Page 2 of A Scoundrel Under the Mistletoe
Would he find her intrusion impertinent? Of course he would. Yet her hand hovered ready to push the door open further and enter the room.
Mr. Russell’s footsteps had faded into the muffled silence of the snow outside, leaving only the crackling hearth and her own shallow breaths as company. The inviting warmth of the house wrapped around her, emboldening her spirit, and finally her curiosity overruled her cautious nature.
With the faintest creak of protest from the hinges, Joy edged the door further open and slipped inside. The room lay bathed in the weak glow of late afternoon sun filtering through the clouds and frost-kissed window, casting shadows that danced across the floor.
Her gaze flitted across the table where scattered sketches on paper mixed with unused canvases. She leaned closer, her eyes tracing the lines of charcoal that breathed life into paper. They were drawings of the mundane and the magnificent alike—a woman’s tender smile, a storm-wracked tree, the sinuous curve of a cat at rest—all rendered with a precision and passion that spoke volumes of the man who had offered her safe haven.
“Remarkable,” she muttered. She noticed the leather-bound sketchbook, its cover worn soft with use, resting innocuously among the chaos of his creations.
Tentatively, as if the lines might smear under her touch, Joy opened the book to its first leaf. Her heart seemed to skip a beat as she discovered the intimate contours of a female form laid bare on the page. She turned the pages, revealing more figures captured in their natural state, each one a celebration of the human body, unadorned and unashamed.
One woman in particular held her gaze longer than the others. She reclined on a bed, nude, legs parted and one hand nestled in the dark curls between her thighs. Her other hand held her nipple. But what captivated Joy was the expression on her face, pure ecstasy. Surely posing alone hadn’t brought her to that state, and Joy doubted she was an actress. Had she and Mr. Russell made love just before he sketched her?
Joy couldn’t imagine feeling the way that woman looked. Certainly her own experiences with her husband had never hinted at such a state of rapture. Mr. Russell must have quite an imagination to draw a woman looking thus.
His artistry revealed a sensitivity that belied his gruff exterior, however. He celebrated every curve, every line, with his pencil, creating beauty from simplicity. Joy’s fascination deepened with every page, her initial surprise giving way to a profound appreciation for the skill with which he rendered the delicate interplay of shadow and light upon skin.
For a fleeting moment, Joy felt as if she were trespassing into the most private recesses of Mr. Russell’s soul, yet it in some way seemed less a violation and more an invitation to understand him in ways words could never convey.
The striking of the clock in the drawing room reminded her of the passing time, and the likelihood of him returning. With one last lingering look, she closed the sketchbook, wondering for a moment who those women were. Their figures had been diverse, each curve and angle celebrated without censure, yet for Joy, those sinuous lines summoned a storm of self-doubt. Her late husband’s harsh words echoed in her mind, the cold remnants of his disdain wrapping around her like the winter chill outside. “You’re too plump, Joy,” he would say, his eyes devoid of the warmth she so desperately sought. “A lady must maintain her figure.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, as if to shield her body from the ghosts of criticism past. The thought of someone like Mr. Russell, with his artist’s eye, seeing her as one of these models—unabashedly, openly—was unfathomable. Would he see her softness as a flaw or as a feature to embrace? In her heart, where adventure whispered sweet encouragements, she yearned to believe the latter, but her insecurities, those ever-present specters, clawed her back to a shadowed reality.
“Who would want to capture my likeness in such a raw form?” she whispered to the empty room. The very notion seemed ludicrous—a fancy best left untouched. Joy Sinclair, widowed and wanting, was no muse for a passionate artist. She was a woman marred by words that carved deeper than any knife.
Yet, as she stood in the quiet of Mr. Russell’s home, surrounded by the evidence of his talent and his solitary existence, an ember of courage flickered to life within her. It was not enough to dismantle her doubts, but it warmed her with possibilities.
“Tea,” she resolved, the word a balm to her troubled thoughts. “Yes, I shall make some tea.” With care, she turned away from the allure of the forbidden room, her feet carrying her toward the kitchen.
The kitchen proved to be a modest affair, much like the rest of the house, functional and without unnecessary adornment. Still, it held the promise of warmth and comfort. As she busied herself with the task at hand, the clink of porcelain and the hiss of boiling water melded into a soothing symphony. Here, in the ritual of service, Joy found a measure of peace.
In the act of preparing the tea, Joy discovered a simple joy, a reprieve from her inner turmoil. She poured the steaming liquid with a steady hand, the fragrant steam curling upwards, beckoning with its aromatic whispers. And as she did, a smile touched her lips—a silent acknowledgment that even amidst the winter’s bite, there was warmth to be found and kindness to be given.
Chapter 2
The delicate clink of porcelain against wood broke the quiet of the drawing room as Joy placed the teacups on the table while Mr. Russell hung up his coat and scarf. A hint of bergamot scented the room, and she felt an inexplicable stir within her—a fluttering notion that bordered on audacious. Did she have the nerve?
She forced herself to speak before sensibility took control of her. “Would you consider sketching me, Mr. Russell?” Her heart seemed to skip a beat, waiting for him to cast aside her request as frivolous.
Mr. Russell paused, mid-sip, his blue eyes lifting from the dark liquid to meet her gaze. For a moment, he simply observed her, his gaze analytical yet distant, as if he were seeing her not just with his eyes but with a painter’s mind. The silence stretched between them, and Joy felt the weight of his gaze as though it were tangible, a sculptor assessing the clay before him.
“Sketch you, Mrs. Sinclair?” He sounded almost bemused, the words measured and slow as if testing their shape in the world. A muscle twitched in his jaw, the only sign of surprise in his otherwise composed demeanor.
“Yes,” she replied, her own boldness surprising her. There was a certain freedom, she found, in the wake of widowhood—the shackles of one’s former life loosening enough to allow small acts of rebellion. “We seem to have some time on our hands this afternoon…”
“Very well,” he said after a thoughtful pause. “After I finish my tea.”
Joy took the chair opposite him at the table and pretended to sip her drink, too nervous to actually consume anything.
Time stretched immensely before he finally straightened from his slouched position, setting down his cup with a clink that seemed to resonate through the room. Pushing back his chair, he rose and went to the room Joy had explored.
A smile flickered across Joy’s lips, a bloom of pleasure unfurling within her chest. She had dared greatly, and he had accepted the challenge.
Her heart skittered like a startled hare as Mr. Russell rummaged through his satchel, producing pencils and papers with the care of an alchemist selecting potions. Her eyes followed him, watching to see if he picked up that leather-bound sketchbook. Instead, he returned with his easel and a paper pinned to a thin board.
“Where should I sit?” she asked.
“Here,” he directed, pointing to a chaise longue beside the window where the afternoon sun filtered through lace curtains. The thin light pooled around the chosen spot, illuminating it in the dim room.
