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“He enjoys that far too much. I had to send him to get dressed several times. I’ve not seen him for a while, so he must have left. But he— Ah.”
There was no need to continue, because Leo had uncovered the one sketch that revealed her model’s identity.
“Please say it isn’t so.” His expression was an amusing mix of vexation and disbelief. “St. Blaise?”
“He’s actually very good. Stands perfectly still and never complains. I should have started hiring soldiers years ago.”
“Clearly your mind is already addled, if you hired my scoundrel of a half-brother as your new model.”
“What a beastly thing to say of me, Polly,” came the voice of that half-brother from the studio door.
Juno turned with a sigh, as Mr. St. Blaise came swaggering into her studio like he was leaving a brothel at dawn. His dark hair was rumpled, and he had still not managed to get dressed. Although, to give him credit, his breeches and boots were on, and his other clothes trailed from one hand, so he had made some progress since the last time she sent him away.
Perhaps hiring St. Blaise was a mistake. The former cavalry officer was, after all, a notorious rake, and the eldest son of Leo’s late father by his long-time French mistress, the famously beautiful Marguerite St. Blaise. But when she met him in a salon a few nights previously, he had just looked … right.
It was not Juno’s habit, normally, to engage in the careful weighing of decisions. Things felt right or not, after which there was just a lot of making up reasons to justify doing what one already wished to do. Her family, that horde of clever darlings, worshipped at the shrine of something called “rational thinking,” but it struck Juno as a tremendous waste of energy to debate something that was already settled in one’s heart.
Of course, sometimes her intuition did make spectacularly unwise decisions. But as far as she could tell, others’ endless cogitations did not deliver notably superior results.
“And of course Miss Bell hired me, for she is a woman of taste,” St. Blaise was saying to Leo. “Come, Polly, even you must admit I have a magnificent physique and my face is uncommonly beautiful.”
Leo flicked him a glance. “Your face is also uncommonly punchable,” he said mildly.
St. Blaise grinned and collapsed onto the daybed like a lover in a folk song.
“I have had the most fabulous nap. Modeling is exhausting,” he said, with a dramatic yawn and stretch of those bare arms and chest. “Miss Bell, I have dreamed up a wonderful idea: I shall live in your studio and become your kept man. I shall bring you tea and cake, charm your guests, and pose whenever you please.” He winked. “I am very talented at taking off my clothes.”
“But rather less talented at putting them back on again,” Juno said pointedly.
“Your wish is my command.”
In a flurry of energy, he pulled on his shirt and waistcoat, then hurled himself back onto the daybed, limbs flung out, eyes soulful, lips curved into the smile that lifted a thousand petticoats.
It was an impressive display. But alas, Juno was no longer easily impressed. St. Blaise’s body would only ever be a prop to her now. She glanced at Leo: He didn’t mind, really, did he?
To her delight, a tiny smile teased Leo’s lips, and delicious devilry danced in his eyes.
“What a fabulous opportunity for you, Juno,” he drawled. “Haven’t you always wanted a kept man?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t the cabinet space in which to keep one.”
“You could roll him up and store him under the bed.”
“Or in a cage in the window like a songbird.”
“And in all fairness,” Leo added, “you’ll find him more useful than, say, a pet monkey.”
“Here’s an idea.” Her eyes widened. “I could dress him in a pet monkey outfit, with a little hat and an adorable jacket.”
“Hmm, pet monkeys don’t wear trousers, though.”
“A kept man shouldn’t wear trousers either, or what’s the point in keeping him?”
He smiled at that, and they took a moment to enjoy their shared nonsense, until St. Blaise interrupted.
“I say, Miss Bell,” he broke in. “Polly isn’t your kept man, is he?”
“Leo?” Juno burst into astonished laughter. “Heavens, no. I could never afford him. A single waistcoat would beggar me.”
