Page 7 of Her Rogue to Ruin
“And did she reply?”
Phin strode to his desk, retrieved her note, and reread the bit that created a new problem for him to solve.
“She’s asking for a token.”
Selkirk shrugged. “Seems fair. Many men would like to warm her bed, so asking you to prove your interest seems reasonable.”
“Perhaps, but you haven’t heard what she’s asking for yet.”
“Jewels? Fine art? A frock?”
“A very specific sort of art.”
Selkirk laughed one of his deep-throated chortles. “Why are you being coy, man? What does she want?”
“She wants a nude portrait.”
Selkirk stopped mid-sip of whisky and wiped his finger across his lips. “Bloody hell.”
“Precisely.”
“Well…” Selkirk settled back and twisted to look at the in-progress portrait on the easel in the corner of Phin’s study. “Lucky for you thatyou know a portraitist.”
“I can’t askher.” Phin gulped a bit of whisky and thought of their buttoned-up artist, a lady with the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen.
They were lavender in daylight, a lush violet in the afternoon, and framed by thick ebony lashes. And that hair. He’d always had a weakness for redheads, and Lady Portia Hasting’s cool politeness and prim demeanor only made him yearn to see her with all that flaming crimson hair of hers cascading over her shoulders. Or over the sheets on his bed.
“Why the hell not? She’s good,” Selkirk said almost defensively.
Phin sipped more whisky, and an answering flare of heat lit in his chest, then slid down to settle in the pit of his belly.
“She’s damned good.” Phin had meant every word of the praise he’d offered her. It still irked him that she’d refused to take his compliment about her talent.
No, that wasn’t all of it. The lady herself unnerved him. She didn’t like him, and she couldn’t hide it.
And he couldn’t work out why.
He’d spent his whole life attempting to be likable, twisting himself into the roles and expectations others set for him. And he’d done it well. He’d learned how to smile and laugh with exuberance, even when he didn’t feel like doing either. He’d learned to read others, to give them precisely what they wanted of him. It was how he’d survived his father.
He’d learned that if he was good enough—if he was perfect—he might not spark his father’s rage.
“I want to meet her.”
Phin flicked his gaze toward his friend. “Why? Are you going to commission her?”
Something twisted in his chest at the notion, an oddly sharp stab of jealousy that was wholly unexpected and made no sense. Lady Portia Hastings wasn’thisartist. She wasn’t his anything beyond the distraction she caused him and the time he occasionally spent wondering how she’d look disheveled.
Or assembling a list in his mind of all the ways he could dishevel her.
“Not commission her.” Selkirk set his drink aside and stood to approach her easel. “I thought I might proposition her.”
Selkirk smirked back at him. Phin glared in reply.
“I should box your ears for that.” Phin resisted the urge to plant himself in front of the painting as Selkirk lifted the cloth cover.
“Box my ears?” Selkirk tipped an amused look over his shoulder. “Good Lord, are we back at university? Why are you so defensive about the lovely widow? It’s not fair to claim her if you’re planning to warm Mrs. Grove’s bed.”
“Lady Portia Hastings…” Phin began but got stuck thinking of the way she’d nibbled her lip after he’d touched her. The lady may not like him, but shewasattracted to him. And God help him, he wanted to explore that attraction because it was damnably mutual.
