Page 4 of Must Love Dukes
He was blindingly,stunninglybeautiful.
“Like a sunset,” she whispered under her breath.
One russet brow raised. “Staring is rude.” His voice, filled with centuries of privilege, drifted over her skin as the magnificent head of red-gold tilted more fully in her direction. Light from the windows illuminated his features.
Oh.Muriel clasped her skirts, attempting to steady herself.
I’ve never seen eyes so green.
“Do you speak?” He made a disgruntled sound. “Likely you cannot, as I’ve struck you dumb. Well, you wouldn’t be the first. I doubt you’ll be the last. Happens with increasing regularity.”
Muriel’s lips tightened at his words. She didn’t care for arrogance, on principle.
Taking a step in his direction, she said, “I speak well enough, when addressed politely. That does not seem to be the case at present.” He was beautiful but also, it seemed, insufferable. Handsome, titled gentlemen often were. Habersham, for instance, often stopped in front of mirrors and windows to examine his features.
“If you must know?— ”
“Oh, I must.” Sarcasm colored every word. “Let me guess—you wish to compliment my coat. Or my coach. My horses. The twist of my cravat, which, by the way, I did myself.” He gave her an exasperated look. “Wait, I know—you and I have much in common. Two souls who share a love of…” He waved one hand. “Something.”
What an inflated ego. “Your arrogance is only exceeded by your rudeness. Shocking as it may seem, you were not the subject of my thoughts. I didn’t even see you in the taproom until I stumbled.”
He regarded her intently and mumbled, “Apologies.”
“And you lack the ability to appear contrite.” She took another step. “If I stared, briefly, at your countenance, it was dueto my being an artist. I study nearly everyone in such a manner.”There, that should put him in his place.
“An artist?” One side of his mouth tilted up in the semblance of a smile. “Have you painted anything of note?”
“Not yet,” Muriel answered. “But I will.” Again, no fruit or vegetable instantly came to mind when looking at him. Odd.
An oak tree, perhaps. In autumn. Leaves for his hair.
Yes, that suited him far better than, say, a bean. Or a pear.
“Confident, aren’t you?” he mused. “I’ve met a great many people who dabble in artistic pursuits, though few achieve any of their aims. Or have talent. I fear I’d have to see your work to determine which category you fall into.” He stretched a palm over the worn wood of the table before him. “So you wish to paint me? I’ve been asked to pose a time or two.” A sigh. “Unclothed, mostly.”
“By young ladies?” Muriel asked, somewhat scandalized.
“And a handful of gentlemen.”
“That is not my specialty.” Muriel returned, though she was starting to imagine the breadth of his shoulders without the coat. “But I find your features interesting.”
“Interesting? Not refined. Attractive. Handsome?”
“No. Merely interesting. Take your nose, for instance.”
“My father’s. I do not take credit for it.” The smirk on his lips widened.
“And your jaw. Your hair. A most unusual color.” Muriel cleared her throat before she started to wax poetically that the hue reminded her of aged bronze. “I mostly paint portraits, though not typical ones. There is an artist I admire whose style I try to emulate.”
“Interesting.” He cocked his head, one arm dangling over the end of the chair. “Go on.”
Muriel was rarely asked about her aspirations. “The artist in question is from the Renaissance. He’s considered…different.He used vegetables, fruits, and other objects in his portraits,” she said, warming to her topic.
He nodded for her to proceed.
This was a rather heady experience. Once she mentioned Arcimboldo’s tendency to incorporate fruit and vegetables into his paintings, most people lost interest entirely. “He’s rather famous. Well, not entirely famous. Few appreciate his vision.”
“I can imagine, given his penchant for using potatoes and apples, I’ll assume.”
