His Mistress by Morning by Elizabeth Boyle Page B

the thick scent of paint, the oils and chemicals competing in acrid and sharp contest. The odors had another effect: Suddenly she was struck by an overwhelming familiar feeling.
    I’ve been here .
    Arbuckle had left her side, crossing the wide space to take his place before an easel on the other side of the room. Beside it was a stool and a small table covered in pots and brushes—all awaiting the artist. Ever so carefully he removed the cover over the canvas and for a moment contemplated his work. A slow, satisfied smile plied his lips. “Helen! You are my Helen of Troy, Lottie. My masterpiece, and I have you to thank.”
    Weaving her way through the painter’s works in progress, she drew closer to his masterpiece—his words, not hers—wondering how she could be the face that launched a thousand ships.
    Arbuckle thinks I am his Helen? Charlotte was still mystified by how this all could happen. Granted thewardrobe and hair helped, but she was still just Miss Charlotte Wilmont of Queen Street, and hardly worthy of all this adulation, this lavish praise.
    But before she could come around the easel, he waved his hand toward the space behind her. “Go on with you. Get changed so we can begin. Besides, I suppose you’ve fittings and appointments enough later and will be all atwitter in an hour or so to be gone.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Besides, the light is perfect right now.”
    Recalling Finella’s recitation about the rest of her day, Charlotte saw no point in disagreeing with the man, so she made her way toward the screen he’d pointed at. She got behind it only to find a simple gilt crown and a long gauzy strip of fabric that she hadn’t the least idea what she was supposed to do with.
    For one thing, it wouldn’t cover her and for another, the silk was nearly transparent. Well, I might as well go naked .
    That one thought stopped her in her tracks, the image of the scandalous portrait in her bedroom coming to mind like a thunderclap. The one of her sprawled out on a divan without anything on.
    Yet how could Arbuckle have painted it unless she’d been…naked.
    Oh heavens, no! Whatever was she going to do?
    “Perhaps he just forgot to set out the costume,” she told herself softly, forcing the words to sound reassuring. After all, he’d been painting her since she was a child, and most of his paintings were filled with a fatherly devotion.
    And what were his intentions when he painted you in that Cyprian pose with that look on your face?
    “Where is she?” she heard Finella call out.
    There was a noise, a grunt really, from Arbuckle, and Charlotte could swear she could see the man impatiently waving a brush in the direction of the screen.
    Irrationally, she looked around the cluttered corner for a place to hide.
    “Dearest, whatever is keeping you?” Finella made that clucking noise in the back of her throat again. “Well, foolish me, of course you need help getting out of that gown. I’ll be right there.”
    Charlotte didn’t know which was more disconcerting, having Finella call her “dearest” or offering to help her undress so she could pose in her altogether.
    As the lady came bustling behind the screen, Charlotte whispered quickly, “There isn’t a costume.”
    “Of course there is,” Finella said, confirming Charlotte’s worst fear by sending a quick nod toward the silk.
    “But there isn’t enough to cover me,” she protested, while backing out of Finella’s reach. She took a deep breath, forcing the words from her lips. “I’ll be naked.”
    She waited for the Finella of before to react, to swoon at the very mention of uncovered body parts, or at the very least, declare such a notion highly improper.
    But as with everything she’d once taken for granted, this Finella didn’t even bat an eye.
    “Lottie,” she said, hands fisting onto her hips, “it was your idea to pose naked again. Heavens, whatever is the matter with you today?”
    Lottie’s idea, mayhap, she wanted