He stepped closer to her as if by some magnetic force. “She transformed in a way I cannot forget. One moment she was hurt and in tears and the next she furiously hissed with vengeance.” He shivered, despite the warmth of the room, a common occurrence whenever he thought of that moment. “It was as if she embodied the devil himself, as if she were the snake in William Blake’s Temptation and the Fall of Eve illustration inParadise Lost. She promised repercussions against the both of us through a string of curses I’ve only heard in the vilest of back alleyways.”
All amusement vanished as Amelia frowned. “You must take her warning to heart. ‘Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned.’ I remember not who wrote that, but my sister Joanna could tell you. It is something my Aunt Mabry often said about rejected women. She had been the recipient of such revenge in her youth.”
Having his concerns about Lady Garmoyle validated beyond Harewood, both relieved and troubled him. “I do not believe she actually had feelings for me. It happened upon my third time in her presence. But I do not wish to endanger your reputation, so it has been my sole purpose to keep her from discovering our meeting.”
Lady Amelia looked down at her hands and wiped them on her apron. “I doubt very much that she would wish to force us into marriage unless she thought it would be a nightmare for you.” She looked up at him and a slow smirk formed her full lips. “Perhaps I can pretend an abhorrence of you, so as to mislead her.”
He appreciated the thought, but he didn’t want Amelia involved with someone like Lady Garmoyle. His instinct said that to voice his feelings on the matter would put her off, so he simply ignored the comment. “Whatever the lady’s reasons for coming to Sunnydale Manor, I think we should complete your artwork as soon as it is safe to do so.”
“Yes. We have a lot to do.” She turned to a half-finished canvas and set it on the floor against the wall and lifted a blank one to put in its place.
He scanned the room for the best place to pose. Artists preferred light coming in from the side as he’d noticed. Dressed as a mere groom, he should have brought a bridle with him. His gaze landed on the horse blanket, and as she set up her paints, he walked over and pulled it from its hook and laid it over the one chair in the room that had no arms. The only other furniture was a settee, which would be odd, a winged back chair, stools, and tables. Pleased with his decision, he lifted his foot and set it on the blanket on the chair. Now he just needed to decide on his boon for remaining silent and still.
Chapter Ten
Amelia poured waterinto a tall ceramic vase and set her new brush in it, the story of Lady Garmoyle still swimming in her head. Her judgement of the lady had gone from poor to complete dislike. How sad that a woman would resort to such tactics. It wasn’t as if the lady wasn’t pretty. She simply had an uncalled-for arrogance about her that she could hide if she held her tongue. Had she really been that anxious to be wed?
As an artist, she could not imagine being in a hurry to marry. Turning around, her breath caught and she swallowed hard. Sommerset’s loose shirt hung open, revealing a good expanse of his naked chest as he leaned his elbow on his knee upon the chair. His broad shoulders seemed wider in the servant shirt and the shadow about his chin made him appear harsher like a champion gladiator. While the stance was absurd, she couldn’t seem to take her gaze from him though she’d never capture his image if she didn’t move.
“Will this do? Or…” He raised himself up and set his hand on his knee instead. “Or would this be better?”
She forced herself to take in the complete image of him. He really was quite stunning. Already, her fingers tingled to begin her work. “You may want to consider—”
He twisted so she only had his back, leaving his hand on his knee and he looked over the opposite shoulder. “I could stand like this?”
Not sure if he simply teased again or honestly thought he was helping, she grinned. “Now you’re almost in theDiscoboluspose.”
His eyes lit with recognition. “Ah, by Myron. Let me see.” Without preamble, he dropped his foot, emptied the crumbs from her plate of seed cakes on the table and lifted it high in the air like a discus as he bent as if to send it off. “I believe that’s like this?”
Actually, it was exactly like that. “Yes, that’s it. But I don’t believe that will be comfortable and I doubt I could capture the entire image in a few minutes.”
His head, which had been turned toward the plate behind him that he held aloft, swiveled to look at her. “Do you doubt my strength?”
Oh, now he definitely teased. She tsked. “Such ego. How could I know your strength without some example?”
He stood straight again, scanning the room. “Is there something you wish me to lift to give proof of my prowess?” His gaze landed back on her. “You perhaps?”
Even as her cheeks heated, she countered. “Are you saying I am the heaviest object in the room?”
“Not at all.” He placed his hand over the open V in his shirt. “You are absolutely correct. Lifting you would prove nothing. Perhaps if I revealed my strength so that you might examine it.”
Before she could anticipate it, he grabbed hold of the back of his shirt and pulled it from his trousers and over his head, then whipped it over his right shoulder to hang down his back. “Do you wish to examine?” He posed like Michelangelo’s David, the shirt his slingshot as he held it over his shoulder, his other hand curled around an imaginary shot.
Her mouth went dry, and her heart started to race.Magnifique. The adjective her European art tutor had used with barely a handful of masterpieces filled her head. She couldn’t have resisted his invitation if she wanted to, and she definitely didn’t want to. She stepped closer, studying his biceps in his right arm, not a little impressed that such strength was revealed. As she moved around to the front of his torso, she clasped her hands together to keep from touching the ridges of his stomach and the mounds that formed his chest. She’d always thought the David was the epitome of the male form for a man in his twenties, but Andrew Crauford, Lord of Sommerset far surpassed that touchstone.
She continued her journey around him, quietly swallowing upon viewing his naked back, his shoulders far larger than she’d thought with muscles she hadn’t anticipated. If she couldn’t paint a masterpiece of him, then there was no hope for her. The thought brought a thrill of exhilaration rifling through her. It almost left her breathless.
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Do I pass inspection for the discus thrower? Or do you prefer a different stance?”
Recalling her purpose, she stepped around to face him. “I believe you could meet the challenge of the pose. However, I’m not confident in my ability to do it justice quite yet. Let’s begin with your foot on the chair.”
He returned to his original pose, with one hand on his knee. He was in profile, so she wanted to make the most of his arms. “Put both hands on your knee.”
He did as instructed. “Like this?”
She stepped back. No, it wasn’t right. “Twist toward the window a little.” Even as he did so, it was clear it wouldn’t work. “No, no, that won’t do.” She stepped closer. “Look in the direction of your knee, but not at it. Yes, that’s good. Now straighten your back as if you were in the military.”
“A profession not allowed to me.”
