The other two invitees – why so few? – abruptly turned and greeted him with sullen countenances. No wonder, as he’d beaten Harper and Lloyd to paintings before.
Lloyd approached Mrs Swift, drawing her aside.
And all of a sudden there it lay.
His heart pumped violently as he strode over, but he forced his gaze to ignore the richness of colour and commence at the lowermost portion of the portrait, as was his wont.
A signature. Familiar.
Upwards.
Silk skirts filled his vision – the very same which graced his own, brushstrokes rendered with delicacy, the material catching the light from an unseen window.
And the colour.
Only Sir Henry Pearce had painted with such depth of colour. Layers and layers of crimson rippled with slips of copper and poppy red, all melded to utter perfection.
Such lushness. Such expertise. Such life.
Upwards.
She posed, as in his portrait, and his pulse hammered as his eyes travelled, encountering waist and bosom – full and so real he could almost hear her breathe beside him.
Up.
The fingers of her right hand dallied at her neck, brushing the ribbon with an awkward innocence as if to ask,Should I loosen it?But knowing she must.
It was real. Everything about it was real, and he tightened his fists, daring to confront his defiant beauty at last.
Up.
His stomach dropped.
“Tasty morsel, isn’t she?”
“Pardon?” His gaze slipped to Harper, mind befuddled.
“You’ll doubtless outbid me for this one too, but I had to see it, and she’s exactly how I imagined.” Harper adjusted his grass-green pantaloons. “Look at that gleam in her eye – ready for a hard swiving and knows it, eh?”
Casper’s guts heaved and he switched his gaze once more.
Wrong. It had to be.
The woman who stared back did indeed have a knowing gleam to her eye – experienced and desirous. She was pretty, of that there was no doubt, but this woman had not seen innocence for many a year. Her chin was not stubborn or determined but curved and…normal, her cheekbones harsh, lips sensual and rouged, eyelashes tipped with charcoal.
Wrong.
It was all wrong and yet…
He peered closer. The brushstrokes were quintessential Sir Henry. The way he dragged the palette knife in certain areas, the light hitting her skin just so. The quicker-drying walnut oil had been used for her flesh rather than linseed which left a yellow tinge. It all fitted but…
Thrusting a hand through his hair, he compelled his gaze to the background of the painting. As in his own, the room lay bare except for a bed, the sheets rumpled, coins lying upon a table.
All perfect except…
His eyes flitted back to her face; had it been painted years later, mayhap? When life had cut away her candour.
Or had he imagined a demeanour in his own painting that existed not? Had his desires conjured up all else. He closed his eyes, visualised the defiant beauty in his study – her reticence, her fortitude.
