“Yes.” Impatiently, she kept silent as he studied it.
“The composition is well designed. What will be here?” He pointed to the blank space in the lower right.
“That will be the lion I mentioned at the Enderlys’ ball last night. He’ll be standing next to you, your hand resting on his back.”
He moved his gaze from the sketch to her, his eyes almost glowing. “I’ll look like an ancient Greek hero.”
She smiled, pleased that he could see what she sought to convey.
“It’s brilliant.”
His praised filled her heart. “Then you agree this is it?”
He nodded, but stopped. “Youwillpaint me to look like me.”
“Oh, yes. This is the painting that you can decide if you would like to own.”
“You mean that we would like to own.”
At the reminder that this would be her final painting before marriage had her stomach tightening. “Of course.” She took a deep breath in an effort to accept that hard fact. “This way we can have something to remember my painting as the go years by.”
“Amelia, why do you say that?” He stepped closer, making it a little hard to ignore the expanse of his bare chest.
She shrugged her shoulder. “I know I won’t be able to paint once we are married, but as long as I have my one masterpiece, I will be satisfied.” She gave him a weak smile. “I just hope this painting results in the vision I have in my head.”
He frowned and took her hand. “Why do you think you cannot paint once we are married? I fully expected you to continue painting.”
She blinked, trying to comprehend what he said. “But I’ll have a household to run, parties to plan, children to scold, and wifely duties to attend to. How can I paint?”
“I admit that all you mention is indeed part of marrying me, especially those wifely duties.” He wiggled his brows.
She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help smiling, especially when her body seemed to be excited about those.
“But if we must have fewer visitors so you may have time to paint, I’m happy to make that concession. Painting is part of who you are and I—like who you are. I want my children to not only respect their mother but also be proud that she has such talent.”
Her eyes welled up and she couldn’t speak, her throat having closed. She’d never considered she could be married and paint. Her mother hadn’t. Yet here was the Golden Adonis offering her the dream she’d always had along with himself as well. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and took a deep breath. “I never thought…I mean I never expected…” She gave up and threw herself into his arms. “Thank you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Andrew held Ameliato him, his own heart full that such a small gesture could mean so much to her. He liked making her happy. He wanted to make her happy for the rest of her life. He knew, deep in his soul, that he loved her. Maybe, this small act would allow her to open her heart to him. Her reaction earlier to his wet condition gave him hope that she already cared a little. He breathed deeply, and the scent of violets filled his senses as the woman in his arms warmed his heart.
Eventually, she pulled back, and he loosened his hold though he didn’t let her go. “I will always strive to make you happy.”
She didn’t meet his gaze, but a light flush filled her cheeks. “I would also like to make you happy.” A slow smirk formed on her face and as she looked into his eyes, her own twinkled. “But first I must paint to make us both happy.”
“Yes, of course. I must pose as a Greek hero.” He lifted his chin and looked off to the corner as if he were Theseus triumphant over the Minotaur.
“Um, yes, but for me to paint, you do need to release me.”
He frowned as if confused, then pulled her closer and gave her a thorough kiss. When he was sure she wasn’t thinking about painting him so much as kissing him, he let her go. Her slight stumble pleased his male ego. “Now, where do you want me?”
She took a minute to refocus her gaze then moved past him. “Over there. I will consider the edge of the window frame the final column of the Parthenon. For a lion…” She looked about before dragging the straight-backed chair over. “Come here. Face the easel and rest your hand on the back of the chair.” She grinned. “We’ll consider this the back of the lion.”
He strode to where she stood and did as she asked.
She walked back to the easel, her pale blue skirts beneath her painting apron, swishing against the stool. Turning the easel around so she could paint and face him, she stepped to the side of it and stared at him, her brows lowered. Finally, she shook her head. “That’s not right.” Scanning her studio, she stopped at her sketch table. “This might help though.” She dragged her stool from her table over to him and pushed the chair out of the way.
She stepped back a few feet. “Lay your hand on the stool. Good.” She walked back to her easel once more. Her brows knit then she shook her head. “No, it’s not right.”
