Page 28 of Portrait of a Lady
“I’ve never given thought to such things,” she mused aloud. “The beauty of something as innocuous as a pair of hands.”
He pushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes and tilted the book, his charcoal moving with swift, precise strokes. “Studying art teaches you to see the beauty in everything and find a way to translate it onto paper or a canvas or clay.”
“You sculpt also?”
“Occasionally, though I am better with paint and charcoal. It is my—”
He clamped his mouth shut, realizing he’d nearly crossed a line. His previous keepers had expressed only a cursory interest in his work, most not caring beyond asking him to immortalize them in sketches. It was a separate part of his identity, anyway. With his keeper, he was an object of amusement and pleasure. At the Royal Academy and within the walls of his studio at home, he was an artist. The two seldom merged.
“Yes?” she prodded.
He paused, glancing up to find her staring at him, anticipating his next words. Hugh might have expected her to grow restless from having to lie so still, but she merely watched him, patiently awaiting what he might say next. In her eyes he saw curiosity and an earnest desire to know what he’d stopped himself from saying.
What could be the harm in it? After tonight, they were more intimately acquainted, and he found that he actually liked her.
Going back to his sketch, he examined the details of the hand lying over her belly, finding he was quite satisfied with his work on the other one.
“It is my wish to become a portraitist,” he replied. “That is my primary aim in attending the Academy. I’m currently working on a painting for the Summer Exhibition. My third year submitting my work, and hopefully my first year having it accepted.”
“I have the utmost faith in you.”
He smiled at that, giving her a look over the top of his book. “You haven’t even seen my work yet.”
Raising her chin a tick, she winked. “I don’t need to see it. I can tell by watching you sketch that you’re a proper artist. So serious as you look upon your work, your hands moving just so...such a look of concentration upon your face. Besides, even if you were a terrible artist I would still hope for you to have what you wish. You seem like a good sort of person, and I believe good people should have what they desire.”
At the moment, what he desired was to climb into that bed and find his way between her legs again with his tongue once more, then his fingers, then his cock. The stirring in his breeches was distracting, but he managed to finish off his sketch with a flourish, signing it with his initials in the lower right corner with swirls on the R of his last name.
“All done. Would you like to come see?”
With a nod, she moved to leave the bed, using the coverlet to keep herself shielded for as long as possible before she bent to pick up her dressing gown. He wanted to tell her it was no use; now that he’d seen her without clothing, he could imagine her naked whenever he wished. But he simply reached for her as she drew near and pulled her down onto his knee.
He put the sketchbook in her hands, glancing up at her as she studied his rendering. Pride swelled in him as her face took on an expression of awe, lips parting.
“Oh, Hugh,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
He kissed her shoulder. “I had a beautiful subject to work with.”
Ignoring his compliment, she went on studying the sketch. “Your family must be proud. You’ll be quite famous someday, I’m sure of it.”
As always, the mention of his family put a bitter taste in his mouth. He urged her to her feet and stood, crossing to the table where he found his goblet still partially filled with claret. After taking what was left in one swallow, he winced and turned to face her with a shrug he’d meant to come off as nonchalant. He was not certain he succeeded. Yet again, she’d begun prodding deeper than he usually preferred when speaking of his life to a keeper. But, after the things she’d shared with him he could hardly refuse to tell her anything.
“They aren’t, actually. My father is an earl, and as you know stooping so low as working for a living is simply not done...even if I’m only a fourth son...even if my work is a dignified profession such as painting.”
Her mouth fell open, then one hand came up over her lips as she looked at him as if he were a kicked puppy. This was why he never discussed his family. He hated the pity, the looks, the way people didn’t seem to know how to interact with him after finding out he’d been disowned.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, clinging tight to his sketchbook. “I shouldn’t have pried. Forgive me.”
He waved a hand through the air as if it were of no consequence. “You couldn’t have known. My father served me an ultimatum when I told him of my plan to enter the Academy and study to become a painter. I was to withdraw from my instruction and find a more acceptable way to spend my time, or I would be disowned. To turn away from art was to deny who I was. I’d been drawing and painting since I was a lad, and I’ve never wanted to do or be anything else. So, I told him to sod off, and have been making my own way in the world ever since.”
Her expression changed from one of pity to one of pride as she approached, laying the sketchbook on the table and taking hold of his hand.
“Good for you. You shouldn’t have to deny yourself in order to be accepted.”
His smile was tight and forced, but he squeezed her hand, allowing her touch to comfort him. “Easier said than done, I’m afraid. Aside from being financially cut off, I have been made to understand that I am no longer a part of the Radcliffe family. I am not permitted into their homes, nor will they address me in public. I have not spoken to any of them in years.”
“Not even your siblings? Surely they must—”
“Follow the dictates of my father,” he interjected. “To defy him is to find themselves in the same position as me. Well, all except for Marcus. He is the heir, after all.”
