Page 54 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
Her voice shivered through him, and she clutched his satchel to her belly wearing the shyest smile he’d ever seen from her. Even when they’d first met, she’d been bold and unafraid. Now she acted timid? After she’d come on his tongue and rubbed him to completion with her clever hand?Now? He almost laughed again when his belly still ached from the last time.
She placed the satchel by the small writing desk he sat at and tilted her head as she studied his work spread across it. “I secured the satchel before Pentshire saw it and submitted my sketch of you to him before coming here. These are wonderful.” Her fingers air-traced the outlines of his drawings. “They’re so funny.”
“Well, I do have a sense of humor, if you can imagine it.”
“You hide it well, but I know. I have discovered your secret.”
He pulled her down onto his lap. “Should we return to the others?” Not that he wished to do so.
“No. Tell me about these.” She nodded toward his work. “That one is Pentshire and Mr. Castle, and… Lord Armquist?”
“Yes. They cornered me this morning. I decided they’d make a perfect trio of judges.”
“But their robes are covered in hearts.”
“So was their conversation.”
She let her body relax into his and rested her head on his chest. “They would not like to see how silly you’ve made them look. Those wigs, Theo. Are they made of… sausages?”
“Yes. Their court is located at the breakfast table.”
Her chuckle rumbled through him. “And that one?” She pointed at another. “The vulture one.”
“Ah. That’s Mr. Bradley.”
“But he doesn’t look a vulture at all. It’s a fine sketch, but I’m afraid you’ve missed the mark.”
“You don’t see the resemblance? Hm.” He shrugged.
She shifted her body away from him to move the papers around, stopping abruptly and sitting up stiffly. “Is that… Miss Mires? And Lord Pentshire?”
He looked over her shoulder, grimaced. “Yes. Not my best.”
“I hate it.”
“Pardon me?” She hated it? It wasn’t horrid. Far from, actually.
She twisted to look up at him. “Miss Mires is nice. And Lord Pentshire is… jovial. But you’ve made them look wicked. Are they in a dairy farm? And is that joke about udders a joke about her—”
“Yes.” The word sounded like rock breaking on his tongue. He reached around her and hid the drawing under others. “It’s not my best. I’ll likely not use it.”
“Do you ever feel bad about your drawings?”
“No.” They were necessary.
“I think I like the funnier ones better.”
“They sell the best, too. I sketch one now and again, put my signature upon it, and give it to a child, a sweep, or a flower girl with instructions to take them to the printshops. To be paid for it.”
“That is terribly sweet, Theo.” He snorted, shifted, wrapped one arm more tightly about her. “What’s this?” She picked up a small wooden cylinder with a bit of paper peeping out of its side, lying crooked at the far corner of the table.
“Open it and look closely. It’s calledGoing to a Fight.”
She unrolled it carefully and leaned closer, wanting to see every little detail. “Those two are fighting already. And look at that man’s face. So angry! And the sweet little dog. I could look for hours and find something different with each pass. How delightful. Did you—”
“No. Robert Cruikshank. Pull again. There’s more.”
She did. Then again and again, laughing because she could not now imagine the paper having an end. “Is that a… a bull? And a tiger? When do we get to the fight?”
