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“Whatever makes you feel comfortable, my lady.”
Despite her well-honed sangfroid, Margot was decidedly uncomfortable, but what was the point of coming here without actually seeing the thing through in its entirety? Honoria would roll her eyes skyward if she went out there in her corset and petticoats like a timid neophyte. A nude portrait implied no clothing, didn’t it?
But still, for some reason…Margot balked.
Shedding her clothes felt like forsaking armor. And that she could not do.
To distract herself from the agitation swirling in her veins, she asked, “Where did you study?”
“Paris.”
Margot’s fingers worked the ties of her petticoats before she stepped out of them. “Where anyone who wants to imitate the greats did, I presume.”
“How astute of you, Lady Waverly.”
Heavens, that mouth. Curled upward in seemingly perpetual amusement, it wasn’t afraid to bite back just a little. Parts of her tingled in pleasant surprise at the tart reply. Most women, especially younger ones, were terrified of her, and afraid to speak out of turn for fear of being on the receiving end of her far-reaching influence. A cut direct from the formidable Marchioness of Waverly was a fate worse than death. But while she could eviscerate with a glare, that didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate the occasional bit of backbone.
Occasionally.
Removing the last of her outer garments as well as her corset and slippers, Margot tugged on the sumptuous robe that felt much too decadent against her bare arms. What would it feel like if she wore nothing at all? As it was, the soft lawn of her chemise and drawers chafed against her over sensitized skin. She clutched the lapels of the robe, which were only secured by a cord with tassels at the end, with numb fingers. The soothing scent of vanilla curled around her and Margot inhaled deeply.
She peeked around the screen to where Ara was perched on a stool, a sketchbook and a pencil in hand. Late afternoon light filtered in from the window, catching her lean silhouette in a buttery shaft of warm sunlight. One bare foot was propped up onto a rung, emphasizing the lines of her lean leg in a pair of snug trousers. Short, messy rust-colored hair curled into a brow that was furrowed with concentration as she sketched the outline of the chaise.
“I’m ready,” Margot said.
Ara didn’t look up, nor did her fingers halt. “Get situated on the chair in any position that feels good to you, and we’ll go from there. Depending on how long this takes, you might be there for a little while so make sure you’re comfortable.”
“My coachman is due return within the next hour,” Margot said.
“Then we’ll just have to work quickly.”
Ara still hadn’t raised her head, and with some irritation at being treated thus, Margot walked toward the chaise and arranged herself in a prim position on the edge. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so nervous about anything. Discreetly, she sniffed the collar of the robe again, the vanilla scent an unexpected balm to her scattered senses.
After a moment, Ara unfolded sinuously from the stool as half-hooded eyes canvassed Margot’s frame. She might as well not have been wearing a single scrap for how exposed she felt under Ara’s intense scrutiny. It wasn’t salacious in the least. It was simply focused, but that didn’t stop Margot’s body from heating beneath the robe. She gripped her palms as Ara closed the distance between them.
“May I adjust you?” she asked politely. A pulse streamed at the base of Ara’s long neck, and Margot had the oddest urge to press her lips to that fluttering point. The thought of those slender artist’s hands anywhere on her body left her extraordinarily breathless. Peculiar indeed, considering how much she disliked being touched.
Mortified at the unwelcome slant of her thoughts, Margot instantly defaulted to her cultivated, icy mien and clenched her jaw. “You may.”
Ara forced herself not to swoon when that sculpted jawline hardened ever so slightly. How could a bloody jawline be so entrancing? The marchioness both confounded and attracted her. She was as stiff as a corpse, condescending and rude, and yet, somewhere deep down, Ara sensed vulnerability. If she hadn’t seen a flare of apprehension appear briefly in those slate-gray eyes, she would not have guessed that the woman was capable of feeling anything at all.
A frisson ran through her as the sudden indescribable desire to make the marchioness come completely undone filled her, and then she reprimanded herself in the same breath. Lady Waverly was not someone whose cold, dead heart needed to be resuscitated; she was a very powerful aristocrat sitting for a portrait, and one who could quash Ara like a mouse. That was all.
“Scoot back against the cushions,” Ara said. “Relax. You’re like a piece of wood.”
The tiniest sip of air slid past the marchioness’s lips. “This is me relaxed.”
Ara snorted, and that gray gaze drilled into hers. Bloody hell, they were so glacial that frost practically slicked over Ara’s shoulders. She stifled a shiver and focused on the work ahead. Despite her disposition, the marchioness’s face was divinely hewn with her features in faultless proportion. And that body. Even under the robe belted so tightly at the waist that it might have been cutting off her circulation, she’d be a Renaissance painter’s wet dream. Botticelli and Titian would have been beside themselves with giddy excitement.
Ara bit back a chuckle. She was practically in the same boat.
Unquestionably, the end result would be a lovely portrait because the marchioness was a lovely woman, but for some ungodly reason, Ara wanted more. Why settle for prosaic when something unparalleled could be achieved? Ara wanted passion drenching that cool, austere gaze, tension riding the tendons of her throat, and lust bruising that smooth porcelain skin as though she were on the cusp of release.
Perhaps the last might be stretching it a bit, but Ara had to get the lady to unwind.
If not by orgasm, then perhaps by liquor.
She rocked back onto her haunches and stood before walking over to the mantel. “What do you like to drink?”
