Page 5 of Her Rogue to Ruin
Though she’d layered a drop cloth over the painting, the viscount flicked it aside.
“You’re very talented.”
Portia scoffed. “I’ve hardly begun.”
“And yet there are so many colors, and I can see her already.” He pointed toward his sister’s face, composed of nothing more than shapes of peach and pink and cream and a few darker strokes to indicate the tip of her brow, the underside of her nose, and the seam of her lips. “Who could mistake that defiant chin of hers?”
“I hope you do not mind that we borrowed your study.” Portia found she much preferred watching him to being watched by him. She studied him the way she would a prospective portrait subject—imagining the colors of Lord Pemberton on her palette.
“Not at all,” he murmured distractedly while he continued to study the very rough painting of his sister. “This almost makes me wish I’d paid more attention when my tutor attempted to teach me how to draw.”
He turned to face her again. “You mustn’t think that my outburst had anything to do with you two. My mother told me you might be using this room, but I was simply too…” He worked his jaw as if he was chewing over a word he wouldn’t let out. “Well, as you saw, I was distracted.”
“You were irate.” There they were. Impulsive words. And too honest for his liking if the flare of his eyes was any indication.
But why deny what he’d felt?
“Forgive me for the outburst.”
“You already apologized,” Portia told him softly. “And I’ve already forgiven you.”
He left her then. Stepped past her and headed straight for the drinks cart in a corner of the room. The cut glass decanter he lifted caught the sunlight and a rainbow of color flashed across a bookshelf.
“Good grief, it’s not yet noon,” he mumbled to himself and then replaced the decanter. When he turned back again, one of those charming grins of his curved his ridiculously sensual mouth. “A bit too early, isn’t it?”
Portia wanted to ask what had upset him. The urge to investigate the mystery of the true Phineas Pemberton, or even offer some bit of comfort, nearly overwhelmed her.
And yet he wouldn’t even admit to his anger.
“May I carry that down for you?” He pointed at her satchel.
“No.” She forced the word out because remaining in his company wasn’t good for her equanimity.
Could he see the heat in her cheeks? Or the wild flutter of her pulse?
“I can manage on my own.”
He smiled at that, and this one seemed genuine. It softened his gaze. “Yes, you do seem like an entirely capable and independent woman.”
“Thank you.” Capable. Independent. Yes, she liked that assessment quite a lot.
“When do you return?”
“Miss Pemberton and I agreed that I should come each day this week.”
“Good.” That smile again.
The real one. The one that made her knees melt a bit.
Portia felt an answering smile lift the edges of her mouth.
“Never fear, Lady Hastings. I’ll make a point of being away next time. You can assure Louisa that I won’t come bursting in on her portrait sessions in future.” He nodded sharply, as if sealing a vow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for the dreaded luncheon.”
He exited the room almost as swiftly as he’d entered.
Portia stood watching the doorway, half expecting him to burst in again. Then she composed herself, gathered her things, and made her way downstairs. Once she was out on the pavement in front of Pemberton House, she sucked in a lungful of chilly autumn air and willed her cheeks, the tips of her ears, and her feelings to cool.
“It’s done,” she told herself aloud.
