Page 7 of The Sweetest Season
But Miss Beatrice Holliday was intriguing all on her own.She was covered in flour, yet there was no hiding her origins, which must be far higher than a baker’s daughter.That crystal-cutting accent, the easy references to studying in Paris—not to mention that she had enough money to go into business for herself.What made her cross an ocean to do it, though?
And why was she alone?A woman so skilled and so striking must have attracted proposals by the dozen.Noel practically tripped at the doorway when he first saw her.She had a body begging to be touched, the curves that practically called to be cupped and fondled.And then, she had absolutely lovely coloring.Chestnut curls, astoundingly deep blue eyes, and her skin, pink and cream and incredibly smooth—no matter what she said about scars.Not to mention a mouth he now wanted to taste…
Oh, God, he’d nearly lost all sense of proportion when he’d kissed her hand in the kitchen.She smelled like lemon, the same aroma as the curd.He wasn’t even sure what he was saying for most of the time in her shop.He must have babbled something to get the chance to see her again, to be able to talk to her and understand why he felt so needy and ravenous the moment he saw her.And he kissed her hand, because he was mad to taste even a tiny bit of her, and he hoped to the Devil that he hadn’t scared her away.Noel hadn’t been very social over the past couple of years, but that was no excuse for acting like a complete savage.
But something about the mellow, silky feel and the tangy punch of the lemon curd had created such a hunger in him.He really did lose his manners in the lemon-induced ecstasy.And when he realized he was sucking the stuff off his finger in front of her, the thought that jumped at him was that he was sucking the wrong finger.He should havehersin his mouth, between his teeth.He wanted to spread the stuff all over her and lick it off.He wanted to lay her on a table and feast on her, exploring every inch of beautiful flesh.He could imagine her lush body with perfect clarity.
He should stop thinking of her that way immediately.Beatrice Holliday wasn’t for sampling.Even if her lower lip was delectable and plush and made for kissing.Christ, all of her was made for kissing.
Back at Northwind, he went directly to his studio.But instead of puttering around aimlessly as he did most days, he grabbed paints and brushes with determination.
Sitting down at the blank canvas was no longer intimidating.No, today he knew he wouldpaint.
First, he swirled colors together, dabbing a little more red, a hint of ochre, a wash of white.He wasn’t sure what was emerging, but he recognized this feeling.It was inspiration, and more than that.It was the muse, guiding his hand and eye, helping him create the idea in his head on the canvas.He’d never told anyone that.It was too hard to explain and too precious to him.And after he got sick, he thought he’d never experience it again.
Until now, when it rushed back.
He dipped his brush in the first of the blended colors.He would just get a study down, a rough, hasty rendition that would only hint at the final piece.
He painted fast, not even looking at what he laid on the canvas.He kept blending, then teasing out shades and tones.All earthy, rich tones with reds and browns at the edges.What am I doing?he asked himself over and over.
Just paint, the muse urged.Don’t agonize over it.Just paint out whatever’s haunting you.
Nearly an hour later, his brush hand fell to his lap.He took a deep breath, exhausted.The muse vanished, her work now done.He stared in astonishment at the canvas before him.
Beatrice.
It was her.Miss Holliday.Not obvious, perhaps, to anyone but him.The study was all heavy, fast strokes, meant to guide later versions.But she was there, in the oils, a portrait from the shoulders up, her proud gaze burning through from the very center of the painting.There was her skin, the rose blooming under the lighter flesh of her cheeks.Luminous dark blue eyes, wet now from the fresh oils.Perhaps unsurprisingly, he’d painted her mouth with more detail, capturing the slight curve on the left side.The lips were just parted, as if to share a secret or accept a kiss.The lower lip glistened with a touch of wetness, a trick of the paint to seduce the eye into seeing so much more than was there.
Beatrice, smiling a tiny, secret smile at him, with the suggestion of dark curls around her face, her face that was flushed and vital with life and desire.
He looked away, almost ashamed at what he’d done.The real Miss Holliday would never look at him like this, with her eyes glowing, and her lips so ripe.She’d probably be offended at the mere existence of this study.
He should destroy it.
“After the paint dries,” he muttered.It was always so messy to slash a canvas when the oils were wet.Plus, he couldn’t bear to think of not being able to look at her.
Would she ever let him paint her, for real?And not a modest portrait like the one he’d just played with.A nude, with her as the model in all her glory.Her hair unbound, falling around her as she lounged on a couch, surrounded by flowers and fruits and confections, luxuries to match her luxurious form.She’d look right out from the canvas and capture the viewer with that gaze that hinted of sugar and lemon and secrets.A goddess allowing a mortal to see her and offer to worship her.
Chapter 4
As he promised, Mr Forrestdid hold a party about a week later, which definitely required the skills of both Beatrice and Ivy.While his own household staff took care of the main dishes, all the desserts and treats had been created by Beatrice.The two ladies arrived at Northwind in plenty of time so they could be ready well before the start of the afternoon’s festivities.
Beatrice thought the place was enchanting.The wide lawn swept from the house down the steep decline to the riverbank.Though the sun had been up for hours, frost still sparkled on the grass, which was defiantly green even into winter.
“My goodness,” Ivy murmured, looking at the three-story house, which was quite new, perhaps only ten or fifteen years old.“All that for one man!It must be terribly lonely.”
“He has a household, and people like Mr Marley,” Beatrice said, repressing her natural sympathy.
“Yes, but no family.”Ivy felt strongly about family, being part of a large one herself.
“Well, it will be busy enough today,” Beatrice said as the carriage came to a halt.
The household staff had obviously been instructed to cooperate fully with them, though everyone was genuinely friendly (which was not always the case).The German housekeeper seemed especially interested in the food they brought, and they had a lively conversation about the various methods of preserving fruits, of all things.
The party began and it was indeed well-attended.Beatrice recognized several important people of the city’s elite.
One man came up to her and introduced himself as Dr Mall.“You know, I gave him a box of your chocolates not too long ago.I’d practically given up hope that he’d start eating properly again, but it seems to have been the spark.Ha, ha, just proves that one must try every avenue!Perhaps I’ll write an article for a medical journal about my successful prescription!”
