried to inconspicuously clean her hands on an oil-stained rag.
But Lord Seton walked straight past the painting to Emmaline with a smile that almost stole her breath, her hands paused mid-wipe.
“Miss Winters, this is my sister, the Countess of Windham. Honora this is Miss Winters, she is a most accomplished artist.”
Emmaline blushed shyly as she bobbed a curtsy for the lady, quickly hiding her hands behind her skirt and murmuringher greetings and thanks while the pair smiled at her most confusingly.
It felt like she spent most of her days here with her cheeks flushed. It was mortifying.
