Page 91 of Seductive Reprise

He smiled at the pile of papers littering the desk along one wall. She’d been sketching like a maven since they’d returned from Hertfordshire, almost in a mild panic as she’d not planned anything all winter, having spent her days drinking wine and lazing about in bed. Yusef was pleased to have spent the season thus, but had done his best to get out of her way now that they were back in London.

“Well?” she said from behind him, her usually strong alto voice a bit timorous. “Do you see it?”

He glanced back at her, and she nodded to the side of the room opposite her desk, brushing her hair from her face with one paint-stained hand.

Yusef turned to look.

Hanging from the massive wall hooks was a finished, full-length canvas, one he hadn’t seen before. In the center, occupying her rightful place as the duke’s eldest daughter, Florence sat upon a low-backed couch, her usual disdainful countenance softened into an expression of confidence, challenging the viewer to find something amiss with her portrayal. To her right stood Margaret, her features soft, gladlyyielding the focus to her elder sister, but with a shrewd look about her eyes that Yusef would’ve thought impossible to capture. Yet Rose had. A lump formed in his throat. When Rickard had proposed engaging Rose as a portrait artist, it was simply as a means to allow Yusef a chance to see her again. He hadn’t given one thought to what the process would result in. But she had captured his sisters beautifully.

And then… he swallowed, not knowing what to make of the rest.

At the back, behind the couch, stood himself. An austere man, his skin darker than his sisters’, his features heavier, his cheekbones and jaw sharp in contrast. Thick brows, slightly raised, along with his chin; even with his shorter stature he looked down upon the viewer. But something about his mouth suggested a smile, a veiled regard for the viewer. Or something he hadn’t realized he possessed until this very day: warmth.

Suddenly the silence in his ears became deafening, emotion thickening his throat.

“Do you like it?” she said in a hushed tone, setting a gentle hand on his arm.

Yusef placed his own hand atop it, still not trusting himself to speak, lest he say something pathetic and maudlin.

“It was Lady Margaret’s idea, that you ought to be painted in as well. Lady Florence came around to it. Eventually.”

“You painted me?” he finally croaked in disbelief, regretting it immediately. He cleared his throat and tightened his grip on her hand.

“Tch, of course I did. You belong there.” She stepped closer, snaking her other arm around him, pulling his back against her. “And it’s not as if I hadn’t done it before.”

He looked quizzically over his shoulder at her.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” She laughed and placed a kiss atop his shoulder. “Though to be fair, it wasn’t a painting. Just a sketch.”

And then he remembered. The day they’d first met, at Icknield Court. When he hadn’t wanted to be there, or really anywhere on the entire hateful island, but someplace else entirely—someplace where he wasn’t an outsider, where he wouldn’t attract scornful stares and smarmy comments about how “exotic” he appeared. She’d looked at him in the drawing room with such awe, taken his hand without hesitation as they fled to the long gallery and the Hans Holbein portrait of Edward Driffield.Thathe’d always remembered. But he’d nearly forgotten how she’d sketched him.

He turned about and gathered her up in his arms, holding her close. Then he kissed her, softly and gently.

“I hope you like it.Doyou like it?” she asked. There could be nothing as beautiful as her. Nothing in the world he desired more than her happiness.

“I prefer it immensely to that first attempt,” he said with a smirk.

“That was, and still is, a very good likeness!” Rose playfully smacked his arm. “I’ll have you know the duke still has it hanging in his study.”

“I know. Hence my disdain. The work has become tainted by its association with its owner.”

“Fie. He actually lent it to me for a period. There was only so much I could gain by drawing you while you slept.”

“I beg your pardon?” Yusef held her out, his voice cold, but his eyes teasing. “Am I to understand that you drew me while I slumbered? Why, you sneaky, conniving…” He pulled her closer, allowing his eyes to wander, drinking in the vision that was his wife—the pale, freckled skin with a streak of cadmium blue along her jawline, those sinful lips and the charming gap between her teeth, the hazel eyes that regarded him now witha cunning, playful look, and her mess of braids—God, her hair, how he’d always loved her hair. Bright, shining, coppery-brown. One hairpin poked out from the twist of plaits that looked nearly ready to come apart. It was a natural conclusion, where her mane was concerned, so Yusef decided to help it along. He plucked it out and tossed it aside; it hit the ground with aplink.

“Where was I?” he murmured, reaching into the mass of locks to find another pin. It made the same sound when it hit the ground, as did the next. “You… frustrating… sultry…” He dug his fingers deep into her braids, combing them out distractedly. Finally his hands slowed, and he leaned forward, his mouth nearly upon hers. He hovered there as all sorts of epithets raced through his head, until he at last settled upon: “Saintof a woman.”

Before he could capture her lips with his, she erupted into a fit of laughter.

“Really, Yusef? A saint?” She snorted, and his heart tightened, hearing her laugh so unabashedly.

“What else would you call it, after all you’ve put up with from me? And your patience, how long you waited, hmm?”

“I don’t recall waiting for much of anything,” she said, affecting an air of indifference, barely concealing her grin.

“Well, then,” he said in mock offense, “I suppose you’ll have to wait longer after that little insult, shan’t you?” With that he hoisted her up over his shoulder.

Ignoring her playful shrieks, he carried her over to the light blue watered silk chaise she kept in the studio, currently draped with some nonsense of a brocaded fabric—also covered with splotches of paint—which Yusef tossed to the floor before depositing Rose. Her hair now fluttered about her shoulders, making her look for all the world like some scornful, sensual angel. Christ, he loved her.

She sat up on her elbows, one eyebrow raised, her lush lips turned up at the corners.

“And oh, Miss Verdier,” he said, pinning her with an intense stare as he deftly undid his neckcloth, “how you will wait.”