by Syrie James
“Well, you have looked. Now please leave.”
Alexandra frowned. Why was he so angry? He was even taller than she’d remembered—he must be well over six feet. And she hadn’t really noticed yesterday how handsome he was. Straight nose. High cheekbones. Noble chin. His charcoal gray tweed suit, well cut but old, strained over his broad chest and wide shoulders while emphasizing his trim waist and hips. All of which might have made an appealing picture, if his forehead hadn’t been creased practically in half, and his mouth beneath his trim golden mustache hadn’t been curled up in a glower.
“I’ll go,” Alexandra said quickly, “but first I just wanted to say . . . these portraits are beautiful. You’re very talented.”
“You need not feel obligated to pay me compliments.” He nodded dismissively toward the door. His accent, so cultured and refined, seemed somewhat at odds with his shabby clothes.
“I didn’t say it because I feel obligated. It’s the truth. The details are exquisite. The portrait of the gentleman reminds me of Frans Hals’s Laughing Cavalier.”
He darted her a brief, surprised glance as she went on, “Your subjects seem so lifelike, I feel as though you captured their personalities in paint.”
He seemed moved by Alexandra’s words. “You are very kind.”
His short blond hair was brushed back from his forehead, above wire-rimmed glasses that framed beautiful eyes the color of milk chocolate. Alexandra felt a sudden frisson vibrate through her, and couldn’t tear her gaze away. “Are these commissions?” she asked, struggling to keep the conversation going.
“Yes.” Mr. Carlyle set his package down on a table and tore off the wrapping, revealing a glass jar containing a clear liquid labeled linseed oil.
A sudden memory surfaced in Alexandra’s mind. “Yesterday, before I plowed into you, were you carrying a jar of linseed oil?”
He nodded.
“And this jar is the replacement for the one that gave up its life on that sidewalk in the pouring rain?”
His lips twitched briefly, reluctantly. “Yes.” He shrugged out of his coat and hung it over the back of a chair.
“I’m so sorry. Whatever that jar cost, I’ll pay for it.”
He glanced at her skeptically. “You haven’t any money.”
“True, but I’m determined to get some. Once I make up my mind to do something, it usually gets done.”
“I see.” A new expression flitted across Mr. Carlyle’s face: a blend of doubt, amusement, and a begrudging hint of approval.
Alexandra felt a slight easing of the tension in the room, which came as a relief. As she tried to think what to say next, he unfastened the cuffs of his white shirt and began rolling up his sleeves.
“Miss Watson. It occurs to me that I have been remiss.”
She was so distracted by the sight of his forearms, which were lightly dusted with golden hair and far more well-muscled and tanned than she would have expected for a painter, that she was only half aware of her response. “Remiss? How so?”
“I should have long since inquired as to your state of health. I hope you are feeling better this morning?”
Alexandra struggled to regain her wits. Even if he was a poor painter and as surly as a tiger, it seemed that beneath the surface lay impeccable manners. “That’s quite a formal way to say, ‘Sorry, how’re you doing?’” she blurted.
Now he couldn’t prevent a smile, however brief. “We English pride ourselves on formality.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“And?” he persisted. In an imperfect imitation of her accent, he said, “How’re you doing?”
His attempt to recreate a flat, American tone was so amusing, she laughed. “Heaps better, thank you.”
“I am glad to hear it. I further hope that you did not find the smell of the oil paint in the hall too unpleasant? I sometimes forget to lock my door, and when I just pull it to, the latch does not always catch.”
“The smell wasn’t unpleasant at all. It beckoned me in. I’m an art enthusiast myself. I studied art history, among other things, at Vassar.”
“Vassar?” He didn’t appear to have heard of the place.
“It’s one of the first colleges to open to women in the United States.”
“Ah.” His eyebrows raised. “I imagine such an education is useful, when it comes to your charges?”
“My charges?”
“The children you care for.”
Alexandra felt blood rush to her cheeks. She’d forgotten that he presumed her to be a governess. “Yes, of course.” She was going to have to stay on her toes, and be careful about what she said. “Well, I should let you get back to your work, Mr. Carlyle. I hope you’ll forgive me for stealing into your rooms uninvited. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It was not your fault. My being upset, I mean. I was startled to find you here, but my irritation was due to another source.”
“Oh?”
He took an envelope from his coat pocket and gestured toward the unfinished portrait on the easel. “My subject, Mrs. Arabella Norton, has just informed me that she is leaving town and will be unable to come in for the last few sittings. ‘It is so nearly done,’ she says, ‘surely you can do the last bits without me.’” He tossed the envelope onto a table with a frown. “She insists that the painting be completed and delivered when she returns to London in a fortnight.”
“Can you do it?”
“I can try. I could do the final varnishing at her house, and let it dry there. But it is a great disservice to the portrait. Without a live model, I cannot finish the arms and hands with any accuracy. And the sash has to be in place, to get the shadows right on the skin.”
Alexandra glanced at the portrait, then at the rack of clothing across the room. An idea began to take shape in her mind: a way to solve Mr. Carlyle’s dilemma, which might also fix one of her biggest problems.
“What if I stand in for Mrs. Norton?”
Chapter Four
Mr. Carlyle looked at Alexandra as if she’d lost her mind. “You think to pose for Mrs. Norton’s portrait?”
“Why not? It’s almost finished. You just need to do the arms, hands, and sash.”
“I do not think—”
“It could work,” she interrupted. “I seem to be about her size and coloring. That white gown on the rack—is it hers?”
He nodded.
“We could see if it fits. How long would you need me to model, to finish the portrait?”
He thought about it. “Three sittings, I should guess.”
“I have the time.”
“No, this is madness.” But he paused, reluctantly considering her proposal. “Have you ever sat for a portrait before?”
“Several times, as a child. I—” Alexandra stopped herself. Careful, careful. She was supposedly a governess. Having attended schools all her life, she’d never had a governess herself, except for the ghastly year she and her sisters had spent in training with Madame Dubois, imported from France to “finish” them in preparation for entrée into English society.
One of her favorite novels, Jane Eyre, was about a governess. Other than that, the only thing Alexandra knew about governesses was what she’d read: that they were generally well-educated, middle-or upper-class women who’d come upon hard times and had to support themselves.
“In my youth,” she went on, struggling for words that were true, “my family was well off. It is only recently that my circumstances changed.”
“I see.” He looked uncomfortable now. “Forgive me, I did not mean to pry. I only meant that sitting can be a tedious process. I wanted to make sure you knew what you were volunteering for.”
“Oh, I’m not volunteering, Mr. Carlyle.”
He looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I didn’t mean to imply that I’d do this for free. I thought we could make it a sort of business arrangement. You need a model. I need room and board.”
“You must be joking.”
“Not at all. In exchange for three sittings, all you have to do is persuade Mrs. Gill to let me stay on for . . . a week, and pay her whatever is fair and reasonable. And I’m hoping there might be a little cash in it for me, as well?”
He let go a short, harsh laugh. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “You are quite the American girl, aren’t you, Miss Watson?”
Alexandra didn’t like the way he was suddenly looking at her, as if she were a bug he wanted to squash. “What do you mean?”
“So opportunistic. Thinking of no one but yourself. Out to see how much you can get.”
He looked so disgusted, Alexandra couldn’t help asking, “What do you have against Americans, Mr. Carlyle? What did an American ever do to you?”
He flinched at that, and she regretted saying it. Before she could attempt to apologize, however, he said stonily, “You have a lot of nerve, waltzing into my studio uninvited, then trying to negotiate your way into extending your stay at this house. With a few inquiries, Miss Watson, I can surely find an experienced female model who will suit my needs.”
“Fine,” Alexandra retorted. She knew she wasn’t helping her cause by showing her temper, but she couldn’t let him have the last word. “Forgive me for intruding into your private sanctum and making a suggestion you find so offensive. But I wasn’t just thinking of myself. I thought it was a way we could help each other. I was also thinking about Mrs. Gill. I don’t want to impose any longer without paying her, that’s all.”
A moment passed in which they stared at each other heatedly as tension crackled through the air. Then Alexandra whirled and started for the door.
“Wait.”
She paused, looking back at him.
He blew out a long breath. “I may not appreciate your method, Miss Watson, but I admire your spirit and your sense of honor. I suppose we could give it a try, see if the dress fits. However, if it works out, and I am not saying it will, all I can offer to pay in exchange for your modeling services is room and board for three days. There will not be any. . . . how did you put it? ‘Cash in it for you’?”
Alexandra shrugged and gave him a smile. She had achieved her aim: she’d bought herself some time. “That’s okay. I had to try, didn’t I?”
It was the cheekiness of it, Thomas thought, as he set up his brushes at the small oval table by the easel. That’s what bothered him. Her cheekiness.
Well, that was one of the things.
If he had just stood his ground, insisted that he could get on perfectly well without her standing in for his missing client, Miss Watson might have been obliged then and there to take her leave from this establishment. Which would have been better for him, all around.
Ever since he saw . . . what he had seen . . . the night before, he had been unable to remove the image from his brain. The memory had kept him awake half the night, making his blood simmer. Knowing that she was sleeping just down the hall had not made things any easier. Even now, wanton thoughts continued to surface in his mind.
It had been far too long since he’d had a woman in his bed—that was the problem. It explained why he felt such a visceral attraction to this woman. But it was merely a physical response, that was all. He did not know her. And he did not care to know her.
He had no interest whatsoever in pursuing a relationship with a woman. Women could not be counted on. They professed their love, and then left you flat. He had learned that the hard way. Never again would he risk his heart. There were other outlets to satisfy a man’s physical urges. If he did ever choose to engage in a dalliance with a woman simply for pleasure, it would certainly not be with a governess, however appealing she might be.
He had hoped that when he returned from his errand this morning, Mrs. Gill would have given Miss Watson her walking papers. That she would be gone from his life.
No such luck.
Now, he thought, frowning as he mixed a small portion of linseed oil and turpentine in a glass jar, he was going to be cooped up with her for three separate sittings in his studio. Three days in which he was going to have to stare at her for two long hours, and paint the very flesh that his hands ached to touch.
What had he been thinking when he agreed to this? He felt as if he had made a deal with the devil. But the deal had been made. He’d gone down and spoken with Mrs. Gill, who had happily agreed to let Miss Watson stay on for a few days—and why not, it was at his expense. Now, at this very moment, Miss Watson was behind the privacy screen, changing into Mrs. Norton’s gown.
He was anxious to get this portrait done and delivered. It had given him no pleasure to paint it, any more than the others he had been commissioned to create over the past few months. It was aggravating to be obliged to fall back, in this covert manner, on an art he had been so determined to give up. It often felt as though he were painting by rote. Stand here if you please. Mix paints. Pick up brush. Apply to canvas. But it was work, and God knows he needed the money.
He was just going to have to make the best of this unwelcome situation. Three days. By that time, he should be done with the essential parts of the portrait, and Miss Watson would have hopefully made other arrangements for herself.
Squeezing a dab of white paint onto his palette, he called out, “How are you doing back there?”
“Okay.”
Okay. He gritted his teeth. It was one of those uniquely American terms which just served to remind him of a certain someone else. “Does it fit?”
“Pretty well, I think.”
A rustle announced Miss Watson’s emergence from behind the privacy screen. Thomas looked up and caught his breath. Although Mrs. Norton had looked well in the white gown, on Miss Watson it was simply spellbinding. The folds of the white satin skirt billowed sumptuously around her, emphasizing her tiny waist. Her bare arms were slender and utterly feminine. The bodice was so low cut and fit so snugly, her breasts seemed to be bursting from its confines.
“I managed to get it fastened. Thank goodness the hooks are on the side. I have no idea how to wrap this sash, though.” She stepped forward, the coiled length of silvery fabric in her outstretched hands.
Thomas struggled to modulate his respiration into something approaching normalcy. Why did she have to be so stunning? “Allow me to assist you,” he said quietly, gesturing to the backdrop before the easel. “If you would kindly step over here.”
She joined him in the designated spot. Retrieving his box of straight pins, Thomas moved closer and wrapped the first part of the stiff, shiny sash around her waist, then began pinning it in place so that it billowed above her shoulder. As he worked, he was intensely aware of their proximity.
They were standing almost as close as if they were dancing a waltz. She was half a head shorter than he, and he inhaled the clean scent of soap from her hair and skin. Today was the first time he had seen her hair dry. It was a glorious shade of burnt sienna, one of his favorite colors of the palette. She had pulled it back into a rather inexpert bun, and several curling tendrils had already dared to escape.
She glanced up at him, and for a moment their gazes met and held. Her eyes were a startling shade of deep blue, like bluebells in a shaft of sunlight.
He quickly lowered his gaze, only to find himself staring at her lips. They were parted slightly and eminently inviting. He glanced lower still. With each breath she took, her breasts rose and fell. The bodice looked close to splitting its seams at any moment, an event which would cause those perfect globes to spill out mere inches from his view.
Oh, if only they would.
Concentrate, you fool. Heat rose to his face and his heart drummed as he continued pinning the sash in place. Whose brilliant idea was the sash, anyway? Couldn’t he have simply painted Mrs. Norton in the gown?
Alexandra’s heart pounded. She’d expected this to be a simple matter of posing for a portrait. That it would require no more than standing still for a couple of hours a day while wearing a particular gown.
She hadn’t counted on feeling . . . what she was feeling.<
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Admittedly, other than Lord Shrewsbury’s disgusting kiss (which Alexandra would prefer to banish forever from her mind), she had virtually no experience with men. She’d danced with dozens of strangers, but that hardly counted, nor did the brief embrace she’d once shared at age sixteen with a farm boy she’d met on vacation. The dancing and that one chaste kiss had been exciting at the time, and had left a lasting impression.
Never before, however, had Alexandra felt a magnetic pull similar to the one she was now experiencing. As Mr. Carlyle’s hands pressed against her body through the layers of her clothing to pin and adjust the sash, each touch sent a jolt up her spine. He was standing so near that she could feel the warmth emanating from his body. He smelled tantalizing, like linen and soap and cologne and something totally, indefinably male.
She felt a tingle reverberate through her body as she took in the width of his shoulders, the way his white shirt strained against his broad chest, the way the wiry muscles in his gently tanned forearms moved as he worked with the pins. How, she wondered, had his skin achieved that lightly sun-kissed tone?
Her attention was drawn to his lips. They were full and well formed, set tersely in a face she considered to be classically handsome. She found herself wondering what it would be like to be kissed by those lips—then silently censured herself for such thoughts. At the same time, a sudden, strange warmth bloomed deep in her belly.
From the heightened color on Mr. Carlyle’s face, and the slight alteration in his voice and respiration, Alexandra wondered if he was experiencing a similar discomposure.
“That will do,” Thomas barked when he was finished with the sash. Crouching down, he smoothed out the train of her gown along the floor. Get your mind out of the gutter. She is just another model. A female body to paint, and nothing more.
Miss Watson cleared her throat. “How do you want me to stand?”
“Tall and straight, with your arms at your sides.”
“Like this?”
He stood and looked her over with a frown. “Not quite.” He reached out, pausing before making contact. “May I?”