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There was a shocked beat of silence before the sparest sound that might have been laughter filtered through the studio. “And what would you choose? I’ve quite a few already. I’m fond of Ice Queen, Frigid Heart, and my personal favorite, Frost Quim.”
Ara’s pencil nearly snapped in half. “Innovative,” she pronounced with a dazed laugh. “Though I’d have to judge for myself.”
The air turned solid at that, and Ara belatedly realized the double entendre of her words. She meant she would gauge the level of iciness…not the last. Definitely not the last.
“I beg your pardon,” she ground out in dismay when the tension seemed to expand. “I meant you being icy. Not there. In general. Like an all-purpose frostiness, not just your…er…down there.” Horrified that she was making it worse, she licked dry lips. “Oh, ballocks. Ignore me please, I implore you.”
“But why should I when you’re so very entertaining?” the marchioness countered, a startling wealth of dry amusement in her low-pitched voice that continued to do insufferable things to Ara’s willpower. “Besides, I’d hate for you to be disappointed.”
I could never.
Ara didn’t respond for fear of saying something that she couldn’t take back—give me thirty seconds on my knees to prove you wrong—and renewed her concentration on the sketches.
When she was finally happy with the different options, she selected the one that had the most pleasing lines and then switched to another page, where she drew it larger and with a little more detail. Her pencil skimmed over the robe tucked neatly over stockinged feet, the closed lapels hiding every inch of skin to the collarbones.
She cleared her throat, glancing up. “So Lady Rawdon paid in full for a nude portrait, but I can do whatever you’re comfortable with. Or use my imagination, if you prefer.”
“You can do that?” the marchioness asked. Clearly, that earlier surge of humor hadn’t vanished when she shocked Ara yet again. “Very well. As long as you promise no icicles on my down-there.”
Bloody hell in a handbasket, was that…a joke?
Ara’s mouth fell open. “I must confess, you surprise me,” she said with a wry grin. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“To jest?”
“To slacken that spine of yours. You do have quite a fearsome reputation, you know.”
Her head canted. “I’m aware.”
They didn’t speak for a while after that, and Ara was worried she’d made a horrid faux pas by pointing out her awful reputation. But she forced herself to concentrate instead of making conversation, and the time passed quickly. When the knock on the door came, signaling the arrival of her coachman, the marchioness rose without a word to go behind the screen.
Well, that was over, at least.
Ara loosed a tight breath and rolled her neck, studying the canvas that was prepped with a warm sepia imprimatura hue over the lightly penciled lines of the composition. She would erase the lines later and then add a color wash as well as individual paint color in the first pass. She wasn’t truly satisfied with her effort thus far…but perhaps the muse would appear later on.
The Marchioness of Waverly, put back to immaculate rights, emerged. Her stern expression gave nothing away, not one iota of her feelings, but Ara couldn’t help noticing even from where she sat that those mercurial thunderstorm eyes leaned toward blue than gray. Her breath hitched as she wondered what that portended. Was she pleased? Displeased? About to unleash hell?
The marchioness’s lips parted. “Same time next week.”
It wasn’t a question, but Ara couldn’t do more than nod, her foolish heart taking absurd flight at the thought of seeing her again. She knew she should have said no, communicated that she was busy, or that she was out of town. One measly sitting with a woman who was no good for her nerves at all, and Ara was already hopelessly infatuated, the artist in her desperate for more. Damn those blue-tinged, winter-fire eyes.
Ara was doomed.
Chapter Three
It had been nearly six weeks of visiting the small studio in Covent Garden, and each Thursday, an additional article of clothing remained behind the screen. Whether that was a conscious decision on her part, Margot did not know. Today, only two pieces of clothing remained. She both dreaded and anticipated what ridding herself of both would mean. Would that signal the end of their sessions? The finale of this astonishing adventure?
Gnawing her lip in a rare moment of indecision, Margot exhaled a breath and divested herself of the embroidered silk drawers. The cool air kissed her bare skin beneath the hem of her filmy chemise and she shivered before pulling on the robe that smelled more like her now. Vanilla had been replaced with gardenias.
It wasn’t so much the actual nudity beneath the garment than the scandalous suggestion of it. Nudity implied intimacy. And certainly, the last handful of weeks had been filled with that.
One portrait had turned into an entire series.
Six stunning works later, Margot was practically addicted.
To the chaise longue. To the robe. To the intense caress of Ara’s eyes.
No wonder more and more of her clothing had been left behind. What would that golden gaze feel like on her exposed body?
