Eye of the Beholder (2 page)

He slipped down the stairs to watch Dominic
escort the young woman, who had removed her hat, into the studio.
And he drew back sharply.

He knew her. The young woman from the ball
last night, the woman who had watched him so closely, as if she
knew his secret.

And if he met with her, she would. He should
call for Dominic to send her away, but damned if he wasn’t
intrigued. Once Dominic closed the door behind her, Grayson
beckoned him.

“Light candles in the room, all around
her.”

Dominic’s brow furrowed. Grayson drew to his
full height. He should truly think about getting a manservant who
didn’t question him, but he’d grown rather attached to Dominic.

“The young lady has seen me in society.”

Dominic’s eyes widened and he turned back
toward the studio door. “I’ll send her on her way.”

“No, don’t.”

Again Dominic delivered a questioning
look.

“I’ll stay to the shadows. I want to know
what she’s about.”

“You risk too much,” Dominic warned.

“I know what I risk. Do as I say.”

Reluctantly, Dominic turned to do his
bidding. Grayson waited on the landing until his manservant left
the studio, then approached the door, taking a deep breath before
he turned the handle.

She stood in the center of the room, her hat
dangling from ribbons that she worked nervously through her hands.
Her creamy skin was rendered soft by the candlelight, and her
corkscrew curls cast lacy shadows on her face. Her plush lips
parted in surprise when she heard the door, and her dark eyes
reflected the flames around her.

“You are Monsieur Cresson?”

The French name he’d signed his paintings
with sounded elegant from her lips. He savored it a moment before
he realized she might know his voice. He came up with the only
accent he could think of.

“Yes, my dear,” he said in a heavy Italian
cadence. “You are here to pose for me?”

Confusion creased her smooth brow a moment.
“I—yes.”

Unable to remain still, he crossed the room,
careful to stay in the shadows. She followed his movement, eyes
squinted as she tried to see him.

“May I ask why such a fine young woman would
want to be an artist’s model?”

“I have no reason that makes sense, other
than I want an adventure.”

“An adventure.” He could give her that. He
cleared his throat, realizing he’d forgotten his accent. “What are
you willing to do to find this adventure?”

She lifted her face, lovely in the
candlelight. What had Dominic called her? Horse-faced? The man was
blind.

“Whatever you ask of me.”

His voice shook, as if he was the one taking
the risk, when he said, “Take off everything but your chemise.”

She drew in a breath, but before she let it
out, her hands moved to the buttons of her bodice. In a matter of
moments, she was standing before him, the candlelight that hid him
revealing her, the outline of her lush curves through the nearly
transparent fabric, the hint of peaked nipples, the dark triangle
of hair between her thighs.

“Stockings and shoes as well.” He already
realized just painting her sex wasn’t going to be enough. He
already had a vision of her, the pose, could already see the
painting in his mind’s eye. He wished he could sketch faster, as
she bent at the waist to roll down her stockings and slip off her
shoe. No, not necessary for her to pose for that one. The picture
was indelibly printed on his mind.

“Take down your hair, and sit on the bed
there, on your right hip.” Damn her for knowing who he was. He
wanted the freedom to go to her, touch her, position her, any
excuse to caress that white skin. “Curve your knees toward me, and
draw up the hem of your chemise just above your knees. That’s
right. Now place your hands on the bed and tilt your head down.
Christ, you have lovely hair.”

Her head came up at that, and a self-mocking
smile played at her lips. “My hair is the bane of my
existence.”

“It’s stunning. Different.”

“You must not be in society much. Different
is not better.”

“Different is always better.” He pulled back
into the shadows before he gave into the desire to touch the
billowy cloud. “Draw it forward, just a bit, over your left
shoulder. I want it shadowing half your face. I want the mystery of
a woman just rising from her lover’s bed, the satisfaction, the
knowledge.”

The creamy skin darkened. “I don’t know about
that.”

“You don’t need to know. Brace your hands in
front of you on the mattress there.”

Her movement caused the right strap of her
chemise to fall down her arm, and she reached to correct it.

“No, leave it,” he ordered, dragging his
stool in front of his easel and grabbing a charcoal pencil.

He started with the curve of her hip first,
traced an outline of her leg, then traveled back up to her shoulder
and arms, sketching only the slightest detail. He wanted the
expression on her face, the lowered lashes, the slightly curved
lips. God. He was hard just looking at her face. How could that
be?

He worked in silence, keeping an eye on her
for signs of discomfort with the pose. He saw none, not yet, as he
sketched madly to capture that expression. If he accomplished
nothing else today, he would accomplish that.

Then he started on her hair.

“I’m not able to get your hair just right,”
he muttered.

“I told you, it’s more troublesome than it’s
worth.”

He grunted, smudged, tried again. “It’s
lovely. It’s just—it swoops here and curls there. It’s as if I have
to draw each strand separately.” He sat back, dropping the pencil
onto the table. “Would you like to take a break?”

“May I?” Relief colored her voice.

“Yes, of course.”

She straightened, rolling her shoulders, and
the chemise slipped a bit further, below her nipple. She gasped and
snatched at the strap.

“When we resume, I want the strap lower,” he
said, doing his best to sound professional in his fake Italian
accent when he was so hard he couldn’t think of anything besides
tasting her sweet flesh, plunging into that sweet body. “I want to
see your breast.”

That sweet body turned a delicious shade of
pink. ”If you’re sure.”

Her willingness made him even harder, and
when she resumed her pose a few minutes later, after imbibing some
tea delivered by Dominic, her rosy peaked nipple thrust out of the
top of her chemise.

“Gorgeous,” he murmured.

“No one’s ever said that about me before,”
she said, shyly.

“Then the people you associate with are
fools.”

“I won’t deny that, but for different
reasons.”

“Your society here is different than mine.
They value different things.”

“So how is it you have a French name and an
Italian accent?”

“French father, Italian mother, raised in
Italy.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit Italy. Where did
you live?”

“Florence.” At least he’d visited there on
his Grand Tour. He could speak of it with some knowledge.

She sighed. “The home of Michelangelo’s
David. Something I’ve longed to see.”

“You are impressed with the male form?” he
asked, a hint of humor in his voice.

Pink tinted her skin again. “With art. With
the ability to create something where nothing was before. How could
you leave such a place and come to live here?”

“Money is much better, and there are not so
many artists as there are in Florence.”

“I suppose I can see that.”

“It’s best to be unique.”

“Not in England. Not for a woman.”

“You sound unhappy with your lot.”

“I’m not. I’m resigned to being a spinster,
but I don’t want my life limited to sewing parties and country
house parties. And I dislike being pitied immensely.”

“I shall make a note never to pity you,” he
said with a smile. He sat back in his chair. “I think that will do
for today.”

“May I see it?” She sat up but didn’t
immediately move to cover herself.

“Not yet. When it is done. Perhaps in a day
or two. Can you return tomorrow?” After this pose, he already had
two others in mind. Would she stay interested long enough?

At last she tugged her strap into place. “I
will make a point of it.”

“I’ll pay you once the portrait is
complete.”

She looked up, blinking, as if she had
forgotten about that. “Of course.”

He moved toward the door to give her privacy
to dress, something he’d never thought to do before. “I shall see
you at the same time tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here.”

Chapter Two

Grayson tugged at his sleeves and looked into
Lady Downing’s stunned expression. He rarely attended balls two
nights in a row, but his model had mentioned she would be here
tonight, and he wanted to know her properly. He was drawn to her,
dangerously so.

“You would…like to be introduced?”

He’d never requested an introduction to a
young lady, though several had been thrust upon him. “I would. To
Miss Dusenberry.”

“Miss Dusenberry? I’m sure she’s almost on
the shelf. Surely you’d prefer a younger miss, who might be more
biddable.”

“I’m not looking to break a horse, ma’am,
just to dance.”

The older woman’s eyes widened at his tone.
“I’m just saying that Miss Dusenberry is known for her…strong
opinions.”

“Does she enjoy dancing?” Grayson
pressed.

Lady Downing narrowed her gaze as if
attempting to discern his purpose, then motioned for him to follow
her.

Miss Dusenberry’s lovely hair was piled in an
unflattering style on top of her head,pulled tightly from her face
as if that would disguise her curls, and the pink gown did nothing
to accent that creamy skin. No, she needed jewel tones to stand
out, not to blend in with all the young misses present.

She turned with wide eyes when Lady Downing
took her arm.

“Miss Dusenberry, may I present Mister
Grayson Adams?”

The pretty plump lips parted in surprise when
she looked up at Grayson and for a moment he thought she might
recognize him. But no, it was something else. He bowed deeply,
showing more respect than her station warranted. She dipped into a
curtsy and lifted her gaze.

“May I reserve a dance this evening, or are
you spoken for?” he asked smoothly.

“I’m sorry. What?” Confusion darkened her
eyes.

“Would you care to dance?”

Her forehead creased, and his body reacted as
he remembered the expression from earlier.

“Miss Dusenberry?” prompted Lady Downing.

“Yes. Yes, I’d be honored.”

He bowed again, then moved away with Lady
Downing, leaving Sarah puzzling.

“Was that Grayson Adams?” her mother
demanded, appearing at her side in an instant.

Sarah startled but didn’t turn. Instead she
watched Grayson walk away, nodding briefly to other guests, not
looking back.

“Sarah!” her mother said sharply to draw her
attention.

“It was.”

“What did he want? An introduction?”

“And a dance.”

“Grayson Adams doesn’t dance with anyone,”
her mother’s friend Mrs. Servin remarked, her own gaze following
his departure. “It’s often remarked upon, and we wonder why he
bothers to come to the balls at all.”

“What did you do to draw his attention?” her
mother asked sharply.

“I have no idea,” Sarah said, unwilling to
allow her mother’s disapproval to dim her excitement. She had to
think of something to say as they danced or he would think her an
utter fool. Already she had stumbled over his invitation to
dance.

“We’re aiming higher than a baron’s younger
son.”

Sarah wanted to say something about beggars
not being choosers, but she didn’t want to engage her mother in a
debate, not when she was thrilling over being singled out by the
Rebellious Baron.

Not when she needed to be thinking about how
to not act a fool in front of him.

He came to claim her for the dance a few
moments later, after she’d replayed the proper steps in her head.
Goodness, she didn’t know why she was so anxious.

The attention they garnered when he took her
arm to lead her onto the floor didn’t help, either.

“Is it really so unusual for you to dance?”
she asked as he turned her toward him in the formation.

“It’s been awhile since I was moved to do
so.”

She bit the inside of her lip to stop herself
from asking what moved him to do so now, but that might be
perceived as pursuing a compliment and she didn’t want him to find
her so self-absorbed. The way he watched her throughout the dance
was unnerving. And when he touched her, it wasn’t quite proper, his
fingertips brushing the skin of her arm above her glove. Her gaze
lifted to his in alarm, but his was steady. Did he expect her to
protest? Should she?

Instead, she hoped he’d do it again. And
because of that, she struggled for conversation.

“If you do not care to dance, why do you
attend balls?” she asked.

“There are more pleasures to be gained than
on the dance floor.”

“I’ve not found any.”

Her words surprised a smile from him. “You’re
not a man.”

She angled her head to look up at him. “What
pleasures can a man find here that a woman cannot?”

His eyebrows lifted and a flush crept up her
throat at her provocative question. “Aside from watching the lovely
young ladies in their finery,” he said, lowering his head toward
hers so that his breath coasted warm over her throat, “there are
card games, and smoking rooms, and other socialization.”

“Which of those draws you?”

“I enjoy a friendly hand of cards and decent
cigar.” But his gaze traveled down the front of her gown, heating
her skin, making her aware of her body as she hadn’t since she went
to the artist. Or perhaps she was aware because she went to the
artist. ”And you? Why do you come?”