style="font-size:15px;"> An acid voice broke her reverie. ‘If I might have your attention, Miss Ashe.’
Biting her lip to prevent a retort, she queried, ‘Where do you want me?’
He paused for a moment before he pushed out the shabby gold-brocade chaise longue. ‘Here. Sit down. Don’t go slouching into the side. Keep your spine straight and face me.’
How she would continue to obey his curt instructions without a quick rejoinder she simply didn’t know. Squarely she placed her feet in front of her and crossed them at the ankle, wishing for something to lean against. Still, the chaise longue was softer than his armchair and she would allow no fault to be found with her posture.
‘That will do.’
As he rested on his heels, her whole body stiffened under his scrutiny.
‘You need to remain still,’ he commanded her brusquely.
How could she be still with him staring at her? She dropped her shoulders and puffed out a slow breath.
‘Now, turn to the right. No, not like that, turn some more.
‘More.
‘Now raise your eyes. Raise your eyes! Not move your whole head.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean!’ Cameo exclaimed, exasperated.
In a single swift movement he vaulted beside her. He clasped her chin. ‘Raise your eyes, but hold your chin straight. Like so.’
Cameo jumped as he cupped her face. His fingers were strong, with a sensitivity that told of his artistic temperament.
He trailed his fingers lightly against her skin. ‘You won’t be able to jump like that when I’m drawing you.’
‘I didn’t jump! A draught must have come in from the window.’
‘I haven’t yet opened the window.’ Still scrutinising her, he backed away and pulled a stool into position behind the easel.
‘That’s it.’ He crossed his legs in front of him in an easy, practised manner. ‘Now you must hold still while I do my initial drawings. Can you do that?’
‘Yes.’ Why, from now on she vowed not to move an inch. She’d keep her attention on the reason why she’d come.
Painting lessons.
A chance to see a real artist at work.
A thrill ran through her whole body.
From where she sat with her head towards the interior of the studio she had a perfect view of exactly what Benedict Cole was doing. He wore no paint-splotched cover shirt today, just a loose white shirt with the neck open and a paisley waistcoat carelessly buttoned down to dark brown woollen trousers, his feet clad in well-polished boots.
Taking up a large sheet of paper, he propped it against the easel. Holding a stick of charcoal, he flexed his muscled arm and made strong, bold strokes, glancing back and forth at her all the while. Soon she became transfixed by the way he held her in his sights, put his head down to draw, then came intently up again in a single movement, like a breath. More than once he impatiently pushed back the black lock of hair that fell over his forehead, down towards two lines that creased between his eyebrows as he frowned in concentration.
You think you’re watching me, Mr Benedict Cole, when in fact I’m watching you. She smiled inwardly.
How fast he drew. Perhaps lack of speed was her first mistake with her own work. She was too tentative, too slow. She considered each line before she put it down. He sketched with an assurance she envied, rapidly completing one drawing, putting it aside and just as quickly picking up another piece of paper, skimming across the page with a strong sweep of his arm.
On and on he drew. How long she sat there she wasn’t sure, but surely one hour passed, then another. Her neck locked and ached. She hadn’t realised how difficult it was to hold one position without moving. The muscles of her tight neck wanted to roll, her stiff legs to stretch.
To keep her mind off it she continued her survey of the studio. There were things she hadn’t noticed yesterday. The canvases propped about the room appeared to be in various stages of progress. One seascape looked particularly good, but most of them were faced to the wall, their subjects hidden from her assessment. There were frames and odd pieces of wood, too, stacked to one side. It appeared chaotic at first glance, but she discerned an order beneath the chaos. He seemed to know exactly where to find what he needed with speed and ease. He reached for his tools on a cluttered painting table beside the easel without a sideways glance. There were strange objects on the table, too. A pile of stones, a bird’s feather and some oddly shaped shards of smooth glass.
Peeking to her left without moving her head, she spotted a huge bed with a carved wooden bedhead in the corner of the room. She hadn’t really noticed it yesterday. Why, she’d come not only to Benedict Cole’s studio, but also to his bedroom. Her cheeks felt hot.
He had left the bed unmade, she noted in amazement. The white sheets were rumpled and the pillow dented. The thought of him lying there sent an unexpected thrill through her body. Hastily, she focused on the carved bedhead above, with its intricate patterns of blackberries and leaves engraved into the glowing dark wood.
Next to the bed stood a washstand with a mirror, a thick white-china jug and bowl on its veined marble top, his brush and razor lying carelessly to the side. She pictured him shaving, the sharp blade sliding through the soap along the skin of his strong jaw. He’d use the same smooth strokes as when he drew, she imagined.
Would he be bare-chested? The question popped into her mind, startling her. Why, Lady Catherine Mary, she reproved herself in her old nanny’s voice. What a thing to think. But the intimate image of him shaving persisted, the muscles of his shoulders rippling beneath his olive skin as he leant over the water basin, his face dripping with water as he splashed off the soap.
Unable to hold still, she wriggled on her seat.
Benedict’s voice shot across the room. ‘Don’t move.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I told you that you’d have to hold still for long periods of time,’ he snapped, not raising his head.
‘I will be quite able to if you give me a moment to rest.’ The man was a tyrant. She had no intention of being bullied by him.
He tossed down the charcoal. ‘Yes, of course.’
With relief Cameo stretched her taut body. She knew Benedict Cole kept watching her as he leaned against the edge of the stool.
‘You’ve done well. Not every model can keep up with me.’
‘Thank you.’ Surprised at how much his praise pleased her, she stepped towards the easel.
‘Have you always painted?’
‘I can’t not paint.’
At last. He did understand. ‘I know just what you mean,’ she said impulsively, then bit her tongue. She momentarily forgot he must never suspect she, too, was an artist,
