his skin softer, his grip firmer. Wetting her lips, she nodded, two shallow bobs of her head agreeing to whatever he wanted in the world just then.
He released her, surrendering his hold on the brush, her hand, and her wits all at once. She drew a steadying breath, trying to calm her thundering pulse. Had anyone’s touch ever affected her like that? Surely not. Though really, how many men had she touched skin to skin like that? None, unless one counted her family members. Richard and Great-uncle Percival hardly counted when compared to the likes of Colin.
“Well, then,” she said, rallying her wits, “I should start with a drawing first, then move to paints when the pose is just right.” Unwilling to part with her prize, she tucked the slender brush behind her ear, just as she sometimes did with pencils when she was distracted.
“All right, then. How would you like me to pose?”
Lord have mercy, what a question. Beatrice bit the inside of her lip, trying to push past the completely inappropriate image of him leaning against the curving window casing, his hair tousled, thanks to the rain, and his shirt tossed over the chair beside him.
Papa would probably send her to a convent if he knew the sort of thoughts racing through Beatrice’s head just then. But she was an artist, was she not? She had observed and studied many a male form, in much, if not all, of its glory. She knew what positions put a person at his best advantage, and with Colin’s surprisingly fit form, she just knew the play of light over both his angular face and well-proportioned upper body would be divine.
She also knew she could never bring herself to actually do such a thing.
She might be brave, but she wasn’t reckless. Well, sometimes she was, but she certainly had never asked a man to take off his shirt, and she wasn’t about to start now—especially with her maid in the next room and no closed doors between them. That didn’t stop the torrent of butterflies from whirling within her belly at the very thought.
Still, the pose was a good idea, even if the bare chest wasn’t. “I think perhaps you should be leaning against the window, looking out at the rooftops beyond.”
He lifted a dark brow, amusement clearing the lingering darkness from his eyes. “Are we going for ‘gazing longingly in the distance,’ then? Because I have a fantastic pining expression.”
Stepping to the window, he draped himself across it like a lovesick maiden and gazed out, his eyebrows lifted and knitted as though hope itself resided in the rooftops beyond the glass.
She smacked his shoulder lightly. “Oh stop. You shouldn’t tease me.”
He dropped his ridiculous expression and chuckled. “Yes, I know. I never tease anyone, actually. I doona know why I canna seem to stop myself when you’re near.”
What a thing to say. It didn’t sound like a compliment, but it certainly felt like one. “Perhaps that means I put you at ease.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I’ve let myself become too familiar around you. It’s a social sin that I should feel much more concerned about than I am.” His expression bordered on boyish, especially with his tousled hair. Lord but she loved the rumpled version of the man. He was always so proper, she felt as though she were seeing him in a way few ever did.
“Hold that.”
His brows dipped together as he blinked in confusion. “Hold what?”
“That,” she said, waving her hands around to encompass his position. “Your pose, your expression, whatever you were thinking about just then.”
He went stiff, doing exactly as she said. She rolled her eyes. “No, don’t go rigid. Just relax. Breathe. Be still, not frozen.”
He loosened up a bit, and she smiled. “Yes, that’s better. Give me a moment. I’ll be right back.”
She scurried around the room, rooting out a wide notebook with blank pages and a pencil. She dragged a tall stool over to a spot just in front of him and sat down. “All right. Now, turn your head a bit to the right and look out as if there is something interesting right outside the window.”
“That’s requiring quite a bit of imagination from a barrister in training.”
She widened her eyes meaningfully at him, and he sighed and obeyed. “Excellent. Now tip your head down a bit . . . a little more. That’s good. Now relax your left arm and lean a bit onto the casing. There—perfect.” The daylight illuminated half his face, sending the other half into soft shadow. It made the scale of grays and whites that much more dramatic, highlighting all the angles and planes that she loved so well.
She set to work on the drawing, sketching in his general outline, the shape of the window, and the lines of his limbs. It was quick work, and she glanced up repeatedly as she went about it. After only a few minutes, she looked up to find him watching her. “Colin,” she admonished, pointing her pencil at him, “look outside.”
“Sorry,” he murmured, not appearing the least bit chastised. He averted his gaze to the window again, and she went back to work.
Less than a minute later, she glanced up and found herself caught in his gaze once more. “Ahem,” she prompted.
“Such a taskmaster,” he teased, shaking his head, “especially when the view inside is vastly preferable to anything outside.”
She bit her upper lip, fighting against the pleased smile that threatened to encourage him. “Now you sound like my brother. Richard is forever saying things like that.”
That won her exactly what she had intended. With a mild scowl—who wants to be compared to a woman’s brother, after all—he turned to look back outside.
“Now the angle is all wrong. Chin down, please. No, more to the right. No, that’s not quite right either. Just a moment,” she said, standing up and setting her notebook on the stool.
Stepping up to him, she reached out to adjust his angle, but realized all at once that her hands were gloveless and he was no family member to be casually arranged to her liking. She froze, her hand only inches away from his chin. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”
She started to drop her hand, but he smiled and caught her by the elbow. “No, it’s fine. My father did this a thousand times. Consider me your still life, to be adjusted at will.”
She drew a slow breath, trying not to betray her wildly pounding heart. This was art, after all. Arranging one’s subject was to be expected. When she nodded, he released his gentle hold and lifted his head, inviting her to do with him what she would.
Wetting her suddenly dry lips, she slipped her hand beneath his chin, touching the surprisingly smooth skin stretched across his angular jaw. He watched her, his eyes tracking hers even as she tilted his chin in just the right angle. He responded to the lightest of touches, moving easily with her direction.
“There,” she breathed, not quite able to find her voice. “I think that’s good.”
“Are you certain?”
Beatrice nodded, the movement slightly jerky under the weight of his gaze. She should step back, she knew she should, but something in his smoky eyes held her rooted in place, her skirts brushing his legs. With the way he leaned against the casing, the difference in their heights wasn’t as great as it might have been, making him seem all the more accessible.
“You wouldn’a rather have my chin tilted down a bit more?” He lowered his head, pressing his jaw more firmly into her hand and closing the distance between him and her upturned face.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out reason and thought, narrowing her world to the warmth of his skin against her fingers and the incredibly intoxicating scent of his breath as it caressed her cheek. When she didn’t move, he reached up and slid his fingers over hers, flattening her palm against the curve of his jaw.
His eyes never left hers, and she watched as they darkened and his pupils widened, drawing her toward him without even moving a muscle. She swayed forward, drawn by his heat, and his scent, and the intensity of his gaze. Even as he bent toward her, she lifted her face to him, seeking, eager, driven by a need she never knew she possessed.
And then his lips touched hers.
