Page 25 of What a Lord Wants

“So you said before.” Her watery eyes stared warily at him.

“Not for the reason you think.” He raked his fingers through his wet hair, tamping down his frustration. “I’ve made mistakes that can now put me into a lot of trouble. That painting might just be the most important piece I’ll ever create. And it needs you to bring it to life.You, Eve. I can’t do it without you.” He held out his hand again to her. “Come back to the studio with me.”

“It’s truly that important to you?” she asked, yet she didn’t reach to take his hand.

“It’s everything.” He looked at her grimly, not attempting to hide the seriousness of his situation. “If this painting goes as planned, it will be more than a masterpiece. It will be my salvation.”

A long sigh eased from her as she made her decision. “All right. But only because of the painting.” Her lips twisted into a grimace of grudging agreement. “It has nothing to do withyou.”

“Of course not,” he agreed wryly. He deserved that prick. And more.

Slowly, she slipped her hand into his and let him lead her back into the studio.

Thank God.

He closed the door behind them, shutting out the pouring rain.

“You should change out of your dress and into that robe,” he ordered gently. When her gaze snapped to his, he held up his hands in a sign of innocence. “Before you catch cold. You’re soaked through.”

She looked down at herself, as if she hadn’t noticed. Buthecertainly had, right down to the way her wet dress molded to her breasts and hips. “All right.”

She shed her coat, then slipped behind the screen as she’d done before.

Fate was giving him a chance to redo their conversation. This time, he hoped for a different outcome.

While she undressed, he went upstairs into the two bedrooms that comprised the old grooms’ quarters. His and hers, right down to shaving implements in one and a tortoise shell hairbrush set in the other.

But it was the armoire he was after—more specifically, any clothing that might have been left behind from previous guests who had stayed here. Most of them, though, had only been for one night, and he’d been more concerned about removing their clothes than finding ones for them to put on.

Just another example of how his world was being inverted. In no small part by Eve herself.

He blew out a hard breath and searched the armoire. How was he going to paint the nude he wanted with a model who refused to remove her clothes? No bloody idea. But he wasn’t ready to let go of her just yet. Not as his model, and not as simply the woman who had brightened his studio since she’d been coming here.

He held up a long corset. A good start. Then he went into the other room to fetch the pair of boy’s breeches he knew were there, leftover from a painting he’d done last year and shoved, unwanted, into the chest of drawers.

“Maestro?” she called out from below.

“Up here!” He held up the breeches and corset to gauge them for size. They would do.

She climbed to the top of the stairs and stopped. Then she blinked, surprised at the sight of him holding up stays in front of himself.

“I know that you probably want to change out of your wet clothes, too,” she began, cautiously, feeling out his sense of humor after their argument, “but I think you’ve been going to the wrong tailor.”

He grimaced and tried not to notice the way she looked in the dressing robe. Surprisingly more elegant than he’d yet seen her. Standing there like that, all deliciously rumpled and her wet hair now loose around her shoulders to dry, she was a vision. It was all he could do not to grab her and kiss her until she melted beneath him.

“These are for you.” He tossed them to her to avoid risking an accidental touch, then quickly stepped past her to return downstairs. And away from the bed located only a few feet away.

She followed him. “I don’t understand—breeches and stays?”

“A temporary compromise.”

He busied himself at the worktable by sorting through a box of pencils that had already been sorted, just to keep his hands busy and his mind on his art. But she was now a large part of that art, so the pencils did little good. He shoved the box away and turned to face her, leaning back against the table. His hands gripped the edge of the tabletop.

“I can’t sketch a nude if my model is fully dressed. So we compromise.” He waved his hand to indicate the corset and breeches. “Still clothed, but form-fitting and revealing enough that I can do the initial sketch for the underpainting.”

Her tension visibly eased, yet she said nothing in agreement to his proposition.

“It’s either this, or…”Or I have to find another model.