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Nothing more.
There was no room in his life for a romantic interest in any female. Constanza had successfully rendered his heart as cold as stone. It was simply the anticipation of creating a miniature, he repeated to himself for the hundredth time.
It took particular skill to paint a miniature, and he welcomed the challenge.
Arranging his features into a neutral expression, he exited the front entrance just as the coachman swung the carriage door open.
Wearing a light ivory cloak with the hood pulled up over her head, Miss Fairfax appeared in the opening. She offered him a shy smile as the coachman lowered the step.
Coming to his senses, Cassius approached the vehicle and offered her a hand down. “No dogs today?”
She placed her gloved hand in his and alit from the conveyance, nimble as the wood sprite her uncle had compared her to last week. “I wasn’t sure if y-you would welcome them in your s-studio.”
“I can see no harm. I like dogs. We have Dalmatians at Hefferwickshire House—my family home. In truth, I’d like to include them in the portrait. Teddy in your lap and Nala lying beside the chair.”
“Uncle doesn’t want them in the painting.” Disappointed resignation darkened her eyes to the shade of the ocean before a pending gale.
“Ah, but he said he would agree to whatever I suggested, did he not?” That was a stretch, but Highbury wouldn’t likely appreciate the delay starting the portrait process over would entail if he remained adamant about no pets in the painting. Cassius could see how much her beloved dogs meant to Beatrice, and they should be immortalized with her.
Miss Fairfax gifted him a brilliant smile. “I shall bring them next time.”
Millborn poked her head out, and after glancing up and down the lane, permitted Cassius to assist her from the coach as well.
“Welcome to my humble studio, ladies.”
Miss Fairfax granted him another cheerful smile, but her chaperone merely inclined her graying head. She plainly did not want to attend Miss Fairfax for the sittings.
“When should Hampton return, Lord Cassius?” Millborn asked.
Hampton must be the coachman.
“Four hours.” Cassius should have a rough sketch completed by then.
“I’ll be back to fetch you at two, then.” Hampton touched his hat and, after climbing onto the driver’s seat and calling, “Walk on,” flicked the reins.
The matched grays dutifully moved forward, their hooves clip-clopping pleasantly on the cobbles.
“Shall we?” Cassius extended an arm toward his studio.
Millborn entered first, surveying every inch of the interior with admirable diligence.
Miss Fairfax followed, her eyes round with pleasure.
“Oh, I’ve n-never been inside an artist’s studio before.” She grinned up at him, excitement sparkling in her eyes as she pulled the ivory silk cloak from her head. That curtain of sunrise-colored curls swung loosely about her shoulders, down her back, and just skimmed the top of her derriere.
When she untied the ribbon at her throat and let the cloak slip from her shoulders, Cassius nearly gasped aloud and was hard put not to stare.
Breathtaking.
Her uncle was wrong.
Bloody sodding wrong.
Beatrice Fairfax was an incomparable.
Not an English rose, to be sure. No, this vibrant beauty was a canna lily, striking and elegant.
What a delight putting her features on canvas would be.
If only Cassius were painting a full-sized portrait.
Why can’t I?
