needed a centerpiece for his next show. Something provocative. Something the jaded art world could not ignore.
"Take off your coat," he said, his voice hoarse with his urge to see the rest of her.
A wash of peony pink crept up her cheek. "I am not a whore," she said. "Just because my ... my employer cast me off doesn't mean I'm anyone's for the taking."
"Cast you off?" Her words were a dash of cold reality. "Because of what happened to you last night?"
Hanging her head, she put the toe of one boot atop the other.
"Idiot," he said, and her head jerked in alarm. "Not you, love. Your employer." He cupped the side of
her face, pitying her trouble with all his heart. Just once, why couldn't the men of his class respect the women in their care? "Did he try to force himself on you?"
Her mouth dropped and she blinked so rapidly he feared she was about to cry.
"Never mind," he said hastily, reluctant-to face a scene. "You don't have to tell me. I just want you to know that no woman is less than a lady to me, no matter how she's been mistreated, no matter if she's worn ruts down the paths of Covent Garden. I have never forced a woman and I never shall."
With the pad of his thumb, he touched her trembling lower lip. She had a plain mouth but a pleasant
one, its surface soft and pink. Naturally, now was not the time, but he wouldn't have minded kissing it. He'd do it slowly, he mused, and very, very gently. As if she read his thoughts, she shivered and pulled away.
Her eyes locked warily onto his. "Do you still want to paint me?"
"I do," he said. Deciding a casual tack was best, he examined his paint-stained nails. "I'd want you to board with me, of course."
"Of course," she agreed, a little too quickly. When he peered at her, she squared her shoulders in the way he'd already identified as her habit. "I'm not some quivering miss. I know what's expected of a model."
He smiled at her mixture of innocence and bravado—not that it was amusing, when one thought about it. Despite his assurance that he'd never force a woman, this poor girl was obviously prepared to bed him if she must. He touched her face again, following the hollow of her cheekbone toward her jaw. The artist
in him took over from the man. Gripping her chin, he turned her head to catch the light from a different angle. She really was surprisingly dramatic.
"I'll pay you to pose," he said softly. "Whatever else you choose to give is just that: a choice. Unless
you understand that very clearly, we can't go on."
She blinked as if he'd spoke in Chinese. "I do understand," she said, "and I thank you."
"Well, then." Suddenly buoyant, he tweaked the tip of her nose between two fingers. "Perhaps you'd
be willing to take off your coat and let me see what we've got to work with." Her name returned in a tardy flash. "Mary, isn't it?"
"Yes," she said, fighting with her buttons. "Mary Colfax."
The name pleased him. Simple. Straightforward. Perfect for a woman who'd be a challenge but not a trial.
Taking pity on her struggle, he reached in to remove her awkward gloves. Though she swore under her breath, she let him take them. Curious, he turned her hands between his own. Her fingers were delicate, their nails clipped short, their bases as callused as if she'd shoveled out the stable that seemed to have supplied her original speech patterns. Oddly enough, he liked her better for the roughness. This girl was no layabout. When her coat was off as well, she thrust it at him as if she loathed the very sight. Nic draped the worn tweed over his arm.
"Now then, Mary Colfax," he said, feeling more satisfied with the world, "why don't we drink some tea and discuss your fee."
* * *
With a heightened sense of unreality, merry watched him hang the ugly coat as she pressed her fingertips to her palms. They tingled from the way he'd probed them with his thumb. How oddly he treated her:
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