Page 5 of A Scoundrel Under the Mistletoe
Taking a deep breath, Joy summoned every ounce of courage she possessed, feeling her cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and defiant resolve. “I wish to see myself as you see the world, Mr. Russell. Through the eyes of an artist. I would be most honored if you might consider sketching me. Again.” Her gaze did not falter, though her heart was a wild symphony within her breast.
“Sketch you?” Mr. Russell echoed, his tone unreadable.
“Yes,” Joy replied, her fingers tightening around her teacup. “Nude, to be precise.”
The words lingered in the air, bold and unashamed. For a moment, time seemed to pause. Joy held her breath, waiting for him to reject her proposal, to affirm the impropriety of such a thing.
But instead, Mr. Russell set down his utensils, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Mrs. Sinclair, you are full of surprises,” he said. “Very well. I shall sketch you again.”
A wave of relief washed over her, mingling with a newfound sense of power. She had crossed a threshold, stepping outside the bounds of what was expected of her, and the thrill of it was intoxicating. Perhaps it was the beginning of a renaissance for Joy Sinclair, a rebirth through the bold strokes of Mr. Russell’s pencil.
“Thank you,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite the maelstrom of emotions roiling within her. “I trust in your discretion and your talent.”
“Of course, Mrs. Sinclair. My art is nothing if not discreet,” he assured her, his gaze lingering on her face, as if committing her features to memory already. “Shall we begin after I clean up our supper?”
“Yes, thank you,” she agreed.
“I must admit, your request is... unexpected.” The dour timbre of his words belied any hint curiosity he might have into her reasons.
Joy’s heart danced a nervous jig, yet she met his gaze with an unwavering look that held a glimmer of mischief. With a tilt of her head, she replied, “And here I was, Mr. Russell, thinking you’d find solace in the predictable.”
A chuckle escaped him, rough around the edges but not unkind, as he conceded to the point with a nod. “Well, your boldness has won you my pencil, Mrs. Sinclair. And I am... intrigued by your willingness to see yourself through the unforgiving truth of art.”
“Unforgiving?” she parried with a lighthearted smile. “Or perhaps liberating?”
“Perhaps both.”
“Those drawings in the book are beautiful,” she said. “The risqué ones especially. They’re... they speak of desires often whispered but seldom acknowledged.”
“Those sketches were never meant for polite society,” he confessed, standing and carrying his dishes to the sink. He returned for her plate.
“Then it’s fortunate that I have little care for what society might deem polite. I want to be sketched, Mr. Russell. Not as a demur widow, but as a woman of flesh and bone, with desires of her own.” Her confession hung between them, brazen and vulnerable all at once.
He regarded her for a moment before he rinsed the plates with some water from a pot on the stove. He dried his hands, then turned and motioned for her to go into the other room. “Then you shall be drawn. As a woman, not a widow. As you truly are.”
“Exactly as I am,” Joy affirmed, feeling a whimsy at the adventure she was embarking upon—an exploration of self that would be immortalized in the strokes of Mr. Russell’s skilled hands.
With a nod, he led the way through the narrow corridor. He paused in the drawing room near the door of his studio. “There is a dressing gown on a hook behind the door. You may undress in there.”
Joy slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. She smiled at the idea she needed privacy to undress, yet she’d be baring her all to the man in mere minutes. The idea excited her, but a wave of uncertainty followed. What would he think of her body?
What did it matter what he thought? He was likely to see her as nothing more than a bowl of fruit, just an article to be drawn. His opinion of her meant nothing, although she thought he might be kinder in his rendering if he found her attractive.
Pulling the belt on the satin dressing gown tight, Joy thrust back her shoulders, drew in a deep breath and opened the door. He had moved the chaise longue closer to the fireplace, for which she was grateful. The room was chilly. He’d placed the lamp on a nearby table to add to the firelight, and a coverlet was draped across the chaise near where she would be sitting.
As she approached the chaise, Mr. Russell went into his studio to gather his supplies. He returned with his sketchbook and a cup with pencils, which he set on the table near the lamp.
“Mrs. Sinclair, if you would, remove your dressing gown and recline upon the chaise.” His eyes held no trace of the warmth that she’d seen in the kitchen, yet they beckoned her with an intensity that promised…satisfaction?
Feeling shy but harboring a well of secret adventure within her soul, Joy allowed the dressing gown to slide off her shoulders. It cascaded to the floor with a hush, pooling around her feet like the modesty she had decided to shed. She felt suddenly like the heroine of one of her more scandalous novels, embarking upon a journey of forbidden pleasures.
Her skin, now bared to his scrutiny, prickled with a rush of vulnerability, yet there was a thrill in this surrender. The air, cool against her exposed flesh, seemed to stir awake every sense. Joy reminded herself why she was doing this—to be seen, truly seen, not as the somber widow draped in mourning, but as a woman of fire and spirit, captured through the discerning eyes of an artist.
“Sit here, just so,” he instructed, pointing to the chaise. His words were sparse, but she read between them to assume how he wanted her. She perched gracefully, sitting back and resting her legs down the length.
“Lean back, let the light embrace your form,” he said simply. But it was his gaze—a painter’s gaze—which undressed her soul, layer by layer, until all that remained was the essence of Joy Sinclair, unadorned and unafraid.
Trust was her anchor. She clung to it as the fragments of her former life, dictated by a husband whose cruel words had left scars invisible to the naked eye, threatened to rise like specters from the past. In this room, with the fire as her lighting and Mr. Russell as her solitary audience, she chose to cast off those shadows.
