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Chapter Two
Margot turned, her attention drifting from the fascinating compositions toward their creator, and quelled her erratic pulse. What had possessed her to offer up her given name like a complete philistine? No one but Honoria called her Margot. The truth was, she’d been struggling to keep her legendary cool façade in place the moment that red door had opened.
When their eyes had first met, it had been as though every lucid thought in her head had ceased to exist but one—the desire to climb into this woman’s bright, radiant aura and to be enveloped in all that blistering, creative energy. Never had Margot felt such a magnetic pull, and at four and thirty, she was a woman of the world who had seen almost everything.
Yet, this ingénue had stolen the very air from her lungs.
Honoria had failed to mention what Miss Ara Vaughn looked like. Not that it would have mattered. It wasn’t about her looks. Disheveled, barefoot, covered in paint—were those crumbs in her hair?—and barely garbed to receive company, she gleamed. Here was a woman who thrived on living in her own skin, on being just who she was.
And her art…dear God, such feeling.
Every sweeping brush stroke on the canvas carried a wealth of sentiment—delirium, wonder, sorrow, joy, eternal hope—as if the artist herself had cleaved a bit of herself onto paper with each piece. The dog had made Margot’s heart swell with nostalgia and Honoria’s painting with its frisky sprites had made her want to smile. But the discarded apple had hit hardest. It had made her eyes burn as if that ruined fruit with its poisonous seeds had paralleled the darkest, most jaded parts of her soul.
Margot had wanted to possess every single one of the paintings, if only to preserve a living part of the woman who brimmed with such inexhaustible passion. Even now, she trembled with an odd mixture of anticipation and dread. How would a portrait of her even compare?
Reproaching herself, she settled her thoughts with a measured inhale and reached for the cool composure that had never failed her. She removed her gloves carefully and tucked them into her reticule. “How do you want to do this? Shall I strip or is there some etiquette for these things?”
A pair of amber eyes collided with hers, that expressive face not doing a lick of a thing to hide the flare of mischief. “If you require a lesson in etiquette to take off your clothes, you’re in the wrong place, Lady Waverly.”
Margot felt her cheeks start to warm, and she forced that reaction into ruthless submission. She was the bloody Ice Queen…why was she acting as though melting was in her nature? She froze things. That was what ice did.
Ice could also burn.
She shoved that inane voice away as Ara approached, the scent of sweet vanilla interwoven with turpentine and linseed oil in her wake. It was an odd combination, the latter a by-product of her profession and the oils, but then everything about this woman was a compelling contradiction. Who knew the smell of paint could be so…rousing?
No, no, no. That was the completely wrong word.
Off-putting. That was what she meant.
“One moment,” Ara said, dragging the chaise longue into position against one of the wainscoted walls. She stepped back and sucked her lower lip between her teeth, eyes squinting in contemplation. She tossed one cushion against the end and considered it again before adding a second. “That should do, I think. Now, you can get undressed.” Margot’s ungloved hand fluttered to her throat and Ara’s eyes tracked the motion, though there was no playfulness in them now, only that of a master studying her craft. “You can put this on,” she said, handing Margot a lace-embroidered robe de chambre.
The luxurious fabric pooled in her numb fingers when Margot grasped the dressing gown. Cashmere lined with silk. Definitely not what she was expecting a starving artist to own. The faintest waft of burnt vanilla rose from the dark blue and gold folds. Was this Ara’s? Did she expect her to wear this and nothing else? Margot’s cheeks flushed at the utter indecency of it.
“What’s the matter?” Ara asked, reading her expression. “Changed your mind? This kind of session isn’t for everyone. We can do something…more sedate, if you wish. Something more suited to a woman of your temperament.”
Sedate? Her temperament? Margot’s eyes narrowed. It took talent to couch an insult along with a challenge in the same handful of words. The utter audacity of this brat. Margot lifted her chin and peered down her nose with all the frost she could muster. “Of course I haven’t changed my mind. Where shall I disrobe?”
Not bothering to hide her smirk, Ara pointed at a screen toward the back of the room. “Let me know if you need help with your laces or, ah, anything else.”
A pained sound was obscured by a patently false cough.
That small detail made Margot feel marginally better about her own nerves. Good. She would hate to think she was losing her edge because of some jejune artist with expressive eyes much too large for her face, a tangle of curls better suited to a ragamuffin than a grown woman, and a tongue that clearly wasn’t afraid to take the most feared marchioness in London to task.
“How old are you?” she asked from behind the screen as she got to work with the laces on her outer gown. She’d chosen the ensemble specifically for its ease of undress without a lady’s maid.
Was that a low laugh? “Three and twenty. Why do you ask?”
Heavens. Her fingers faltered over the fastenings of her blouse. The girl was a full decade younger than her. “Young.”
“Youth has no bearing on talent, if that is your concern.”
Again, Margot had the feeling that Ara was laughing at her expense. She did not like that one bit, but she graciously gave her the point. “No, you are quite right. Your art speaks for itself.” And then because she couldn’t help herself and the idea of losing ground to anyone, “But there’s no real substitute for experience, is there?”
Dead silence and then, “Trust me, Lady Waverly, I have plenty of experience.”
Why did that seem like she was speaking about something else entirely? Flushing and glad she was behind the screen, Margot opened her mouth and closed it. She would not stoop to engage in a battle of innuendo, no matter how inexplicably piqued the challenge made her. She had to understand the playing field first.
Standing with half of her clothes off, she eyed the robe and frowned. “Do you need me to be completely undressed?”
