It was good, and though I wanted to pluck a huge chunk and smack it to my lips, I refrained from the temptation. All the yeasty breads of Britain made my silhouette fluctuate from thick to thicker.
His eyes were on me again. I assumed that meant Felton liked thick.
“Discipline is what Lord Tramel would say.” My father-in-law was a good mentor to me on these shores. He made the loneliness tolerable. I so missed his estate. Close to the sea, the woods of Warwick Manor were lively, with such flora and fauna. It always offered adventure. The studio the duke offered was a palace, not a lowly closet, nothing like this.
“Cecilia, may I at least lower one arm?”
“One, and for a few minutes.” Holding in my chuckles, I returned my attention to my whimsical portrait. My serious compositions were hidden under cloths in piles about the room. They were for me when I was alone. I’d rather his family, the Lances and Gladstones, think me silly rather than judge my true art.
Since we’d moved to London and away from his father’s estate, I let Felton’s daughters see sometimes. Agatha and Amelia kept my secrets. They were good girls. They liked me, my voice, the things I offered from across the sea.
“Cecilia? Ouch. Find another punishment for me being away.”
Felton did look pained and sad. “If you must take a rest, do so. Take the time to put on the toga. I’d love to see you do it.”
“What?” He shook his head, then straightened his arms and lifted the torch and knife again.
Stubborn.
Fully dressed in a shirt and onyx waistcoat and not a button undone, he’d break one of his lanky arms merely to keep from being made to look ridiculous.
“Oh, put them down, Felton. And you don’t have to slip into the garb of a Roman soldier tonight. I will accept your cheese sacrifice.”
“Thank you. Something for the queen of our London abode.” He lowered my theatric items. “Jane says you sleep in here most nights, not our bedchamber.”
The small cot was comfortable, and I avoided their scrutiny of when I was or wasn’t painting. “Lady Jane loves to keep track of my whereabouts.” I cupped my chin and offered a thoughtful look, not something sour like I felt. “Is your sister’s preoccupation a quest to hide from your aunt’s matchmaking or to track the foreigner in her midst?”
His gaze darted from mine, circling about the room, the dull whitewashed walls, smallish window, the piles covered in linen sheets.
Then it returned to me, as though he’d made a turn about the ballroom and chose me as his partner. “Cilia,” he said in a soft low voice, “you’re exaggerating. What if we head to Bath for the week?”
“Is that a bribe? Can I count on this?” I pinched a small piece of cheese and settled it on my tongue. “You’ll get one of those white notes and you’ll be gone by morning. Your mistresses are too demanding.”
His face became quite serious with his long nose flaring. “I’m faithful, Cecilia. Never doubt that, but my business interests require attention.”
“Not much adventure in broken promises.”
He shifted in his traveling boots and pumped his arm like that of a jaguarete on the prowl. The jaguarete, the largest predator in the world—well, my old world of Demerara—was a solitary beast on the prowl. Was that what I found on that road in Stabroek?
Felton snapped his fingers. “Cecilia, come back to me. I’m right here posing for you. We are good when we make the most of our time.”
“That definitely sounds as if you will be leaving soon.”
“Cilia. My Cilia.” That purr, the way he said the endearment of my name sent a thrill over my skin. I did miss him and hated that some cheese and hearing his voice made me weak for him.
But he’d never know that.
He might give up trying to woo me.
With a flick, I uncorked my deep rouge pigment. “My lord, if you had chosen to wear the Roman toga, I’m sure I would believe your offer.” I stirred the red tint into the paint on my palette and decided my canvas needed a sailor’s morning sky. “Red sky in the morn . . . one should be warned. I believe that’s how it goes.”
“I missed your wit. Your little hums. Cecilia, may I come to you and embrace you? Then let’s talk openly about our marriage.”
My heart panicked.
What fault would he find? I smoothed the sleeves of my blush gown. “Complaints, my lord? I’d rather not hear those. You’ve only been back a few hours.”
His head dipped. His shoulder-length locks, black and thick, hung free. Part of me wished he’d cut them shorter to sport a curl, but that would deprive me of the delightful image of a corsair pirate. In the mornings when he slept and a shadow had taken his chin . . .sigh, he was beautiful. Felton did inspire me in the mornings we awoke together.
