Page 76

“The only caveat is I, too, use the space. It’s my . . . retreat. You may see me there, in my shirtsleeves.” He dimpled at her.

Now she did feel as though she were plummeting. A studio, close to the Royal Academy, and the prospect of seeing him, perhaps daily, in his shirtsleeves.

“You have a month, you said, to paint your picture for submission to the Hanging Committee. You’ve done well here.”

His gaze slanted. She’d labored in this room to paint the exact tint of the skin on the tops of his thighs as it shaded toward his groin. Was his smile sardonic? She had to struggle to meet his eyes. No, his look was frankly admiring.

“But your talent merits more,” he said “Better conditions. Think what you could do.”

She was thinking of it. She was already agreeing. But his compliment made something flutter in her stomach. He sounded so assured of her talent. She didn’t want him to see how much she needed assurance. To hide her confusion, she busied herself moving a jar of chrome pigment from the table to the shelf.

“It’s decided, then.” She heard the satisfaction in his voice. “And will you work on this? Beth and Mary?” He was studying the canvas again.

“I’m going to white it out. I got the dolls wrong.”

“Ah.” He bent closer. “Violet looks a bit droopy. She has more integrity, structurally speaking at least. She lorded it over poor Lily.”

Her laughter slipped out.

“You remember the names of the dolls, too.” In fact, he seemed to remember everything. It didn’t square. A renowned dunce with perfect recall. When he was sober, at any rate. He saw her puzzlement and lifted his brows.

“Some of us have to store things in our minds.”

This was gnomic of him. She pursed her lips. “Instead of where? Where do the rest of us store things?”

He shrugged. “Ledgers. Journals. Sketchbooks.”

She didn’t understand him. “But—”

He interrupted. “Would you show me the sketch of the girls? I regret that I didn’t watch you make it.”

“Certainly.” She blinked at his tone, which told her that the previous subject was closed. “It’s right here.”

On the bed. She pivoted slowly, aware of his gaze. Of course, the bed had been there the whole time, just a few paces away. But now the thought of it made her heart hammer. She reached the bed and sat down slowly, sliding the sketchbook onto her lap. He didn’t move, but tipped his head. Then, carefully, stepping between the chair and the easel, avoiding the paint box, he approached and sat beside her. His weight depressed the mattress. She obeyed the laws of gravity, tilted into him. The sketchbook slid off her knees and thudded on the floor. She braced herself on his legs, pushing up, and felt the muscles harden to rock. These slight bodily shifts, the tensing or stretching of muscles so wonderfully developed—how enthralling. She resettled herself beside him but couldn’t break contact completely. A devil ran wild inside her.

She moved her fingers lightly over his trousers, skimming the wales of the corduroy.

“These aren’t your trousers.”

“No,” he agreed. “Part of my brilliant disguise.”

“Of course.” She kept moving her fingers. “What would your tailor think?”

She sighed, mind drifting. It would be a pleasure to construct and detail a suit for such an exquisitely balanced body, broad shoulders, pitched straight, wide chest tapering to slim hips, curved buttocks, straight legs. Nothing to disguise or pad. You could focus your art on the lining, the edges, all the niceties.

He stiffened, stared straight ahead. God, that profile. It should be struck onto a coin. She moved her fingers absently, examining the line of his nose, the angles of his lips, his jaw. Gently, he laid his hand over hers, stilling it.

His voice was strangled. “Lucy—”

There it was again, her Christian name, the syllables roughened. He should use it. His saying her name, it acknowledged the unlikely intimacy that had sprung up between them.

When he had first discovered who she was, he had assumed they’d been more intimate still.

“What did you think we did,” she whispered. “When you thought we’d . . .”

He looked at her, startled, eyes brilliant.

She licked her lips, felt a thrill as his gaze dropped to her mouth. He swallowed, then laughed softly. His thumb stroked across her knuckles.