At his touch, her breath caught. That the feeling of warmth occurred either way was mystifying. “What would you request?”
His gaze settled on her lips and she barely kept from licking them. She sincerely hoped he would not want a kiss. That was hardly what these sittings were about. They needed to focus on the painting. The pressure of time weighed heavily on her, and her instinct now confirmed that she could paint her masterpiece with him as her subject, but he must remain her bowl of fruit.
His gaze finally raised to meet hers. “I would like to know what your costume will be for the Noells’ masquerade ball.”
She blinked at the surprise request. “Why would you wish to know that? Is not the idea of a masquerade to hide one’s identity?”
His grin was slow and mischievous. “Not necessarily. Many simply enjoy dressing as something other than they are. I, myself, was thinking this groom’s outfit might be just the thing.”
She squinched up her nose. “I don’t think that would do at all.” She looked askance at him. “Unless you were hoping to entice one Lady Garmoyle with your willingness to obey her every request.”
His whole body stiffened. “I can find something else.”
“I suggest you do. She plans to be Lady MacBeth, so avoid any queens walking about the ballroom to be overly cautious.”
“I will. However, since we shall all be disguised, it seems the perfect opportunity for us to be in each other’s company since no one will know who we are. But if I know what costume you are wearing, I can find you.” His countenance made it clear he was rather pleased with his deduction, but there was bound to be unmaskings and many wouldn’t even bother with a mask.
“And if I tell you my costume, you will stop moving and talking?”
“You have my word.” He laid his hand over his heart to exaggerate his seriousness about something hardly serious and yet more so than it first appeared.
She gave a heavy sigh as if he asked for a great boon. “If you must know, I plan to go to the masquerade as a shepherdess.”
“Like the one of true love in Catel’s painting?”
Horsefeathers, she’d forgotten about that painting. It had too close a connection to him. She’d have to devise something else. “Now will you please take your pose?”
“Only for you will I stop bleating.”
Relieved by his promise and his ability to take her jest about him being a goat in stride, though to be truthful, he did seem to get into everything like that particular animal, she studied his position. “You just need to move your face to the left.” She touched his chin to nudge it a bit more in profile. Unable to resist, she swept her fingers through his hair just over his ear to see it clearly.
His shoulder came up and his hand imprisoned hers. “That tickles.” He let go of her hand and brushed his hair back. “Will that do?”
She grinned. Between the warmth filling her and discovering he had a weak spot, she could have purred with happiness. “That’s just right. Now face the door again.” She laid her hand on the back of his neck as he swiveled his head. The strength even there sent an excited spark through her.
Quickly, she returned to her canvas. Her heart beat hard with foreseen success. For the first time, she knew, with no doubts at all, that she could accomplish her goal. She picked up her brush and viewed the man that would make her dream come true before setting paint to the canvas once again. Her masterpiece was in the making. Now all she needed to do is follow her instincts.
Chapter Eleven
Andrew stood nextto a potted plant and studied the dancers currently performing the Quadrille. He’d been at the masquerade for over an hour and he still had not spotted his quarry. Though there were at least seven shepherdesses in attendance, one of which he was quite sure was Lady Beaumont, not one of them was Amelia.
The little minx lied to him. He should be irritated, but he couldn’t help but admire her ingenuity in turning the tables on him. The problem now was to find her and extract a fair payment for her perfidy.
He adjusted his “belly,” a large, feathered pillow his valet had tied around him before he’d donned the brown robes and cincture of a Franciscan friar. The large cowl helped to hide his own hair while the headband with very short bangs made of horsehair made it appear his own coloring to be dark. He had Lambert to thank for the entire costume, having borrowed the robes from a friend and created the headband himself. As a valet, the man surpassed all expectations. Now if he could just figure out what costume his lovely bride-to-be would wear.
He studied a blonde Roman Empress. There were only three empresses but the one dancing was the only one with the correct color hair. Yet even as he watched her skip down the center of the room, he shook his head. It wasn’t his future wife. The Empress moved too stiffly. Amelia was light of foot and her svelte form graceful. He let his gaze wander, keeping his sights on blonde women, which unfortunately, were in the majority. While he’d recognize Amelia’s lighter shade in daylight, in the candlelight, it was hard to distinguish hues.
Having eliminated all blonde empresses, shepherdesses, goddesses, Circassians, sultanas, and angels, he began studying every other female with light hair. The six queens in attendance all sported dark hair, and one in particular of diminutive size and wearing a plaid sash, he kept his distance from. Unless of course Lady MacBeth was willing to confess her sins to a Franciscan friar. That could be interesting, but best not to tempt fate. Since over a hundred women attended the extravagant affair, it could take him all night to find Amelia. The longer he searched, the higher her payment would be. He had hoped to steal a kiss, but now he may extract more.
The music stopped, and he scanned the last round of dancers. Harewood strode off the floor directly in front of him. Dressed as a Musketeer, his friend had eschewed a mask and donned a musketeer hat, making it obvious who he was. That his chosen costume was one of the recently disbanded French guard would invite much speculation come the morrow, probably exactly what Harewood hoped for.
“Have you not found her yet? I noticed a gaggle of shepherdesses by the punch before the last dance.”
Andrew clasped his hands together and lowered his head. “Women do not form gaggles. That’s geese.”
“Humph. By the sounds that issued forth when I strode by, I believe my descriptive word more apt. Now do stop looking down. You look guilty.”
“I am guilty.” He lifted his head and wiggled his brows. “I have nefarious intentions.”
