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“An unbreakable oath. The pinkies have spoken.”
For a long moment, we remain linked and then he pulls away and busies himself with his paints. I retreat to the settee.
“Many eighteenth-century portraits feature monochrome backgrounds,” Cole says. “I can do that, or I can add drapery, furniture, whatever you want. Or, if you’re good with it, we can match your portrait to your mother and father’s.” He slowly pulls out his phone. “I don’t know if you’ve seen these, but I found Lord Timothy and Lady Katherine’s portraits at the gallery in Hever.”
I freeze, then examine my fingernails. “Of course, I’ve seen them.”
“No one will believe our portrait is contemporaneous, but I can match the style, if you want.”
I shrug. “You’re the artist.”
“Okay.” He puts the phone away, coughs. “I’m ready to go if you are.”
The moment has arrived. It took more than two hundred and fifty years, but I’m going to get my portrait. My erasure from my family’s history ends today.
“Thank you, Cole.”
“I haven’t started yet.”
Our eyes meet and he nods.
“You’re welcome, Ambri.” Another cough. “Seems weird to be saying that. You’ve changed everything for me. I should be thanking you.”
“I haven’t done a thing,” I say. “If you had no talent, a legion of muses couldn’t make your name.”
“My muse,” he says, as if trying it out. He smiles to himself. “Sounds about right.”
I move to stand in front of the wall near the window, directly across from Cole’s easel. With a thought, I bring the clothing I died in onto my body—red coat, white ruffled shirt, black pantaloons, white stockings, black shoes.
Cole stares. “How did you do that?”
“All matter is energy. I’m able to manipulate the energy of clothing to allow for my wings, or to take my anicorpus without reforming naked later.” I indicate my outfit. “These clothes are a part of me, always. My demonic DNA, so to speak. I can’t get rid of them. But perhaps that is for the best. This is how I wish to be painted. But I have no wig.”
“I can add one,” Cole says and squeezes paint from his tubes. The competency in which he handles the tools of his trade is shockingly erotic. The deftness of his hands, the movement of his biceps under his shirt… And then the bastard tosses his head to move the lock of hair from his eyes.
“Unfair.”
He looks up. “Sorry?”
“Nothing. How shall I stand? Or sit…?”
Cole rubs his chin, then looks to the cane I’d left leaning against the wall. “Try this.”
He hands me the cane, and now he’s in my space again. I can smell the warmth of his skin, more potent than any soap or cologne.
“Now, turn a quarter profile to me,” he says. “Left hand on your hip, right arm extended, right hand resting on the cane.”
He steps back to study the pose, then moves in to make an adjustment here, a slight change there. Cole’s face is close to mine; he’s focused on his work, but my gaze traces his jaw, his chin, the bow of his lips. The intimacy of him in my space is more than carnal. In Cole Matheson’s presence, I’m safe.
Before I can stop myself, I grip his wrist and whisper, “Don’t make me look a fool.”
“I never would. I promise, Ambri.” He smiles that gentle grin of his. “Pinky swear.”
Another long, heated moment, and then he retreats. Back at his easel, he coughs again as he studies me. “Perfect.”
I frown. “That’s the third time you’ve coughed.”
“You’re keeping count?”
