Passionate by Anthea Lawson Page A

her.
    Miss Strathmore must have sensed his presence. She whirled. “Mr. Huntington. How unexpected.”
    “My apologies if I surprised you. I did not want to interrupt your work.” That work was revealed now on the easel as a rich scarlet flower, its heart-shaped form limned with light.
    She shifted, blocking his view of the painting, and folded her arms. “Is there something you need?”
    “Only to deliver the message that your easel did not arrive.”
    Her frown deepened. “It was supposed to have been delivered two weeks ago. I assure you I will not do business with that firm…Mr. Huntington?”
    His gaze had swept past her to where a sturdy pair of black shoes protruded from behind the table. He raised an eyebrow. “It appears we are not alone.”
    “Of course not. That would be most inappropriate.” She glanced behind the table, her look softening. “Mrs. Hodges—poor dear. The heat of the conservatory makes her drowsy.”
    James peered behind the table. Mrs. Hodges dozed on the chaise lounge, her wide chest rising and falling with each breath.
    “I hate to wake her,” Miss Strathmore said, “but the light will be changing soon. I cannot very well paint a portrait without a subject.”
    He looked down the path toward the doors, then back at Mrs. Hodges. The message was delivered. Now would be the time to make his exit, but he could not simply walk away without offering assistance.
    “Perhaps I could take her place.”
    Miss Strathmore considered him for a moment. “Have you ever sat for a portrait before?”
    “No. But I would do my best. No napping, I promise.”
    She bit her lower lip, apparently of two minds. “Well,” she said at last, “you will have to do.” She pulled a tall stool to a nearby grouping of tree ferns and patted the seat. “Sit here, if you will.”
    James settled himself. It wasn’t as if he had anything pressing to attend to—and she did look fetching in her blue apron.
    Miss Strathmore placed a fresh art board on her easel and straightened her apron. “Are you sitting comfortably?”
    “As comfortable as can be expected.”
    “I would like to paint you in quarter profile. Please turn to the right.”
    He shifted. “Like this?”
    She shook her head. “No, back the other way…Yes, that’s it.”
    She began to sketch, her pencil sweeping in broad, confident arcs, and her gaze becoming direct and appraising. It traveled up and down, lingering, measuring, judging. Her eyes traced his face, stared deeply into his own, followed the line of his chin to his neck, then down along his shoulders.
    James was completely unprepared for the intensity of the painter’s gaze. Coming from a woman of Miss Strathmore’s attractions, it was…disturbing. No lady had ever stared at him so boldly—at least not with innocent intent. He felt uncomfortably warm and wished he had thought to loosen his collar before they began.
    As Miss Strathmore worked she bit her lower lip, or furrowed her brow, and all the while her eyes continued to devour him. Her hand traveled over the board as it willed but her gaze never left him. She breathed deeply as she worked, her focus evident in each fluid movement of her body. As the minutes passed, James found it increasingly difficult to remain still. He tried to ease the tension by looking past her to the foliage that framed and shaded her, but he could not concentrate. Again and again his attention was drawn back to the woman before him.
    She was not a conventional beauty. Her face held too much strength—a stubborn lift to her chin, the high cheekbones softening into the curve of her cheeks, her nose too prominent by current standards. Standards that celebrated the cultivated looks of a pampered flower, not the willful wildness he sensed in Miss Strathmore. And her eyes. He had noted them before, their depths, the way they shifted color like the surface of a tropical sea. A man could lose himself there.
    She set down her pencil and selected a brush. The