“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I suppose it’s true when there’s good light.” She pointed to the windows to the right of him. “My mother designed this room so it would get the best light. She used to paint, so she knows what environment is best for painting.” Now why did she tell him that? “Since you’ve finally come, then I suggest we begin. If you would, rest a hand on the back of the chair there and look out the window.”
“Of course.” His tone sounded disappointed. If he thought he was in her studio to court her, he’d soon learn differently. This was her domain, and she focused on only one thing here, her art. Putting aside the pencil, which was just too dark for him, she opened her pastels. Choosing burnt umber to capture him best, she placed it in her holder and started to sketch.
“Have you been painting long?”
She started with his broad shoulders. “Yes.” Moving her hand quickly, she added his neck and chin. Having itched to draw him all season, her hand seemed to know exactly what to do.
“How long?”
Adding the outline of his profile took no time at all. The multi-tones of his hair though would be impossible to capture with just one pastel. Still, rather than take the time to switch out colors in her holder, she added the strands with the deep umber color she used, making them a bit longer than they actually were, but they only added to the effect. His nose was strait and blended in perfectly with the bone structure of his face. She smudged a short line around his cheekbone with her thumb. There was a slight shadowing beneath his nose and along his chin and cheeks which she added, his whiskers growing despite his morning shave, no doubt. It kept him from looking too young in her opinion.
“Lady Amelia?”
She added dark eyebrows, the same color as some of the strands of his hair. Drawing the outline of his eyes, she carefully stroked on the thick lashes. Looking back at him to capture his eyes, she found him looking at her expectantly. “You’re supposed to be looking out the window.”
“I asked you how long you’ve been painting.”
“How long? Since I could hold a paintbrush I imagine, though I started with pastels at barely three.” She held up her brass holder with the burnt umber rectangle crayon firmly in place.
“Three? You remember drawing when only three-years-old?” He fully faced her now, making it impossible to continue the drawing.
She dropped her hand on the table but kept a hold of her drawing implement. “Of course I don’t remember, but it’s what my mother told me. She painted before she married. As she tells it, I showed promise even at the age of five.” She smirked at the memory. “By the time I was seven, I called myself the creator because I created art.” She chuckled at her own audacity back then. “I fear my mother’s indulgence led to an overly confident artist.” She lifted one shoulder. “But to be truthful, we all carved out our own place in the family.”
It was just that hers was the most frivolous and least needed. “Joanna is the knowledgeable one which was encouraged by our father. Mariel is the practical one and the one mother included the most in the daily running of the estate. Belinda passed before she could come out. She was…” Belinda was like a mystic moment, undefinable, unearthly, beyond human.
He set his foot on the chair and leaned his elbow on his knee. “You miss her.”
At his words, she lifted her gaze to his. “We all do. She was the heart of our family. When she died, she took a piece of each of us with her.”
As if he knew any words he might utter would be of no value, he kept silent. But his eyes spoke volumes. Sympathy shone clearly there, but there was something more. Something she didn’t understand, probably because she didn’t know him. Whatever it was, she found herself needing to explain. “Belinda cared about all of us, our friends, even strangers. She had a sympathy for all of humanity.”
Her heart still hurt at the memory of the sister who was older than her, but the closest to her. “She died because she helped strangers. Mother liked to support charities with donations, but Belinda had a calling. She would bring food and medicine to those less fortunate. One of our tenant’s babies had Scarlett Fever and she brought them food, but it was more than just the baby. The whole family had it. They could barely feed themselves, so she fed the baby.” She swallowed hard, not able to continue.
“And she caught it as well.”
His sympathetic voice had her nodding. She stared into his kind eyes and the tears that had welled up disappeared. Forcing herself to look away, she picked up her pastel again. “Now, you need to stay in your pose if I’m to finish this sketch.”
He dropped his foot to the ground and moved back behind the chair. “And if I do, what will be my reward?”
She frowned. “Reward?”
“Yes. I understand that models for artists are usually paid well.”
How did he know that? “So you want to be paid like a typical model?” It was hardly fitting for an earl, and she could only stare at him in disbelief.
He laughed softly, the sound seeping into her skin and causing a strange prickly sensation over it. “No, not paid in coin. Let’s say for today, which must be a relatively short, uh sitting? Is that what you call it?”
She nodded, anticipating his next words too much to speak herself.
“Sitting. That is a rather unusual term for one who might be needed to stand as I am now. And how could it be called sitting if I were to lie down?”
She opened her mouth to ask him to simply tell her what he wanted when she noticed a twitch at the corner of his right eye. If she had blinked, she would have missed it. Was he teasing her? Barely holding back a smile, she pretended to ponder his question. “I imagine the phrase sitting for an artist came from some ancient Latin word or other. I’m sure my sister Joanna could tell us. I will definitely ask her when she arrives.” She gave him an innocent stare. “If you like, we can call it posing rather than sitting, if it makes you more comfortable.”
He grimaced. “I’d rather not. That sounds like I’m in parliament where there’s far too much posing and posturing going on.”
She lifted her pastel. “Then sitting it will be.” Immediately, she started to sketch on another paper. Since he looked at her, she attempted to capture his entire face, or at least the basic lines.
Then he turned his back to her to face the window completely. “This studio gives you a pleasant view of your family’s eastern border.”
