Page 79 of When He Was Wicked
His eyes gleamed and he smiled slowly. “I like secrets.”
“I daresay it is common to like hearing them but not to share.”
The earl chuckled. “Perhaps. I might very well confide one of my own.”
Henrietta thought about whether she should tell him or not. However she was lured by the promise that he might share something about himself. She was dreadfully curious about him. “In confidence, my lord. I would not want this to be revealed.”
“Very well, I shall have to suppress the urge to gossip,” he said with mocking drollness.
She bit back her smile, wondering at her readiness to do so around him. “My mother is pressing me to accept an offer from Lord Courtland. I imagined him in your place and decided that no lightskirt with a modicum of taste would consider him as a protector if she received such a portrait. It was very bad of me, to make fun of a man who at least has come up to scratch.”
The earl had grown so still Henrietta frowned. “My lord?”
“You intend to marry Viscount Courtland?”
Her fingers closed over the paintbrush. “I have no intention of accepting his proposal.”
“I see.”
She said nothing to that enigmatic reply. “I shall warn you that whenever I start to work my concentration is fierce, and itmight prove very boring for you, my lord. Please bear with me. I shall try to keep this session to about two hours at most.”
“Watching you work will not be boring.”
Startling heat flushed through Henrietta. Somehow it never occurred to her that his piercing intensity and regard would be upon her person, observing every minute shift of her expression as she painted him. “I…I ah might have odd quirks when I am deep in thoughts while I paint.”
“I am duly warned and already charmed.”
“No flirting,” she groused.
Surprised flared in his eyes and it was her turn to still. “You were not flirting,” she whispered.
His gaze warmed but he made no reply. Henrietta quickly lowered her attention to the canvas. Heart racing with anticipation she took a deep breath and started to paint. Several minutes later, the rich outline of his shoulders started to come alive on the canvas. Whenever she peeked above the canvas to imprint his image onto her thoughts to continue painting, the intensity of his stare would stroke over her skin. At times it felt as if they played a sensual game that she did not understand, and at other times Henrietta reminded herself not to be too fanciful.
Soon she was immersed in her work, and everything became a distant hum in the background. In this space, nothing existed but the loving stroke of her brush against the canvas. Though she had never touched the earl, Henrietta swore she knew the entirety of him as she carved his image on the canvas. The shape and hardness of his body, the softness of his skin. Though, after several minutes there was only the joy of painting.
CHAPTER FIVE
Henrietta lifted her attention from the canvas, rotating the small ache in her shoulders. A glance at the clock on the mantle revealed three hours had passed since she started the earl’s portrait.
“Goodness, my lord, I went over the two hours.” Wiping her paint smudged fingers onto her apron, she stood and cried out when her legs cramped and buckled.
Moving with astonishing swiftness, the earl was off the bed and clasping his arms about her waist to steady her. Henrietta was acutely conscious of his tall, powerful physique and his rousing masculine scent. Careful to not look at him lest he observed her awareness, she pulled away.
“Thank you, my lord; I am well. Just a slight cramp from sitting still for so long.”
She lowered herself into the chair, flexing her legs to ease the ache. The earl stood behind her, not touching, but Henrietta felt the heat emanating from his body. Unexpectedly she was acutely reminded that she was a woman alone with a gentleman known about town as a rake. Inexplicably and almost maddeningly wicked flutters went off low in her belly. She peered up at him. He was staring at the painting, bemused surprise on his face.
“It is so lifelike…and vibrant.”
“And beautiful,” she whispered.
At his quick glance, she hurried to say. “The painting is beautiful…not you…I must say you were wonderful in holding your pose for so long.”
Provoking humor lit in his eyes. “I am the one in the painting. I accept the compliment, Miss Sutton; it is not every day I hear that I am beautiful.”
“Perhaps I am admiring my own work,” she said vexed.
Shockingly, he chuckled. “What abominable conceit.”
