Page 83 of Wicked By Design

She poured the coffee and handed it to him before making her own, adding a liberal splash of cream and a large piece of sugar.

Eustacia took a sip, grateful she had something to occupy her, for his keen gaze had finished sweeping the room and had settled upon her and she felt entirely unequal to meeting it just yet. Colonel Hamilton may not consider himself a hero, but his presence was a powerful one. He was a man used to giving orders and being obeyed, and he was clearly ill at ease in a social setting. No doubt he’d rather be off fighting somewhere in foreign climes, but those days were over.

Eustacia wondered how to put him at ease and smiled inwardly as she realised a minor battle of wills was likely her best option. Besides which, he looked like he’d not eaten a proper meal in months.

“Mmm, that’s better. Tea is all well and good, but sometimes coffee is the only answer. Now, you will eat some cake. Mrs Wainwright makes a splendid fruitcake. Truly it is a thing of beauty. Arias ought to be written to Mrs Wainwright’s fruitcake, it’s that good,” she said, eyeing him speculatively to see how he reacted to such bullying.

“No, thank you,” he said, the words stiff.

Eustacia held his gaze, which was a deal harder than she liked to admit. Keeping her voice firm, but with a teasing lilt to take the sting out, she issued her command. “Forgive me, Colonel, you seemed to think that was a question. I said that you will eat some cake. I presume a man of your ilk is used to taking orders? Well, this studio is my domain, and I rule here.” She cut an enormous slab of cake and handed it to him.

He glared at her, at the cake, and back at her again.

Eustacia steeled her spine, refusing to look away from his incinerating gaze. Just take the cake, you stubborn man, she begged in silent appeal.

“Are you always this bossy?” he demanded curtly, taking the plate from her with a scowl.

Eustacia returned a sweet smile before cutting a slice for herself. “Don’t be silly. Of course not. Usually, I’m far worse.”

He snorted at that which she considered a victory of sorts, and they ate in silence for a few moments. Eustacia studied him, wondering if she ought to moderate her usual blunt manner of speaking, and immediately deciding against it. Either he could stand being in her company, or he could not. If he wanted her skills, he’d simply have to deal with her.

“What is the nature of your injury?”

His jaw clenched, and he set down his plate with a clatter. Eustacia eyed it, pleased to note that it was empty. She leaned forward and silently cut another slice, filling his plate once more. “I do not ask because of a ghoulish desire to hear the frightful details, but because you will need to sit for long periods of time. If you need to support an injured leg or arm, then it would be better that we choose a pose that accommodates the injury. I will not endure a fidgety model.”

She handed him back his plate.

His eyes narrowed and the urge to avert her gaze was nigh on irresistible but somehow, she managed it and he took the plate with a tsk of impatience.

“A musket ball. It damaged my lungs. Sitting is not a problem. I’ve been sitting on my arse for months, which is why moving is rather more difficult.”

She nodded her understanding. “You’ll need to build up your stamina. But building it up does not mean galloping leagues before you can walk a mile, you know. It’s supposed to be done in stages.”

He glowered at her. “So, I’m told,” he remarked before breaking off a piece of cake and chewing. Good lord, he even chewed like he was angry.

“Well, I will have Mrs Wainright’s son hitch up the gig, and he will give you a lift down the hill.” She held up her hand, forestalling any argument. “It is either that or allow me to accompany you. Your choice.”

His jaw tightened, but he did not refuse the offer of a lift, which was something.

Her gaze travelled over him, noting the immaculate cut of his suit, the fine tailoring, and that it all looked a little on the large side. He’d lost a considerable amount of weight, along with his strength. No wonder he bristled so. For such a virile, vigorous man, the limitations his injury imposed upon him must chafe badly.

“Well, now that the portrait of Miss Halfpenny is done, I am willing to begin yours, if you wish to give me the commission. I should warn you against delay, however. Once her portrait becomes public, I expect to be exceptionally busy.”

His mouth, which seemed always to be held in a rigid line, quirked a little at this observation.

“You are very sure of yourself, Miss Foxworthy.”

Eustacia shrugged. “False modesty is pointless. I’m likely one of the best painters in the country. Certainly, I’m the most honest. That will limit my clientele and my success, for I shall flatter no one, and there are plenty who will not like me for it. But if you truly want to show the world the man you are, not the gilded image that the newspapers delight in prating about, well, then I am the one you want.”

His gaze was piercing, and Eustacia wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Certainly, he gave nothing away. She meant what she’d said about false modesty and was used to the impact her beauty had on men, and yet Colonel Hamilton seemed indifferent to her, treating her with no more or less attention that he would a maid or a duchess.

“Yes. I rather think you are. Very well, madam. When shall we begin?”

“It is Miss Foxworthy, as I am very sure you are aware,” she said crossly.

He got to his feet, tugging at his jacket to ensure the impeccable line was correct. “Then you ought not be taking tea alone with me,” he said, his tone nicely judged to make her want to hit him.

“You know, you are the most provoking man,” she said, suddenly all out of patience with him.