Page 20 of Real Earls Break the Rules

He looked about the room “Hmm. Now how should I pose?”

Her gaze lifted to his, and she searched for some hint that he knew her reaction to his state of undress. All she found was a guiltless concentration, like he was struggling to decide how best to pose for her study.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. She wracked her mind for something to say to distract her from his masculinity.

“You said you are in your study every evening. What do you spend most of your time doing here?” she asked.

“That’s easy.” He motioned to the large desk and the piles of paper upon its surface. “I work.”

“Every night?”

“Long into every night.”

She chewed her lip. She thought that most of the gentlemen of the beau monde spent their nights at their London clubs or, if in the country, drinking with their friends. A house party offered ample opportunity for him to be in the billiard room with Lord Huntingdon. Once the other gentlemen arrived, she imagined they would all drink and play billiards.

“What do you work on?” she asked.

“This and that. The old earl died a year ago. I’m sorting through his affairs.”

It was a vague answer to be sure. It was also none of her concern. He was hiring her to paint him, not delve into his affairs. He may not be paying her in banknotes, but the Stirling letter in her skirt pocket was as good as gold in Amelia’s opinion.

“I have an idea,” she blurted out. “Since you spend so much time at your desk, I’d like to paint you there.”

“Behind the desk?”

“No. In front of it.” She pointed where she wanted him to stand in front of the massive pearwood desk. “Lean back against the desk and place a hand on either side of you for support.” She took one of his hands and showed him. His hand was much larger than hers, the fingers long, tapered, and strong. He wore no gloves and she’d left hers in her room. No sense wearing them when she painted. The simple act of touching his hands was intimate and made her cheeks flush.

He leaned back, his hands on either side as she’d requested. She looked up and met his gaze. They were close…too close. For a heart-stopping moment she read longing in his eyes—pure and undisguised.

She froze. He wasn’t as guiltless or unaffected as she’d thought. Her heart pounded in her chest, beating so hard and loud that she feared he could hear.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Cross your feet at the ankles.”

She walked to the center of the room, turned, and looked at him. The firelight from the coal brazier accented the burnished copper in his brown locks and made his eyes appear a deep hazel. She suspected a bevy of desperate painters would fight for the opportunity to paint Lord Vale’s face. Her own fingers twitched with the need to sketch and paint.

“Perfect,” she found herself saying. “Not stuffy or earlish at all.”

“I’m not leaning on a Corinthian column or sitting stiffly on an uncomfortable stool, or petting a hunting dog or sitting astride an Arabian. I like it.”

She moved to one of the armchairs, flipped open her sketchbook, and picked up her charcoal. “I need to draw you first to get all the details just right before I paint.”

His lips twitched. “Just as I thought. You do know what you’re doing.”

She gave him her sternest glare. “This is my first official portrait, my lord.”

His voice was smooth, but insistent. “It’s Brandon, remember?”

“I remember,” she said. There was something lazily seductive in his look. She tried to relax and return to her sketch, but he held her eyes. Her fingers clutched the charcoal.

“I look forward to the sittings, Amelia.”

Sweet heaven. She did, too.

Chapter Seven

Early the following morning, Amelia gathered her sketchbook and charcoal and headed out across the lawn. It promised to be a beautiful day with a blue sky and a cool breeze. She breathed the fresh air deeply into her lungs. Brandon.