“Goat?” He looked at her, his whisky-colored eyes wide with surprise.
This close, she could see the flecks of gold and dark brown that made them so fascinating. She really needed to capture those in the final painting. “Yes, goat. You are constantly moving and bleating.”
As his brows rose, she kicked herself for being so rude, but then he laughed. It was a laugh filled with enjoyment and life. It reminded her of when she was a child and innocent of her silly dreams. Warmth filled her at the memory of that feeling.
“You are correct. I suppose it’s in my nature. I’m not used to staying still nor of being quiet.” His eyes glowed with mirth and acceptance of who he was.
Oh, to feel like that. Would being his wife make it easier or harder? “At least I have been able to capture a bit of you so far.”
He turned his head to view the painting once again. “The torso is like looking in the mirror.”
Heat rose in her chest at the compliment. “You stare at yourself in the mirror often then?”
He grinned. “No, but I think I may have to now that you will be painting my likeness, so that I may compare appropriately.”
She rolled her eyes. “There won’t be anything to compare unless you go back to the chair and stand as you were before. Understand?” Though she smiled, she really did want to get more of the watercolor done before he had to leave.
He gave a deep bow. “Yes, my lady. As your groom, I will do whatever you say.”
She doubted that very much, but wasn’t beyond testing his offer. “Then, my dear man, please remove your shirt and stand with one foot upon yonder chair.”
He gave her a cheeky grin just before he pulled his shirt over his head. “As you wish.” Wiggling his brows at her, he strode back to the chair. When he reached it, he turned his back to her and placed his foot as she requested. “Like this, me lady?”
His attempt at a street seller’s language was pitiful. She moved her index finger in a circle. “No, turn so you’re facing the door.”
“Like this?” He turned his face in profile, but his back still faced her.
She had no doubt he teased her purposefully. Stepping around her canvas, she wound her way past the stool and table. She never claimed to be a neat artist, which made navigating her studio a bit of a challenge. By the time she reached him, he’d lifted one arm up while his other hand rested on his hip. “Now you’re either teasing me or you don’t have much intellect in that handsome head of yours.”
He immediately whipped around to face her. “You think I’m handsome?”
She wasn’t fooled for a minute by the widening of his eyes and raising of his brows since his lips kept quirking upward. “If you are looking for compliments from me, you’ll be waiting a long time. I appreciate your exterior aesthetic for my painting. That is all. Unlike Shakespeare, I do not believe that ‘apparel oft proclaims the man’.”
He swooped his arms upward. “But I barely wear any clothes.”
She bit down on her lip to keep from smiling. “Be that as it may, you do remember what your stance was before my sister arrived, and before I lose the light, I would hope as a gentleman that you would return to it.”
“How can I deny such a simple request?” He dropped his arms and repositioned himself to almost the same position.
His torso though, was at the wrong angle. “You just need to turn yourself a little.” Reaching out, she placed her hands on his back to adjust him. The shock of his warm, smooth skin was complicated by the hard strength beneath it. Her breath caught as he moved according to the pressure of her hands.
A pleasant heat filled her, making her want to touch him again. She stood back to view him, but quickly stepped forward again. “Here, bend your arm a bit more.” She touched his biceps and inner elbow, thrilled at the feel of the muscle moving beneath her fingers.
Once more the heat of pleasantness filled her. It had to be a new understanding of the human body! She stepped back, and though tempted to touch him again, she needed to get back to her easel while the feeling was with her. “Good. Now hold that pose.” She bumped into the stool in her hurry to return to her canvas. Grabbing up her paintbrush, she dipped it into the burnt umber she used to outline and shade and began to paint.
“Do you maneuver all your models in such a way?”
She dipped her brush again, the understanding flowing through her as she brushed on color, adding layers to hint at what was beneath the skin.
“How many men have you had model for you?”
His question seeped through her focus, causing her to look up, only to find he’d twisted to face her again. She frowned, not happy, but at the thought of touching him again to move him back, her pique vanished. “You are the first man to model for me.” She set down her brush and moved toward him, this time pushing the stool out of the way to have better egress when she returned to the canvas.
“You mean the only man.”
At his tone, she snapped her gaze to his. There it was. That predatory gleam like the lion she imagined him to be. Deep within the kind and teasing demeanor lay the true man. His look sent a tingling through her down to her toes, which in itself was unusual. It was usually her fingers that tingled and then only when she was anxious to create. “Yes, of course. You are the only man to model for me.” She gave him a crooked grin. “However, modeling means remaining still and quiet.”
He moved one hand from his knee and cupped her cheek. “And what do I receive in return for being a proper model?”
