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“I don’t usually imbibe,” the marchioness replied. “In fact, the last time I did was a fortnight ago with Honoria when we raided the late marquess’s supply of brandy. I had regrets.”
Ara remembered having read of the Marquess of Waverly’s passing two years ago. She remembered having an idle thought that his heir was so young to inherit, barely a man. Then again, with a mother like his, chances were the young marquess had been groomed to walk in his father’s shoes since boyhood.
“Regrets you say?” Ara asked with interest. She’d give anything to see this reserved woman reduced to the middling, plebeian state of being cup-shot. Ara simply couldn’t imagine her losing one ounce of that fastidious control.
“Yes. We were quite foxed. Honoria is hard to resist at the best of times and, well, I suppose we were celebrating the end of my…mourning period. I realize that’s exceedingly unusual, but well, I’m glad to be done with it.” She let out a sharp hiss of displeasure, as if peeved with herself. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
Ara walked back with a glass of red wine. “I’m easy to talk to.”
“Perhaps.” The marchioness accepted the outstretched offering. “Or perhaps I’m at odds because I’ve never been en déshabillé with anyone except my lady’s maid and late husband.”
Ara stilled. Oh, for the love of mercy, could a woman become more attractive with two simple words of French?
“Sip,” she ordered in a voice that sounded much too airless for her liking.
In truth, she would have been disappointed if an imperious eyebrow hadn’t vaulted at the command, but Ara arched her own brow and waited. It was a silent, categorically fierce eyebrow standoff, and when one delicate hand lifted after a protracted moment to press the edge of the glass to her lips, Ara felt the capitulation deep in her soul.
“Another,” she said, and the second order was obeyed with only a hint of temerity. “Good girl.”
“I am no girl,” Lady Waverly said, studying her over the rim of the glass, though the quick rise and fall of her chest betrayed the sharp bite of the reply.
Did the cold marchioness enjoy being praised? Ara filed that tidbit away for later. For artistic purposes, of course. Every advantage helped to draw out the muse…and she suspected that this one might require an obnoxious measure of coaxing.
“No, you’re not,” Ara agreed and then smirked. “But we’ll see how good you are, all the same.”
Bloody hell, stop flirting, you half-wit!
Without waiting for a response, Ara crouched down again and watchful gray eyes with a hint of blue tracked her movement. “Bend your left knee for me.” Ara reached out and she couldn’t help but notice the slight recoil. That was odd. She frowned, but made sure to keep her movements unhurried. “Tilt your head and arch your back slightly. May I?” When the lady gave a short nod of consent, Ara reached over to adjust the cushion so that it better supported her spine. “There, that’s it. Keep the glass where it is and don’t be afraid to indulge as needed.”
“This is excellent wine,” Lady Waverly murmured.
“Thank you. I do have a few discerning preferences upon occasion, a decent French vintage being one of them. My father owned a vineyard in the Loire Valley.”
The marchioness swirled the red liquid. “Is this one of his?”
“It is.” Ara rolled back onto her heels, observing the arrangement with a critical eye. While not as impassioned as she would like, the pose was good enough for now. She lifted a palm to the lady’s expertly coiffed hair. “May I?” she asked again, and this time, Lady Waverly rolled her lower lip between her teeth before nodding.
With no small amount of care, Ara removed the pins holding that silky wealth of hair in place, and watched with pleasure as it tumbled down onto her shoulders and the velvet fabric of the chaise longue. Lady Waverly’s fingers imperceptibly tightened on the glass, and Ara’s own hands shook when she gently adjusted a few of the curls away from the marchioness’s face, once more waiting for tacit permission before doing so.
“Are you well?” she asked, noticing the slight tension at the corners of Lady Waverly’s mouth.
Gray-blue eyes flashed. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason.” It was frankly none of her business.
Ara moved back behind the easel, though she did not reach for any paints. Small thumbnail sketches were necessary to narrow down the composition and depth of the piece. A charcoal dash of a line served as the chaise, but her fingers deftly drew the marchioness in several poses, inspired by the graceful curves of her body. Her inner muse took over as she sketched a few ideas, letting her imagination run. Ara moved between the stool and the chaise two more times to arrange the marchioness to her needs until she was satisfied.
“Did you attend a school for art in Paris?”
The soft question was so unexpected that Ara nearly dropped her pencil. “No, but I studied with a private tutor. In Paris first and then Italy.”
“You’re well-traveled for someone so young.”
Ara huffed a laugh. “Again, Lady Waverly, not so young.”
“Margot.” The whisper was instantly followed by a much sharper, “Since we’re clearly past formalities now.”
Smiling, Ara shook her head. “We’re probably well into the realm of scandal so maybe it’s high time we move to a nickname.”
