a cryptic note and so he had hurried over there this morning, only to be greeted with a litany of Sophie’s imagined faults.
With Sophie attempting to create a wardrobe fit for a viscountess before they left for the wedding trip and generally showing nervousness, the last thing she needed was his mother picking petty fault. He wanted to throttle his aunt, but knew he ultimately was to blame for goading her that day.
He refused to allow anyone to hurt Sophie or twist her into something she wasn’t. He wanted the passionate woman, not the mask she’d shown to the world when they’d first met. But there was no point in explaining this to his mother. Instead he had made his excuses and left.
Richard marched into his rooms with his aunt’s poison burning a hole in his pocket. He would write his aunt an uncompromising and long-overdue missive about her behaviour and afterwards he’d consign the so-called verdict to the fire. Sophie need not worry what his family thought of her.
He stopped, confronted with the delectable sight of Sophie in her robe.
‘What are you doing back here, Sophie?’ Richard tilted his head, searching for signs of distress. ‘I thought you had fittings for your new wardrobe all morning and were then going to have lunch with your stepmother.’
‘I came back earlier from my stepmother’s.’ Sophie waved an airy hand. ‘There was little point in me staying. My stepmother agreed with me. A woman’s place is with her husband when they are first married, rather than gossiping.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that so? Did you happen to see my father? Has he decided when he is leaving?’
‘Next week. The tickets are all booked.’ Sophie gave a little twirl, allowing her robe to slip a little. She had to hope her scheme was working and that Richard did have a little regard for her beyond desiring her in bed. But everywhere she turned these days, it seemed people conspired to make her feel awkward and as if she was a disappointment. She wanted to be the perfect bride. She wanted to show Richard that his trust in her was not misplaced. ‘I have given the servants the afternoon off.’
His glance became appreciative rather than the glower he’d worn when he first came in. ‘Is there any reason why?’
‘I thought I could paint you. Get started on the portrait. It might not be an Alpine meadow, but I thought the bed would do.’
Dark passion flared in his eyes. ‘You want to paint my portrait now? What has brought this on?’
‘Now!’ Sophie put her hands on her hips. If he went, she’d never regain the courage. She had everything planned in her mind. She’d seduce him and then she’d explain about the dinner party she’d planned. She knew having a dinner party before they had done the rounds of the At Homes wasn’t strictly speaking the done thing, but she wanted to show Richard and his father that she was a capable hostess. ‘Myers said that there wasn’t anything you had to be doing. I laid careful plans, Richard.’
He pressed his lips together and then his face cleared. A wicked glint came into his eyes, warming her. And she breathed a sigh of relief. This was going to be easier than she’d feared. ‘Never let it be said that I don’t do what my lady requests, particularly when it is prettily put. Do you want me in my coat and hat for this portrait of yours?’
‘I would like you to sit over there on the bed.’ Sophie’s limbs trembled. He was doing as she asked. She walked over to the easel and picked up a brush.
‘You want me seated, not reclining.’
‘Whichever way is more comfortable. But you need to keep still. Don’t move a muscle. I want to capture you. When it is finished, I want to hang it over our drawing-room mantelpiece. Today I want to do a preliminary study and see if you can withstand the rigours of sitting.’
The dimple flashed in the corner of his mouth. ‘I assume you will insist on entertaining the worthy.’
‘Precisely. I’ve no wish to shock.’
Sophie drew a rough charcoal sketch of Richard’s head and shoulders. She did intend to paint his portrait eventually. It would give her a chance to get to know him better, but this afternoon was about more than simply painting. It was about showing Richard that she could be inventive in their love-making.
‘And you intend to paint all afternoon?’ he asked after a few moments’ silence in which she sketched the outline and gave a rough indication of how his hands ought to go.
‘Is there some problem with this?’
‘My nose is starting to itch. How am I supposed to scratch if you don’t want me to move?’
Sophie smiled and reached for her brush. The request she had been waiting for. She walked over to where he sat. ‘I believe I have a solution.’
She leant forwards and stroked his nose with the brush. ‘All better?’
He gave a slight nod rather than reacting as she expected. ‘Trying not to move as my wife ordered.’
She pursed her lips. This might take longer than she thought unless … She allowed her robe to slip as she started to turn away. His hand caught her sleeve.
‘Where are you going? Other parts of me itch.’
‘Do they?’
He nodded. ‘All over. It is deuced uncomfortable being a model. You should have told me when I volunteered.’
‘Then I shall have to see to them.’
‘With your brush?’ His voice held a husky note.
‘I use it when I am painting and don’t want to get paint on my nose.’ Sophie used the brush to caress his cheeks and forehead. ‘You see. Nice and soft.’
His eyes closed. ‘More, please. Remember you told me not to move. I’ve no intention of spoiling your … portrait.’
Her hands worked at his neckcloth and discarded it. She gently stroked down the strong column of his throat, before working on his collar and the collar studs.
His coat proved a bit more problematic to remove. And he kept true to his word and didn’t move a muscle, allowing her to undo the buttons and pull off the sleeves.
With a sinking heart, she saw his shirt sleeves were fastened with intricate cufflinks. Richard’s clothing was every bit as fiddly as her own.
‘Next time I paint you, I think I shall have to take your advice and have you in fewer clothes. I can always paint the clothes in later.’
‘I am taking your instructions to heart, but I do have the most terrible itch.’ A faint smile touched his lips. ‘You are not drawing now.’
Sophie drew her brush along his collar bone. ‘You know how this game is played.’
‘I’m a good guesser.’ He pulled her against his chest. ‘Is it all right for me to move now? Truly?’
She gave a nod. ‘It is safe. I reached a stopping point on the portrait.’
‘I promise to be the most obliging of models, but it is best to do a little at a time. It saves on the
