the mist, she wore a hideous tweed
coat over an even more hideous orange dress. Its skirt was stained and the ruffles around its hem
draggled as if they'd been stepped on. Indeed, they might have been. Both coat and gown hung on their wearer like a sack. Last night she had not seemed this small. Now he saw she was a slip of a thing, not merely short, but tiny. Nor was her size the only trait he'd failed to appreciate by gaslight. He could not have missed her freckles, but her eyes, an interesting sunstruck umber hue, were as bright as the day
was not.
Her hair, what he could see beneath her muddy brown knitted scarf, was quite remarkable. He'd guessed it was fair but hadn't expected this blazing mix of red and gold. Kinked by the weather, it was so curly and thick it seemed alive. Like faerie dew, beads of moisture clung to its rippling waves.
In spite of his ennui, his fingers itched for his paints.
"Don't tell me," he said, verging on a laugh, "Farnham tracked you down to jolly me from my gloom."
"I beg your pardon," said his visitor, drawing herself up. Nic had never seen a woman stand that straight. She looked like a little soldier with her shoulders thrust back and her jaw stuck out Her nose, he noticed, had a funny tumed-up ball on the end, like a forgotten bit of clay. Retrousse, a Frenchman would have said, but the word could not convey its winsome humor. A smudge of ash marred the skin of her freckled cheek. What a face, he thought. What a wonderfully unforgettable face.
Too bad he couldn't say as much for her name.
"Forgive me," he said as he racked his brains. "Obviously, you are here on your own initiative. Won't you come in and state your business? I shouldn't like a young lady to stand on my doorstep growing chilled."
Calling her a lady might be a stretch, for no true lady came to a gentleman's home alone. Nic had found, however, that most females, no matter how humble, liked to be spoken to as ladies. Unless they were ladies, he thought wryly, recalling how titillated Amanda Piggot had been by his supposedly common touch. But he had no desire to offend this young woman, not when she had most likely come to grant
his dearest wish.
Despite his cordiality, his invitation seemed to unnerve her. Perhaps she wasn't as worldly as he'd thought. After a slight hesitation, she stepped past him into the relative warmth of his foyer.
"It is rather cold," she conceded. Her voice was low in pitch, boyish almost: a tinge of stable mixed with
a hint of manor. This one, he thought with amusement, had aspirations. Clearly, his furnishings caught
her eye. She strolled the circumference beneath the dome, pausing to study a statue of a sleek Egyptian cat The treasure was carved in basalt and bore a gold-and-lapis collar around its neck. Her hand, gloved
in coarse green wool, touched the smooth front paws.
She turned and, for one brief moment, looked as regal as the puss. Little duchess, he thought, his smile too broad to keep inside.
"I wish to know," she said, with that same self-possession, "if you're still looking for a model."
"I might be," he said, then broke into a laugh.
Unable to resist, he began to circle her. His hand caught the end of her scarf and unwrapped it as he went. She uttered a startled sound, but did not fight him, her eyes on his face as he slowly revealed her glory. Three long pins held her hair to her head in a messy lump. Feeling like a naughty schoolboy, he pulled them free. Curls fell, masses of them. Her hair was magic beneath the watery illumination of the skylight, the ends dancing with static, the color indescribable. Past her waist it tumbled, past her hips, a blanket behind which Lady Godiva could easily have hidden. His hands curled into fists. He wanted to paint her like that, naked on a horse, riding proud through the heart of town, making a triumph of what her husband had meant to be a shame.
Come to think of it, Nic
coat over an even more hideous orange dress. Its skirt was stained and the ruffles around its hem
draggled as if they'd been stepped on. Indeed, they might have been. Both coat and gown hung on their wearer like a sack. Last night she had not seemed this small. Now he saw she was a slip of a thing, not merely short, but tiny. Nor was her size the only trait he'd failed to appreciate by gaslight. He could not have missed her freckles, but her eyes, an interesting sunstruck umber hue, were as bright as the day
was not.
Her hair, what he could see beneath her muddy brown knitted scarf, was quite remarkable. He'd guessed it was fair but hadn't expected this blazing mix of red and gold. Kinked by the weather, it was so curly and thick it seemed alive. Like faerie dew, beads of moisture clung to its rippling waves.
In spite of his ennui, his fingers itched for his paints.
"Don't tell me," he said, verging on a laugh, "Farnham tracked you down to jolly me from my gloom."
"I beg your pardon," said his visitor, drawing herself up. Nic had never seen a woman stand that straight. She looked like a little soldier with her shoulders thrust back and her jaw stuck out Her nose, he noticed, had a funny tumed-up ball on the end, like a forgotten bit of clay. Retrousse, a Frenchman would have said, but the word could not convey its winsome humor. A smudge of ash marred the skin of her freckled cheek. What a face, he thought. What a wonderfully unforgettable face.
Too bad he couldn't say as much for her name.
"Forgive me," he said as he racked his brains. "Obviously, you are here on your own initiative. Won't you come in and state your business? I shouldn't like a young lady to stand on my doorstep growing chilled."
Calling her a lady might be a stretch, for no true lady came to a gentleman's home alone. Nic had found, however, that most females, no matter how humble, liked to be spoken to as ladies. Unless they were ladies, he thought wryly, recalling how titillated Amanda Piggot had been by his supposedly common touch. But he had no desire to offend this young woman, not when she had most likely come to grant
his dearest wish.
Despite his cordiality, his invitation seemed to unnerve her. Perhaps she wasn't as worldly as he'd thought. After a slight hesitation, she stepped past him into the relative warmth of his foyer.
"It is rather cold," she conceded. Her voice was low in pitch, boyish almost: a tinge of stable mixed with
a hint of manor. This one, he thought with amusement, had aspirations. Clearly, his furnishings caught
her eye. She strolled the circumference beneath the dome, pausing to study a statue of a sleek Egyptian cat The treasure was carved in basalt and bore a gold-and-lapis collar around its neck. Her hand, gloved
in coarse green wool, touched the smooth front paws.
She turned and, for one brief moment, looked as regal as the puss. Little duchess, he thought, his smile too broad to keep inside.
"I wish to know," she said, with that same self-possession, "if you're still looking for a model."
"I might be," he said, then broke into a laugh.
Unable to resist, he began to circle her. His hand caught the end of her scarf and unwrapped it as he went. She uttered a startled sound, but did not fight him, her eyes on his face as he slowly revealed her glory. Three long pins held her hair to her head in a messy lump. Feeling like a naughty schoolboy, he pulled them free. Curls fell, masses of them. Her hair was magic beneath the watery illumination of the skylight, the ends dancing with static, the color indescribable. Past her waist it tumbled, past her hips, a blanket behind which Lady Godiva could easily have hidden. His hands curled into fists. He wanted to paint her like that, naked on a horse, riding proud through the heart of town, making a triumph of what her husband had meant to be a shame.
Come to think of it, Nic
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