Page 55 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

She didn’t answer.

After another quiet moment, he said, “Very well. I should like her to be intelligent. Well-read. Capable of carrying on interesting conversation.”

“My goodness. You do not ask for much. Pretty, too, I suppose?”

“Not . . . unappealing,” he conceded.

That earned him another laugh. “So, pretty.” A few more sweeps of the pencil, then, “Turn this way now, please. Thank you.” As he shifted to face her, she moved her hand to a different spot on the paper. “Anything else?”

“Well, I suppose it would be remiss of a man in my position not to think of finding a wife who was willing and eager to bear him sons.”

He thought her cheeks pinked at that. Her head was tipped downward, though, so he couldn’t be sure. It had been an outrageous thing for him to say.

But if she had been bothered by it, it didn’t distract her from her work. She began yet again in another corner of the paper. He imagined a sheet covered with disembodied eyebrows, noses, and ears and screwed shut his eyes to drive away the thought.

“Eyes open, please,” she instructed in a mild, impersonal voice, such as a physician might use while conducting an examination. “And your bride-to-be . . . have you given any thought to what the young lady might like? What is it you hope she’ll see in this portrait of you?”

Another horrible vision rose in his mind of haggard women at the marketplace, examining a cartload of gaping-mouthed, glass-eyed fish, ever wary of being cheated, giving this one a poke and that one a sniff.

But better that, perhaps, than marrying a girl who’d fallen for a flattering picture and then watching the stars fade from her eyes once she saw . . . all this.

“I haven’t thought about it, no.” And frankly, I’d rather not. What one wanted and what one got were almost always very different things. “She’ll see whatever you choose to show her, I suppose.”

The pencil paused in mid-stroke as she lifted her gaze to him. “That’s giving me a great deal of power, my lord.”

Abruptly, he stood. “Yes, well. See that you don’t abuse it. Again.” He jerked his chin toward her sketchbook. “You must have enough to be getting on with. I can’t spend all afternoon sitting about.”

“No, of course not. I understand. And yes”—she lifted the sketchbook as if to show him, but at this distance he could make out nothing but a series of stark and faint lines—“I have enough here to begin my work.” She rose from the chair and stepped aside so he could pass. “But you will need to come again, say the day after tomorrow, to pose for the portrait itself. And at least a time or two after that.”

“Very well.” And before he could do or say any more rash things, he hurried away.

Constantia knew she’d struck a nerve. She was only surprised it had taken so long. Heaven knew she’d been probing hard enough.

Those little almost-witticisms of his, they weren’t chinks in his armor. They were defensive barbs, designed to keep others at a more comfortable arm’s length. She wanted to make him lose that calm, composed, always proper demeanor. In a string of dubious decisions, it might be the least wise thing she had ever done.

But, oh, she was determined to see him crack.

For the portrait, of course. Because it wasn’t art if it wasn’t true—and hang Lady Posenby’s wishes in the matter. Constantia had agreed to ply her skills reluctantly. Regretfully. But since she had agreed, why not at least paint the real man? Alistair, not some caricature of an unfortunate earl in search of a wife.

A clever, capable, interesting, eye-catching, eager wife.

She nearly snapped her pencil in half.

She had others now. Not just the stub she’d had to wheedle from a disgruntled publican in some nameless village. But those others were back in the schoolroom and she had work to do here.

After dragging her chair over to the table, she spread out her unfinished sketches—hardly more than suggestions—chose one, and began to fill in the details. The determined shadow of whiskers along the turn of his freshly shaven jaw. The perfect symmetry of his cheekbones, made more interesting by the way the hawkish bridge of his aristocratic nose divided his face. The lock of dark hair that persisted in falling over one brow.

And those eyes . . . a shade somewhere between the rich brown of coffee and the unfathomable blackness of ink. The way they sparkled when he spoke of his sisters—even their misdeeds. Especially their misdeeds. The way they narrowed with worry when he thought no one would see.

The way they had looked at her. Through her. Aggravation and pity and something she desperately longed to believe was desire.

Bending her head to her paper, she set about filling in the details of each fragment. Sunlight began to fade from the room, but rather than fetching a lamp, she only worked faster, coaxing light and life from each sketch.

At last she finished the final one. With a sigh of something like relief, she gathered the pages and rose from her hard wooden seat, tipping her head and stretching her back. She was exhausted, and the chaise beckoned.

Pictures in hand, she sat down where he’d been, then reclined, wishing she’d thought to bring a pillow. Head against the arm, she held the sketches above her in one hand and tried, in spite of the increasing gloom, to judge her success.

His eyes bored into hers, just a hint of wildness in their depths. That flash of . . . something he’d shown just before striding from the room. It made her pulse tick faster and sent a rush of warmth through her core.

She tilted her head one way, the picture another. Her free hand, which had been resting at the base of her throat, slid lower, almost of its own volition, caressing the hollow at the base of her throat. After another moment, her fingertips plucked one peaked nipple as they passed. Lower . . . lower. Closing her eyes, she pressed the heel of her hand against the aching spot at the joining of her thighs. It wasn’t enough.

It would have to be enough.

The chaise creaked as her spine arched upward. No one ever came here. No one would see if she . . .

Her thready gasp pierced the silence as her fingertips sought and found her damp, needy quim. Not a ladylike word, but what did it matter? She wasn’t a lady, certainly not the sort who fell in love with a portrait and begged her doting papa to buy her an earl. She was merely the artist.

And if she kept one sketch to herself—for herself—no one need ever know.