Page 14 of Her Rogue to Ruin
Portia felt her brows rise, as unbidden as her confession that she’d promise him anything he asked of her.
His eyes slid shut, thick dark lashes sheltering her view of his amber gaze. “I’ve shocked you already, but I must shock you more.”
“I don’t shock easily.” That Portia could say with complete confidence.
In the most harrowing of circumstances, she was often the one who others relied upon to remain calm and levelheaded. At least until she’d begun visiting the home of Lord Phineas Pemberton and found that her emotions, her reactions, her very thoughts could be untamable.
“Excellent.” He looked at her squarely, his honey-brown gaze glowing in the late afternoon light. “Are you familiar with Mrs. Grove?”
“She’s rather infamous. ” Portia didn’t know the lady personally, only by reputation. She was a fellow widow, though she and Portia did not move in the same circles. All she knew of the woman came from gossip—and the scandalous sort at that.
Beautiful, flamboyant, daring—Mrs. Grove was a jewel of the demimonde.
“I’m quite keen on gaining her favor,” Lord Pemberton admitted in a low voice.
Portia averted her gaze, focusing on the elaborate mantel clock. She watched the steadiness of its minute hand and yearned to feel that same steadiness. Her belly churned with something far too like jealousy, a sharp-edged prick of possessiveness that she had no right to.
“She’s set me a challenge,” he said in a quieter tone, almost pleading. “And that’s where you come in.”
“I don’t understand,” Portia told him honestly.
Why would such a gorgeous young man set his cap at an infamous widow? And wasn’t he betrothed from childhood to someone his father had chosen? Not that marriage and dalliances were mutually exclusive.
“She’s asked me to send her a portrait.” He cleared his throat and rocked back on his boot heels. “Sans clothing.”
Portia swallowed hard.
A nude portrait. She’d painted them, of course. Any artist worth their salt had studied the nude form. Understanding anatomy—musculature, proportions, angles, and shapes—was only truly gained through nude studies.
And this man. Oh, she had imagined him stripped bare. Heaven help her, she had.
Now he was asking her to paint him that way. Secretly.
And it would all be for Mrs. Grove.
Portia sifted possibilities. Imagined the moment when he would shed each piece of clothing for her. She’d have the privilege of learning every inch of him, but not because he cared for her to see him that way. Not because he wished for any intimacy between them.
The prospect held less appeal when she imagined him presenting her work to another woman. She’d be left with nothing more than vivid memories and whatever he planned to pay her for her work.
The infatuation she’d developed for Pemberton already unnerved her. How much worse would it be after spending hours staring at him without a stitch of clothing?
“Perhaps it’s a terrible thing to ask of you.” He spoke in a soft, tentative tone, but his deep voice made it sound seductive.
Portia wanted to give in, wanted to give him anything he asked, as she’d so quickly said she would.
But she couldn’t do it. He might believe her refusal came from a sense of conscience or propriety, but it was the prospect of spending time with him, getting to know the man behind the roguish reputation, and liking it—liking him— that frightened her the most.
What if she lost her heart to him?
And if others found out what she’d done? She could destroy her reputation and lose her very livelihood.
“I’m sorry, Lord Pemberton. I cannot fulfill your commission.”
To Portia’s shock, his expression softened and he dipped his head once in an expression of acknowledgement.
“Thank you, Lady Hastings.”
“Why are you thanking me?”
