Eye of the Beholder

By Emma Jay

Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011 by Emma
Jay

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Chapter One

Grayson Adams put the final touch on the
painting and sat back in his chair, lifting his hand to his jaw as
he considered the product. The details were as perfect as he could
make them, but the painting lacked anything…special.

“I need a new muse,” he murmured. Something
different, unique. A virgin, maybe, a girl raised in the strictures
of society. The forbidden aspect such a thing would generate would
infuse passion in his work again.

His current model flipped her skirts down and
sat up. “So you want a poke now?”

He moved his chair back, needing distance
from her, from the painting, which didn’t please him as it should.
He could understand her misconception. He’d painted her in the most
intimate of poses, had touched her body as he arranged her, but the
gestures stirred no reaction in him. Perhaps that was why her
painting didn’t.

“Not this time,” he said.

She pouted and rested her fists on her hips.
“You gave the other girls a poke. They spoke well of your
attributes.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out the
silver coins, adding a few extra to the agree-upon amount. He
dropped them into the palm the girl opened reflexively.

“Thank you for your time. My man will see you
out.”

Once she was gone, he turned the painting to
the wall. Perhaps he’d like it better once he had some
distance.

No one in society realized the man dancing
with their virginal daughters made his living painting women in
seductive, intimate poses, spent his days in a garret with naked
women who smelled of sex. He moved among the elite, finding
pleasure in his secret. Grayson Adams, youngest son of the Baron of
Cricksham, made a fortune selling erotic art that outstripped his
oldest brother’s inheritance.

And wondering how he could seduce one of them
into modeling for him.

Now, with his new idea, the idea to paint a
virgin, his desire to socialize increased. He rose, stretched, and
went upstairs to dress for the evening.

***

Sarah Dusenberry edged closer to the wall, a
glass of lemonade in hand, and watched the dancers whirl across the
floor in clouds of pastel. The musicians to her left and the hum of
conversation to her right overwhelmed her senses, and she longed to
slip out the French doors onto the patio. But the doors were some
distance down the wall and moving toward them put her at risk of
conversation with other guests. The possibility held no appeal.

Her mother insisted she attend these events,
and as Sarah grew older, her mother grew more manic. Sarah was
one-and-twenty, and now attended two balls a week. She was
irritated and exhausted—and no match for the sixteen-year-old girls
spinning across the floor on the arms of the most eligible
bachelors London had to offer.

Her mother’s target wasn’t a man with money,
but a man with a name. Sarah had a large dowry, though not quite
large enough to tempt the titles her mother craved. Not large
enough to account for her wild hair, long nose and tart tongue,
which she wielded in a desire to keep her independence.

Murmurs ran through the crowd and Sarah
followed their gazes to the door.

Her breath arrested in her throat. Grayson
Adams stood in the doorway, surveying the group before him.

The Rebellious Baron, they called him, though
that was his father’s title, and he was unlikely to inherit, since
his much-older brother had three sons himself. Still, Sarah admired
no one in society more. In addition to being handsome—though not
fashionably so with his broad shoulders and broad features, his
hair longer than dictated, and allowed to curl, his sideburns
trimmed, his jaw perpetually unshaven—he was the man who made these
balls endurable, though of course he didn’t attend as many as she.
That was the only joy she took as she prepared herself each
evening—the anticipation of seeing him.

She’d never spoken to him and he never stayed
long, but she thrilled in his presence as long as he was in
attendance.

His appearance wasn’t the only thing that
made him stand out. No, rumor had it that he was in trade, and had
already made more money than his brother’s inheritance was worth.
That scandalized most of the young women and their mothers, but
intrigued Sarah. What did he do, exactly? And how did he have the
nerve to buck convention to do it?

He turned and met her gaze. Her heart tripped
when he cocked his head and smiled before stepping into the
room.

She watched as he greeted other guests,
though she was aware of other young women giving him a wide berth.
He was aware, as well. Before she realized what she was doing,
she’d moved from the wall into his path.

She stopped some distance away. They had not
been properly introduced, and she respected society’s rules enough
to wait. Also, he was an intimidating man, at least twelve years
her senior, and worldly.

Her mother appeared at her side. “Is there
someone here you’d like to meet?”

Sarah turned to her mother, who must have
been paying close attention to notice. Her mother would never
accept Grayson Adams. Even if he was the youngest son of a duke,
the rumors of him being in trade would have her mother in fits.

“No, Mother.” But her gaze followed
Grayson.

Her mother noticed and drew herself up. “I’m
not feeling quite the thing. Would you like to go?”

Any other time, Sarah would have jumped at
the chance to leave. Why did her mother wait until Grayson had
arrived? Did she suspect Sarah’s improper attraction?

She looked from Grayson to her mother and
nodded resignedly. One day she’d have the courage to do something
she wanted.

Today was not that day.

***

Sarah didn’t sleep well after a dream of
being swept around the room in Grayson Adams’s arms, only to have
him turn her over for a younger woman with a larger fortune, so she
was at the dining room table before the servants had finished
cooking breakfast. The travel periodical she subscribed to had
arrived, however. Just as well, she didn’t want her mother to see
it, and she could enjoy it over a leisurely breakfast.

Her mother didn’t understand her desire to
see other places. Well, maybe it wasn’t a desire so much as a
longing, since she would likely never travel out of England. Still,
she liked indulging the fantasies.

She was nibbling on a piece of toast when an
advertisement caught her eye.

“Artist model?” she read aloud. No experience
necessary, three hours a day for a week. That would be something
daring, wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t have to know who she was, that she
was in society, and whatever money she earned would be hers. If she
was brave enough to do this, perhaps she could find the courage to
travel.

She heard her mother on the stairs and
quickly tucked the paper beneath the folds of her skirt. Her pulse
pounded in excitement. What did an artist model do? Sit still for
long periods, no doubt. What else? Did the artist talk? Had he been
to many places? Perhaps she could speak to him of her longing to
travel.

The advertisement didn’t say what time to
call. Were artists late risers? She made a note to visit just after
noon. She would tell her mother she was shopping, and take her maid
Lily with her.

A plan in mind, she greeted her mother with a
smile.

Her mother appeared taken aback by the
welcome, and regarded her warily as she moved to the sideboard to
serve her own breakfast, toast and tea, a far cry from Sarah’s more
ambitious meal.

“You look rather like the cat with the
canary,” her mother remarked, sitting beside her.

“I’ve just decided I must have new gloves
like Miss Winstead had last night,” Sarah lied smoothly. “Lily and
I will go out after lunch to see if I can procure a pair.”

“Perhaps you might call on Miss Winstead,”
her mother said hopefully. “And she can direct you where to go.
Perhaps she’d even accompany you.”

As much as her mother wanted her to find a
husband, she also wanted Sarah to find a friend. Miss Winstead was
sadly very far down the list of the young women Sarah could
tolerate, and she was only seventeen years old.

But to placate her mother, she agreed, too
happy with her decision to agitate her mother. Again, her mother
gave her an odd look, so Sarah kissed her cheek and bounded up the
stairs.

***

Sarah stood in front of the Bloomsbury
address in the advertisement, not at all what she expected as an
artist’s loft. She tugged at the hem of her bodice, squared her
shoulders, and marched up the steps to rap sharply at the door. She
hoped she had the right address.

Behind her, Lily shifted her weight from one
foot to the other. Sarah gave her an impatient wave to stop as she
heard steps behind the door.

A butler swung the door open and Sarah
stopped herself from taking a step back in surprise. Did artists
have butlers?

“I’m here about the advertisement,” she
stammered, and pulled the paper out of her reticule.

The tall man, perhaps fifteen years her
senior, raised his eyebrows as his gaze traveled up and down her
dress.

Had she chosen wrong? She’d debated all
morning over what to wear, finally choosing her best walking
outfit. She’d presumed once she met with the artist, he would
instruct her on what to wear. She stopped herself from touching her
hair under her hat, a nervous habit.

“Am I in the right place?” she asked when the
butler didn’t respond.

“The right place, but I very much doubt you
fit the specifications. Wait here.”

He closed the door in her face, startling
her, and she exchanged a glance with Lily.

“We don’t belong here,” Lily said quickly,
her voice low as she reached for Sarah’s arm. “Let’s go before he
comes back.”

“I admit he’s a little rude, but I’ve come
this far. I’m not leaving now.” Because she wouldn’t have the
courage to return.

So she stood on the front step and
waited.

***

“What is it?” Grayson grumbled when Dominic
shoved back the drapes of his bedchamber. He’d been home a few
hours, having spent the wee hours entertaining himself in a club
playing cards with his friend John.

“Your advertisement has yielded a
response.”

“Good. Make an appointment.”

“She is here.”

“She’s here?” Grayson opened one eye to look
at Dominic. “Why would she be here?”

“She appears to be a well-born young
lady.”

“What would such a creature be doing
responding to an advertisement for an artist’s model?” he asked,
rolling out of bed and rubbing his hands over his face. “What makes
you think she is?”

“She’s dressed buttoned to here,” Dominic
motioned to his chin, “and she brought her lady’s maid with
her.”

“She did what?” He moved to the window and
looked down at the street, where he could only see the tops of the
two women’s heads.

“Who did you expect the advertisement would
draw?” Dominic moved to Grayson’s wardrobe.

“Not a young woman on her own. A merchant’s
daughter, perhaps, someone who needs the money.”

“Perhaps this one does. Just because she
comes from society doesn’t mean she has money.” He turned to
Grayson, presenting a freshly pressed shirt and pants. “Shall I
bring her in, or send her away?”

“Is she comely?”

“I’m not sure why that matters, since you
don’t paint their faces and it’s hard to tell through all those
petticoats if that particular attribute is attractive, but she’s
young and—tall.”

Grayson stopped mid-reach. “So not
pretty.”

“I believe one would call her horse-faced.”
He tapped his nose.

Grayson grimaced and shrugged out of his
sleep shirt and into his shirt. “She’s here. Send her to the
studio, alone. I don’t want her maid in there.” He shook his head.
A model who was so conscious of conventions she didn’t leave home
without her maid would not be one who would part her legs for his
paintbrush.

But he had to admire one who would have the
courage to come here.

Dominic left and Grayson finished dressing on
his own, suddenly anxious to meet this woman.