“You made these? A-All of them?”
Thomas nodded, settling on the stool before the easel, his eyes firmly fixed on her as he explained,
“Every single one. It is just a hobby of mine, a way to pass the time. I do not particularly have any talent, so I am not very good at it. But I find it relaxing, so I come here whenever I can and a paint a new piece.”
Jane turned back to the painting on the wall, noticing that it was a remarkable depiction of a stormy sea. Despite what the duke had said, his works were rather breathtaking, and Janewas captivated as she admired them, silently walking around the room.
When she turned back to compliment him, she found him watching her intently, and she was overcome with shyness, helpless against the familiar rise of heat in her cheeks.
“Stop that,” she mumbled, looking away.
“Stop what? What do you mean?” she heard him ask, his voice bearing the tiniest inflection of confusion.
“You are always staring at me,” Jane whined, pressing her hands to her face in an effort to conceal herself somehow as she turned back to him. “At first I thought it was because I reminded you of your late wife, but you said you no longer saw the resemblance between us. So, I do not understand why you keep... it makes me nervous. Please... stop.”
“Ah,” he sighed deeply. “I did not realize it bothered you. I find your face intriguing and from the moment I set my eyes on you, I thought I would like to paint a portrait of you.”
Jane stared at him in surprise, not expecting such a candid admission. “Oh... is that so?”
Thomas nodded and not for the first time that day, Jane was struck by how similar he was to Reuben. Perhaps without realizing it, Thomas had taught his son all of his personal traits.
“I really would like to do so. Would you be willing to model for me? If only for a little bit?” he requested earnestly.
Jane found herself nodding slowly, speaking as he beckoned her closer.
“I do not mind, as long as I do not have to stay still. I'm not very good at... keeping still.”
She walked towards him and sat in the chaise that he pointed her too, surprised to find a smirk on his face when she looked back at him.
“I have noticed, duchess. You fidget quite a bit,” he said, his voice teasing and light.
That is because you always stare at me,Jane said to herself, unable to admit as much out loud, no matter how she wished that she could.
Thomas stared at her for a moment, then he suggested,
“Relax, duchess. It is not a formal wedding portrait. I hope that this would be enjoyable for us both.”
Jane looked down at her form and realized that she was seated stiffly and upright, as though she was indeed posing for a formal portrait of some sort. After a moment’s thought, she brought her legs up to the cushions of the chaise and leaned her elbow against the arm of it. When she looked back at him, Thomasnodded from where he stood, adjusting his easel so the back of it faced her.
“Better. But still...”
He left the easel and walked to her, gently adjusting her arm so she was comfortably resting against the chaise, taking the other to rest on the curve of her hip. Lastly he gently curved his fingers around her chin, tilting it upward slightly. She peered up at him through her lashes, meeting his ever-steady gaze.
His touch was warm, and her skin longed for more. And the way he held her, the way his focus never strayed from her made her feel as though she could ask. As though all she needed to do was... whisper what she wanted and he would oblige her.
Jane inhaled shakily, pulling her lower lip between her teeth and she could swear that his eyes followed the small movement, could practically taste how entranced he was.
And she nearly, very nearly leaned closer to claim more of the weight between them.
After a few seconds of silence, he cleared his throat and returned back to his easel.
“Stay as still as possible. Try not to be too aware of your body, or you’ll become sore much sooner. Relax.” He instructed as he picked up a paint brush.
It was strange, how willing she had been to be the subject of his art, to volunteer to be beneath his gaze. She did not mind it as much now, although it still had the same effect on her.
Jane tried not to focus so much on herself — especially not the heat on her face — instead watching him as he studied her.
The way he glanced between her and the canvas showed just how used he was to the routine of studying and painting. His brush moved along the canvas in swift strokes, and he pursed his lips every time he had to ponder before he used a different color.
