He was utterly focused on her. “And what’s your opinion?”
“I think it’s poppycock. The government should support the Irish instead of punishing them. Repression will only lead to more riots.”
“I don’t know all the facts, but I agree with you.” He skimmed through the pages again. “Robert was interested in politics. I confess I’ve never paid much attention to the House of Lords or taken his work seriously.” He dropped himself onto the bed, even though she was still standing. But she didn’t mind. “Would you read it for me, please? I’m not used to reading anymore. My head hurts.”
“My pleasure.” She took the newspaper and sat in front of him.
She read the political column, then the humorous one. She skipped the sport column because who would ever care about a cricket game that lasted days, for crying out loud? By the time she finished the scandal sheet where the wanton adventures of a certain Miss F had caused an outrage in London, Hector was asleep, breathing softly.
She lowered the newspaper. Sunlight streamed through the porthole and created a golden halo around him. With his head reclined over his arm and his shirt open in the front, he looked indeed like an angel who was taking a nap. His sculpted lips were parted, and a curly lock of hair caressed the tip of his chin. She couldn’t resist.
She took her sketchbook and a piece of charcoal and started drawing him. Her stiff hand couldn’t catch the softness of his hair and the harshness of his jaw properly, but if she worked slowly, the lines almost obeyed her. She held her breath as the charcoal traced the lines of his closed eyes, the eyelashes, and his straight nose. When her fingers hurt, she paused to flex them, determined to carry on before he moved from his lovely position.
The light changed quickly as the sun set, but she captured the shadows on his cheeks and chin before the twilight fell over the ship. Oh, his neck was a study in tendons and muscles, and what was visible of his chest was all taut skin and ridges. She’d never paid attention to men’s Adam’s apples, but Lord, his was delectable.
Dusk crept through the cabin. She turned on a lamp to keep drawing. Thank goodness he didn’t move. The way darkness fell abruptly at sea both startled and fascinated her. London was always full of light. She’d never experienced complete darkness as on the ship. The darkness made her sketching more intimate, like a secret.
Her sketch couldn’t do justice to the nuances of his features, harsh in some places and soft in others, but on the bright side, she’d drawn for longer than usual. Normally, she’d stop sketching after a few minutes. Having a living model and being worried about the light were good motivators to keep going.
She was drawing the shadows in his hair when he blinked his eyes open. She paused like a thief caught red-handed. Neither of them talked. They stared at each other—he, with the glow from the lamp dancing in his eyes, she, still drawing him with her gaze, caressing his lines.
“Are you drawing me?” he asked, remaining in his reclined position.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Why?”
She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “You’re beautiful.”
He lowered his gaze as if embarrassed, which was ironic, considering he’d started the whole ‘be honest’ affair. He rose from the bed, uncoiling his large physique. A little tremor went down her back as he approached her. He tilted his head to take a look at her work.
She handed him the sketch. “Here.”
He studied it for a few moments, brushing a curl from his face. “Is this how you see me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Beautiful, fair, and angelic?”
“An artist’s job isn’t to reproduce the real world. It’s to extract the hidden spirit from a scene or a person according to the artist’s sensitivity.” And yes, he was that beautiful, fair, and angelic.
He trapped his bottom lip between his teeth, and she wished to have drawn that pose.
“I haven’t seen my reflection in a mirror in years,” he said in a low voice.
“Goodness me.” She rose and searched the cabinets. Every cabin had at least one hand mirror somewhere. She pushed aside bottles of tonic Dr. Landon must have left for Hector and found a round mirror. “Here.”
He hesitated before taking it, but when he did, his fingers brushed against hers.
“Thank you.” He took a deep breath before peering at his reflection.
Maddie waited for his reaction. He frowned and tilted his head, his features tightening. Perhaps it’d been a bad idea. She shouldn’t have—he burst out laughing, a full, warm laugh that made her laugh with him. The happy sound lifted a weight off her chest.
He put the mirror down. “I think I prefer your sketch.”
“You don’t see what I see.”
A corner of his mouth pulled up. “That’s something we have in common. You don’t see what I see either.”
