Page 4 of Her Rogue to Ruin
Now it was Portia’s turn to freeze.
She’d never been alone with the viscount before. Never had him assess her as he was now.
He overwhelmed all of her senses at once. She wasn’t sure where to look, what to say, how to keep her cheeks from going splotchy and pink under that gaze of his.
His brown eyes appeared amber in the sunglow.
“She’s right,” he said. “I owe you an apology, Lady Hastings. My behavior, let alone my language, was brutish. Like my sister, I do hope you’ll stay on. Frankly, our mother would hang me if you don’t.”
He’d never said so many words to Portia at once. Their exchanges thus far had consisted of only what politeness required—greetings as she arrived or well wishes as she departed.
The change in him stunned Portia. So quickly, he’d transformed from a man full of storm clouds to this easy, sunny charm. She’d always suspected he’d learned to perform the affable role he embodied so well and that something more—something more truly Phineas Pemberton—lurked beneath his flawless exterior.
“Of course, I will stay on,” Portia assured him.
There had never even been a question in her mind. Not only did she need the funds from the Pemberton commissions, but she had personally promised the dowager viscountess that all her girls would have a portrait of their own.
“I’m most grateful, Lady Hastings.” He continued to assess her.
Portia swept at a phantom strand of hair that tickled her cheek. She was alone with the most appealing man she’d ever met in her life, a man she’d promised herself she’d avoid, and she now found that she could not bear his perusal.
Surely, he’d notice the paint under her nails or judge her for the fashion-less practicality of her shirtwaist and black skirt.
“I should pack up my things.” Portia turned away from him and it was only then that she noticed the smudges of paint on her hands and the cuff of her blouse.
Then, suddenly, he was close. Just at Portia’s elbow. The heat of him was a palpable thing, and heaven help her, she wanted to sink into it.
“I’m afraid you…” he started.
“Yes?” She turned back to him.
He’d pulled a kerchief from his pocket, lifting the fabric as if to offer it, but then he stepped closer instead.
“Here,” he said quietly. “May I?”
“Yes.” She spoke the word too quickly. Too eagerly.
“You have a bit of paint,” he said as he lifted his hand and swept one kerchief-covered fingertip against her cheek.
The single stroke set off a pleasurable ripple that wended its way down to her toes. She caught the edge of her lower lip between her teeth. Then he repeated the swiping gesture a bit more determinedly.
Warmth bloomed in her cheeks to accompany the slide of his fingertip. Portia swallowed, suddenly thirsty. Embarrassingly breathless.
“There,” he said with a self-satisfied smile. “I’ve done one thing right today.”
Golden. The word came into her mind, unbidden. The man’s eyes weren’t truly brown. They were a kaleidoscope of golden hues.
“Thank you.” Portia couldn’t stop herself from brushing her fingers against the spot again.
“I can’t be offended that you don’t trust me, but I assure you it’s gone.” He held up his paint-smeared kerchief as proof.
“I believe you.” And she did, though she didn’t trust herself.
Even this simple, meaningless encounter with the maddening man had left her flushed and tongue-tied. She had to escape before she said something foolish or did something impulsive.
Turning away from him, she continued collecting her brushes and paints and folding everything into the satchel she carried with her to each session at the Pemberton’s. But her usual rote cleaning-up routine was so much harder with a tall, clove-scented man at her back.
She noticed everything. The pace of his breathing—steady and slow. The rustle of his clothing. The soft thud of his footsteps as he moved around her to look at the canvas.
