Page 23 of Her Rogue to Ruin
Portia knew that was his reputation, and though they’d spoken in teasing tones at times, he seemed to have a great deal more depth than the average bon vivant. She wanted to know him deeply. And that frightened her far more than the notion of attempting to seduce him into being her lover.
She’d never attempted to seduce anyone and wasn’t even certain how she’d go about it if she tried.
“I can see you’re considering it.” Fiona clasped her hands together and looked just the way she did when an idea struck her. “Is there a way you could speak to him privately?”
“There might be.” Portia prayed her expression gave nothing away.
Portia still wondered if her attraction to Pemberton was making her reckless, despite Fiona’s encouragement.
But she was determined to follow through with the portrait now, and she was eager to get started.
Or was it that she couldn’t wait to see him?
* * *
Phin hadno trouble finding Portia’s art studio. It turned out to be quite close to his fencing salon near Soho and not far from one of the gentlemen’s clubs he belonged to in Mayfair.
This late in the evening, many of the side streets were quiet. He had no fear of anyone seeing him as he entered the door on Lexington Ave and ascended the stairs to her rented space at Number Four.
He knocked once, softly in case there were neighbors in residence in other parts of the building.
Portia pulled the door open a moment later.
The sight of her stalled the breath in his lungs.
She’d transformed from the prim-garbed woman who showed up at Pemberton House to paint his siblings, and even looked far different than the elegant picture she’d presented at the Granford ball. Her hair was unbound with only a few strands pulled back near her ears and the rest falling over her shoulders in glossy auburn waves. And her gown… He’d heard of ladies—particularly those of an artistic bent—wearing gowns that were more natural in shape, and some even forgoing their corsets, freeing their bodies from the forced shapes dictated by modern fashion.
The dark green garment Portia wore wrapped around her body without buttons or hooks, just small ties and a broad satin ribbon at her waist.
“You knocked, but have you changed your mind about coming in?” she asked pertly.
“I have not,” he told her with smile, then stepped past her into the gaslit room.
He caught her scent. That floral note. Violets, perhaps. The room itself smelled of cinnamon and fresh-brewed tea, and he noted she’d laid out a tea service. Phin wondered if she treated all her studio guests to refreshments.
The space was a more lavish, colorful version of what he’d imagined. Swaths of fabric in varying shades were draped on cushions and across tables. Jars of paint lined one shelf and another contained similar jars but open at the top and teeming with brushes in various sizes.
What appealed to him most was the art. Canvases and strips of paper, all in various shapes and sizes, hung on the walls, sat on tables, or were settled on the floor to lean against a fabric-covered wall.
The hallmarks of her portraits were vibrant color and loose brush strokes, and these pieces reflected those hallmarks, but they were more. Brighter colors. Some almost garish. And brushstrokes so loose that one got only a hint of the subject matter. A few were still lifes. Others landscapes. Many were portraits, of both people and animals.
“It’s quite extraordinary,” he breathed as he took it all in.
“Do you think so? I suspect you’d find much the same in most artist’s studios.”
“Perhaps,” he said as he stepped closer to her, “but I admire this space because it’s yours.”
“Thank you.” She swallowed hard and looked away as if she wasn’t used to compliments. “Would you like tea? There are cinnamon scones too.”
Phin sensed her nervousness and yearned to put her at ease, though the last thing he wanted was tea. Yet he took both, nibbled at the scone, and took a sip of steaming black tea. He immediately set the teacup aside after washing down a second bite of scone.
“I can give you time to finish your tea.” She gestured toward a low dais that contained a chair and a few cushions strewn around beside it. “Or we could get started.”
“Yes, let’s get started.” He hoped he wasn’t being rudely eager, but now that he was here, he wanted to begin.
“Of course, Lord Pember—”
“Please, Phin will do quite nicely. Or Phineas if you prefer a bit of formality.”
