AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Oh, she was a fool twenty ways to Sunday, Margot knew. How utterly gauche of her to be smitten with the artist paid to paint her portrait! It was as bad as the women who swooned for the quixotic poets and the romantic novelists. Perhaps slightly more forgivable, considering she was unclothed and that led to a forced, if false, sense of affinity. More fool her.
But that wasn’t all of it.
She’d been the Ice Queen for so long that she’d forgotten who she was underneath all that hoarfrost…or what the warmth of summer felt like. Coldness was in her blood, instilled in her very heart. Much of that was pure survival, but for the first time in forever, Margot wanted to remember how to feel, how to be admired for who she was rather than what she could offer.
She yearned to bask in the sun that was Ara.
In this studio, in Ara’s space, Margot felt seen and she felt safe. In Mayfair, the mantle she wore was heavy. It felt ridiculously good to leave it behind, to be her true self inasmuch as that was possible. Without judgment. Without fear.
Ara’s opinions, expressed with such optimism and perpetual joy, made her want to smile more than she’d ever had in her life. Her outlook on life was through rose-colored glasses, while Margot’s view was exceedingly plain. Ara was pure fire; she was frost. They couldn’t have been more contrary in nature, and yet, Margot couldn’t stay away.
Ara was too bright, too bold, too everything.
And her talent was outstanding, Honoria hadn’t exaggerated about that.
“So what do you think of my little Ara?” Honoria had inquired the week right after the first sitting. “Did she thoroughly impress you?”
Her Ara? Margot had faltered on her reply, which of course hadn’t gone unnoticed by her very observant best friend. “Yes,” Margot said.
“Did you take off all your clothes?” Honoria had asked with a sly look.
Her ears had burned hot. “No.”
“Did you want to?”
Margot had frowned and refused to answer.
But perhaps it was those very four words that had encouraged her to be more daring the second time. By the fourth and fifth sittings, it had become almost a challenge to herself to be bolder, to seek that comfort in her own skin as Ara did. And on top of that, the easy camaraderie and the underlying hum of awareness that made her inexplicably short of breath on occasion were a potent mix.
During their quite candid conversations in the studio, Margot had come to realize that Ara was attracted to women. It was a curious thing, considering that she’d been married off herself at seventeen, without much of a chance to discover her own personal desires. She’d simply assumed she’d be wed to a man, which she had. One thing Margot did know was that no one deserved a fate like hers. No wonder her body had become completely uninterested in sexual congress at the hands of the late marquess. Pleasure was non-existent.
At four and thirty, this was the most indulgent thing she’d ever done for herself.
And in all honesty, Margot wanted more. Though what more was, she could not articulate. Friendship? Companionship? There was a definite imbalance of power, considering Margot was paying for Ara’s portraiture, but she had the distinct impression that Ara also liked her company. It wasn’t only one-sided. Still, Margot wanted to tread carefully. Respectfully.
“I’m ready,” she said, stepping around the screen and walking across the room.
Each time, her position had been different, and despite her aversion to touch, Margot had enjoyed being situated according to Ara’s whims. She’d seen the earlier paintings, of course, and could hardly believe they were of her. For some reason, despite the exquisitely shaded detail, down to the freckles on her shoulders, Ara had chosen to conceal her face in each composition. It was either turned away with a hint of profile or not visible altogether.
Each piece was all about the body of art…in this case, Margot’s body.
And once each piece was complete, Ara hid them away.
“It’s a surprise,” she’d told her with that sunny smile. “Trust me. We’re telling a story. The final impact will be worth the wait.”
Honestly, Margot did not care about the wait one bit because the completion of every piece brought them closer to their inevitable conclusion. Ara could not paint her forever, after all, much as such a fantasy appealed to Margot. Being painted was like having one’s superfluous layers stripped away until only one’s authentic core remained. There was an inherent honesty in it, at least in Ara’s work, that could not be fabricated or replicated.
Her talent was indeed extraordinary.
Ara was already in position in front of her easel, bronze curls tucked behind her ears, as she cleaned out her brushes and pored over the paint selections. She wore a loose blue muslin dress today and her grin was infectious as she glanced up when Margot reached her side. “How are you today, Lady Waverly?”
“Very well, Miss Vaughn. How have you been this week?”
“Better now that it’s Thursday and you’re here.” Ara’s smile lit her eyes to gold, and Margot was mesmerized by the unfiltered warmth in them. It was a wonder how open and expressive that gaze could be. She hid nothing of herself, this woman. “How is that handsome son of yours? Making ladies swoon all over London, I see?”
Margot’s brows pinched. “So you’ve read the newssheets then? God, he’ll be the death of me one day, I swear.”
“He’s every poet’s dream at the moment,” Ara said with a laugh when she paused by the fresh canvas that already had a preliminary thumbnail sketch on one corner. It made Margot flush to think how intimate Ara already was with the lines of her body, at least with a pencil and a paintbrush. “Defending the honor of a lady, who was insulted by a degenerate toad of man, is quite newsworthy and gallant.”
