But as she began his face and mixed the perfect color for his lips, her mind drifted again. She had intimate knowledge of those lips. She knew their texture and taste. Licking her lips, she took that knowledge into account as she painted. This time, she forced herself to keep his hair short and she darkened the color at the memory of Joanna viewing her watercolor. Carefully, she changed the nose and kept him clean shaven, which he wasn’t. She’d not seen any men beyond laborers and grooms with such a beard, though many of her class sported beards. As she’d touched his chin, she’d found it rough, and it caused tingles in her belly.
Moving to the violet silk, she quickly mixed her Venetian red and Indigo to her preferred color and painted it easily, but as she moved to his thighs, heat seemed to fill her. Determined, she began the long strokes that would bring his legs to life. She tried to focus on every nuance, but she wished for her fan as she wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. The more strokes she made, the harder it was not to touch him.
He remained true to his word, not asking any more questions, nor moving in the slightest. He just lay there allowing her to ogle him all she wished. At that thought, she dropped her brush onto her palette. At the noise, he turned his head. “Are you finished?”
She rubbed the back of her waist with her fist and glanced at the clock. An hour and a half had passed, and he hadn’t moved. Guilt filled her. Was that why his muscles seemed to stand out more. “I’m so sorry. Please be comfortable.”
He sat up, the silk almost falling from his lap, but getting caught on something. He slapped his hand down to hold it in place. “I never realized how strenuous posing for a portrait could be.”
“Have you not had your portrait painted?” At his age, it was common to have sat for at least two by now.
“There is one done of me when I was but four. However, my parents swore they wouldn’t have another one done until I had ‘settled.’ At least that was the word they used.”
She chuckled. “No doubt you were as talkative and active back then as you have been for me…until today.”
“I was, but more so. Did I not do well for you today?”
She had to give credit where it was due. “You were perfect today. Thank you. In fact, you are welcome to dress if you like. I believe I can finish the rest now that I have your figure.”
“Really?”
She studied the canvas already noting what she’d add and the changes she’d make so it wasn’t obvious it was him. “Yes, I have enough now.” She looked back at him to tell him what to expect with the final painting and her words died on her lips.
He had risen, leaving the silk behind, and walked to where he’d left his clothes. His entire backside was there for her to enjoy and enjoy she did. His buttocks were far more enticing than any marble statue and her fingers itched for a completely different reason. For the first time, she wished she could sculpt. Now she was torn on what side of him would be best for her final painting…and which side she most wished to touch.
Chapter Thirteen
Andrew pulled onhis pantaloons first, hoping the fall would help to hide his slowly receding erection. When he’d initially agreed to pose nude for Amelia, he hadn’t thought it would be an erotic experience, but lying there, knowing she was studying every part of him had been a battle for control, one he had finally lost.
He hadn’t realized how dispassionate an artist could be. The night he kissed her, he’d tapped into her passion, and if he wasn’t mistaken, her curiosity, one that was anxious to be satisfied. Yet today, except for a couple of blushes, she hadn’t seemed to be as affected by his unclothed state as he was. Was that due to her lack of knowledge? Could it be that a female virgin, a person with no knowledge of the pleasures of the flesh, couldn’t be enticed due to having never experienced pure bliss?
Sitting in the straight-backed chair, he pulled on his boots. As a young man, ignorance hadn’t hindered his own randiness, but boys were raised with a different focus and with far more freedom to explore carnal relations. Perhaps Amelia just needed to learn what she was missing. He had no doubt that a fire could be lit inside her. Now to determine how to best light it.
He grabbed his shirt from the table and rose, throwing it over his head, but not bothering to button it. Glancing at Amelia, he found her focus solely on the painting of him. That she could so quickly become engrossed in something other than himself caused an odd sort of jealousy to creep into his mood. It made no sense since the painting was of him, but he couldn’t shake it. Stepping between the furniture, he came up behind her to view her work, taking in her unique scent of violets. He frowned. It was him, but not him. The man had dark hair on his head and chest, a different nose, and a sharper chin. “Who is that?”
“Oh.” She started as if she hadn’t heard his heeled boots as he’d moved behind her. She didn’t turn to look at him, but instead stared at the man on the settee in her painting. “It’s you, but modified to look like someone else.” She finally looked back at him. “When my sister was in here, she found the watercolor and recognized you. I told her I used your profile, but the body was from a sketchbook she’d given me.” She looked back at the painting. “I didn’t want to risk anyone thinking you might be coming here.”
Though he didn’t want her to lose her reputation either, a part of him resented that they needed to hide their relationship so thoroughly. It was her blasted bargain that he agreed to that forced the secrecy. He still understood why, but he found that now he wished to tell the world that she was his and be done with all the subterfuge. “If I’m your model and to be presented with the final product, I expect it will actually be of me.” He hadn’t meant to sound so stern, but at her wide eyes as she snapped her head around to look at him, she’d obviously noticed.
“Are you expecting to instruct me on what to paint?”
At her bristling tone, it was obvious she didn’t like that idea at all. “I would not be so bold. I have a good eye for art, but no talent in the creation of it.”
That appeased her, her blue eyes seeming to darken as she set down her paintbrush and turned her body to face him. “I couldn’t imagine being happy not being able to paint, no matter how poorly.”
He’d never told anyone how it felt, but looking into her sympathetic gaze, he was sure she would understand. “Nor could I. I did make more than one attempt. More than a dozen if I’m to be truthful. All were harder to look upon than not painting at all. It is frustrating beyond the telling to see a vision in your mind and not be able to create it.”
“Perhaps that was your difficulty. I can see the whole painting, but I must have pieces of it in front of me. When I try to sketch from memory, everything goes wrong. Terribly wrong. But when I have something in front of me…” her lips formed a small smirk. “Like a bowl of fruit, then I can capture every nuance and shadow.”
He appreciated her reference, and it did help take the sting from his failure. “I tried a bowl of fruit, a dog, a fire, a sunset, a curtain, a chair—”
“A chair?” Her brows rose, but her smile still played about the corners of her lips.
“Well, it was a rather ornate chair.” Grinning now, he appreciated her humor. He liked that she found amusement in the smallest of things. “Alas, even the chair failed me. That is why I turned to collecting great art. I feel I can appreciate what goes into its creation more than some others.”
“Just some? I’d say you can appreciate it at a level very few achieve. Your eye is excellent.”
Pride filled him that she thought so highly of him. “What about you? You obviously have talent.” He motioned toward the oil on her easel. “What drives you to paint?”
