Page 39 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
“How did it come to an end?” Lord Pentshire asked, flicking his paintbrush into the air so that a drop of paint hit his model, Miss Mires, on the cheek.
She flinched and glared at the earl. He winked, wiped it away with the pad of his thumb, his soft gaze melting hers.
“I could not bear,” Cordelia said, “to let him know I had been making fun the whole time. So, I let him go, told him my genius no longer needed instruction.”
Pentshire threw his head back with a guffaw and wiped a tear from his eye. “That’s rich.”
“Poor man,” Theo said, stomping through the gaggle of artists and striding straight for Cordelia. “I’ve seen your watercolors, and they—”
“Are more water than color?” she provided.
He grunted, grabbed an easel leaning against a tree, and popped it open before connecting a bit of paper to it.
“Watercolors are not for everyone,” Mrs. Castle said. “A woman as bold as you should find a bold medium.”
“Life is her medium,” Theo said, kneeling near Cordelia’s chair and retrieving his box of charcoal. “Thank you,” he said looking up at her, “for bringing my supplies down. My apologies for my lateness.”
“I expected you to keep your distance,” she said, voice low and a bit wavering, “after last night.”
“Not at all. I merely needed a walk this morning. Cordelia…” He gripped the edge of her chair just next to her leg. He could feel the heat of her but did not dare touch her. No one here would bat an eye. Beside them, Lord Armquist pushed a tendril of hair from his muse’s face and took his damn time about it, fingers lingering on her jawline. To the other side, Pentshire’s muse smoldered at her baron, pressing her breasts together with her upper arms. No one would care if Theo touched Cordelia. But he could not because she was to be protected, not used.
He cleared his throat and tried again to say what he needed to say. “Cordelia, we are going to win that prize money. For you.” He’d find his scandal here. Of that he had no worries. But her… everything about her situation worried him. More and more every damn day.
She raised a brow, and it flew like a stroke of red paint up her forehead. “Are we? You are that good an artist?”
Frankly, he had no idea how good he was. He’d done nothing but caricatures for years now. Was he good at sketching ridiculously, exaggerated things? Yes. No doubt of that. But could he do what Pentshire needed the winning artist to do—show the soul with a brushstroke—perhaps not. The thought terrified him. He’d long since attempted to cut his work off from the soul, from beauty, from those things his father used to rhapsodize about. Those things he had once taken seriously himself.
He could flirt with them once more to help Cordelia win.
“Well?” she prompted.
He had no answer he could give her, so he stood, the garden air rippling over his exposed skin like her breath had across his neck—fragrant and warm. He returned to face his easel, which he placed right before the chair. He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket. “There’s still a quarter hour till noon, so morning will do. Now be still, Delia my dear. Pentshire, what is the assignment?”
“We’ve decided to keep it simple after last night’s more difficult challenge. A portrait is all. That captures your muse’s best quality.”
He stared at her, frowned. Best quality? He liked her hair, all wild and long and that deep, deep shade of copper that seemed impossible.
Cordelia laughed, throwing her head back and exposing the long, strong column of her throat, elegant and creamy. Perhaps that was her best feature. He certainly seemed fixated with it. He opened his box and placed a bit of charcoal in his holder, and started there, putting the line of her neck onto the paper then, when she tipped her chin back down to stare at him with amused eyes, he sketched the round dip of her chin. That bit of her good too. Somehow quite,quitekissable.
Hell, he should not be thinking about kissing her.
“What amuses you so?” he demanded. Better to grouch than lust.
“Why, you of course. You’re looking at me as if you cannot find one thing to approve of.”
His turn to laugh because he couldn’t find a damn thing in her to disapprove of. “The exact opposite is true. I cannot decide which good quality to emphasize.”
“Shocking! Do tell.”
What a mischief maker she was. He suppressed a sudden, unwanted smile.
“What can you find to approve of in a talentless woman like me?”
How many times had he heard her call herself talentless? He’d seen her room. He knew she had not an artistic bone in her body, but to so carelessly and ceaselessly throw herself away as she did just because she couldn’t draw… It made him want to rip something in two.
“Talent comes in many forms,” he said. He faced the Castles, who sat just behind his right shoulder. “My muse, Mrs. Castle, may not be able to count art as one of her skills, but she is an artist nonetheless. She shapes the world around her till it gives her delight and satisfaction. She needs no tools as we do. She uses her wit and her cunning and her charm.”
Mrs. Bexford chuckled. “Do you tread the boards as I do, then, Lady Cordelia? Are you an actress?”
