Chapter 4

A n oil lamp sat on the center of the small dining table in the kitchen, casting a golden glow over where Joy sat opposite Mr. Russell. Their plates held the remnants of the light meal they'd brought with them from the inn. It was a scene right out of a pastoral painting, except for the palpable tension that hovered between them like the delicate steam rising from their cups of tea.

Joy twirled the spoon in her cup, the clinking sound a gentle punctuation to her racing thoughts. She had been pondering this moment since before they sat down, her mind waltzing with both excitement and trepidation. She thought she'd calmed the improper thoughts that had been plaguing her since she'd explored his sketchbook, but they were back, more urgent than before.

"Mr. Russell, I hope you don't find my request too forward or... unconventional. But…well I must confess to having seen your book of sketches."

He looked up, an eyebrow arching ever so slightly. His piercing gaze bore into hers with an intensity that felt both intimidating and exhilarating.

"I see," he said.

Taking a deep breath, Joy summoned every ounce of courage she possessed, feeling her cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and defiant resolve. "I wish to see myself as you see the world, Mr. Russell. Through the eyes of an artist. I would be most honored if you might consider sketching me. Again." Her gaze did not falter, though her heart was a wild symphony within her breast.

"Sketch you?" Mr. Russell echoed, his tone unreadable.

"Yes," Joy replied, her fingers tightening around her teacup. "Nude, to be precise."

The words lingered in the air, bold and unashamed. For a moment, time seemed to pause. Joy held her breath, waiting for him to reject her proposal, to affirm the impropriety of such a thing.

But instead, Mr. Russell set down his utensils, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Mrs. Sinclair, you are full of surprises," he said. "Very well. I shall sketch you again."

A wave of relief washed over her, mingling with a newfound sense of power. She had crossed a threshold, stepping outside the bounds of what was expected of her, and the thrill of it was intoxicating. Perhaps it was the beginning of a renaissance for Joy Sinclair, a rebirth through the bold strokes of Mr. Russell's pencil.

"Thank you," she said, keeping her voice steady despite the maelstrom of emotions roiling within her. "I trust in your discretion and your talent."

"Of course, Mrs. Sinclair. My art is nothing if not discreet," he assured her, his gaze lingering on her face, as if committing her features to memory already. "Shall we begin after I clean up our supper?"

"Yes, thank you," she agreed.

"I must admit, your request is... unexpected." The dour timbre of his words belied any hint curiosity he might have into her reasons.

Joy's heart danced a nervous jig, yet she met his gaze with an unwavering look that held a glimmer of mischief. With a tilt of her head, she replied, "And here I was, Mr. Russell, thinking you'd find solace in the predictable."

A chuckle escaped him, rough around the edges but not unkind, as he conceded to the point with a nod. "Well, your boldness has won you my pencil, Mrs. Sinclair. And I am... intrigued by your willingness to see yourself through the unforgiving truth of art."

"Unforgiving?" she parried with a lighthearted smile. "Or perhaps liberating?"

"Perhaps both."

"Those drawings in the book are beautiful," she said. "The risqué ones especially. They're... they speak of desires often whispered but seldom acknowledged."

"Those sketches were never meant for polite society," he confessed, standing and carrying his dishes to the sink. He returned for her plate.

"Then it's fortunate that I have little care for what society might deem polite. I want to be sketched, Mr. Russell. Not as a demur widow, but as a woman of flesh and bone, with desires of her own." Her confession hung between them, brazen and vulnerable all at once.

He regarded her for a moment before he rinsed the plates with some water from a pot on the stove. He dried his hands, then turned and motioned for her to go into the other room. "Then you shall be drawn. As a woman, not a widow. As you truly are."

"Exactly as I am," Joy affirmed, feeling a whimsy at the adventure she was embarking upon—an exploration of self that would be immortalized in the strokes of Mr. Russell's skilled hands.

With a nod, he led the way through the narrow corridor. He paused in the drawing room near the door of his studio. "There is a dressing gown on a hook behind the door. You may undress in there."

Joy slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. She smiled at the idea she needed privacy to undress, yet she'd be baring her all to the man in mere minutes. The idea excited her, but a wave of uncertainty followed. What would he think of her body?

What did it matter what he thought? He was likely to see her as nothing more than a bowl of fruit, just an article to be drawn. His opinion of her meant nothing, although she thought he might be kinder in his rendering if he found her attractive.

Pulling the belt on the satin dressing gown tight, Joy thrust back her shoulders, drew in a deep breath and opened the door. He had moved the chaise longue closer to the fireplace, for which she was grateful. The room was chilly. He'd placed the lamp on a nearby table to add to the firelight, and a coverlet was draped across the chaise near where she would be sitting.

As she approached the chaise, Mr. Russell went into his studio to gather his supplies. He returned with his sketchbook and a cup with pencils, which he set on the table near the lamp.

"Mrs. Sinclair, if you would, remove your dressing gown and recline upon the chaise." His eyes held no trace of the warmth that she'd seen in the kitchen, yet they beckoned her with an intensity that promised…satisfaction?

Feeling shy but harboring a well of secret adventure within her soul, Joy allowed the dressing gown to slide off her shoulders. It cascaded to the floor with a hush, pooling around her feet like the modesty she had decided to shed. She felt suddenly like the heroine of one of her more scandalous novels, embarking upon a journey of forbidden pleasures.

Her skin, now bared to his scrutiny, prickled with a rush of vulnerability, yet there was a thrill in this surrender. The air, cool against her exposed flesh, seemed to stir awake every sense. Joy reminded herself why she was doing this—to be seen, truly seen, not as the somber widow draped in mourning, but as a woman of fire and spirit, captured through the discerning eyes of an artist.

"Sit here, just so," he instructed, pointing to the chaise. His words were sparse, but she read between them to assume how he wanted her. She perched gracefully, sitting back and resting her legs down the length.

"Lean back, let the light embrace your form," he said simply. But it was his gaze—a painter's gaze—which undressed her soul, layer by layer, until all that remained was the essence of Joy Sinclair, unadorned and unafraid.

Trust was her anchor. She clung to it as the fragments of her former life, dictated by a husband whose cruel words had left scars invisible to the naked eye, threatened to rise like specters from the past. In this room, with the fire as her lighting and Mr. Russell as her solitary audience, she chose to cast off those shadows.

"Beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself, as he positioned her to capture the look he wanted, the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulder. The moment was hers, and it was liberating.

He paused, his eyes narrowing as if he could see the very sinews of her soul laid bare beneath the light that bathed the room in a warm glow. "Your arm," he began with characteristic brevity, lifting Joy's left arm gently but with an assured touch, "let it drape over the chaise, like water flowing over river stones." His fingers brushed against her skin, guiding her limb into a languid curve, every motion deliberate, reverent.

"Extend your other arm along your side, just so." He positioned her legs at an angle, creating a composition rife with both innocence and suggestion.

Joy felt the warmth from his hands linger on her shoulder, a stark contrast to the cool air that kissed the rest of her exposed skin. Her breath hitched, heartbeats fluttering like caged birds against her chest. The sensation of his touch was not one of mere physical contact, it was almost sexual to her inexperienced skin.

"Turn your head towards me, just a fraction," Moses said. He shifted her chin with the softest pressure from his thumb, a feather's touch that sent a tremble through her core. He then reached up and removed the pins from her hair, one by one, bringing the waves forward and draping the length around her breasts. She shivered at the sensation of her hair brushing over her nipples.

His hands withdrew, and she felt an inexplicable loss, like the sun slipping behind a cloud, stealing away the warmth of day. Yet there remained a connection, as if spun from the gossamer threads of shared vulnerability. It was a delicate balance between artist and muse, each beholden to the other in this intimate waltz of creation.

Mr. Russell stepped back, the heels of his boots silent upon the small carpet. Joy's breath hung suspended in the air as she watched him survey her form from afar, his gaze drinking in every exposed inch of her. His eyes roamed with a critic's scrutiny and a connoisseur's delight.

"Remarkable," he murmured, more to himself than to Joy, though the word struck a chord within her, resonating deep inside.

Joy's heart danced a skittish rhythm, moved by the intensity etched into the furrow of his brow and the slight parting of his lips.

His hand glided across the paper with a fluid grace that seemed to defy the mere mechanical act of drawing. He studied her a moment, pausing the pencil, then lowered his gaze and went back to work. "Mrs. Sinclair, would you tilt your chin ever so slightly? Yes, just there."

Joy complied, her gaze shifting upward in a dreamy fashion that bespoke thoughts far removed from the confines of the drawing room. She wondered what he sought in the quiet repose of her features or the subtle parting of her lips. Did he find the longing hidden within the depths of her eyes, or the hint of audacity that colored her spirit?

"Perfect," he breathed out as if the word itself held power. Occasionally, he would pause, his keen eyes tracing contours not yet committed to the page. His gaze lingered briefly on the curve of her waist before returning to meet her own. "Mrs. Sinclair, hold that look. It speaks volumes without uttering a single word."

She couldn't help but wonder what story her eyes told him—was it one of a widowed woman rediscovering her wants, or the tale of a reserved heart secretly yearning for adventure? Her breath hitched at the thought, and she hoped that whatever narrative lay within her gaze, it was enough to imbue his artwork with a life of its own.

"Your expression... Would you allow me a moment of boldness?" He set his pencil down and approached, his movements deliberate. "I wish to capture not just the serenity but also the spark—that flicker of intelligence and wit I've glimpsed in our conversations."

For a heartbeat, she felt exposed, but then she remembered that here, she was not just Mrs. Sinclair, widow of a man who never truly saw her, she was a muse to an artist who sought to capture all she was and all she could be. With a nod, she granted him his request, her eyes alight with trust and a playful glint of mischief. "Like this?" she asked as she held his gaze and dared him to uncover every layer of her being.

"Exactly like that," he confirmed. Returning to his spot, Moses sketched with renewed fervor, lines flowing onto the page with unbridled enthusiasm, as if trying to keep pace with the revelations unfolding before him.

Then he placed his pencil behind his ear and again set down his book, a soft clatter against the silence that enveloped the room. His eyes remained upon Joy, studying her form with an intensity that made the air around them thrum with anticipation. Suddenly self-conscious under his penetrating gaze, she felt a blush creep across her cheekbones, her heart drumming a nervous rhythm.

"Mrs. Sinclair," he began in a low timbre that sent a shiver down her spine, "to truly capture the fervor of passion, I require a tableau vivant of ardor. Would you...?" He hesitated, the words hanging between them like a delicate tapestry.

"Would I what, Mr. Russell?"

"Animate your beauty," he said, closing the distance between them. "With your hands, coax out the ripples of pleasure. Touch your nipples to make them aroused."

The request surprised her, but it shouldn't have with all the permission she'd given him already. With a tentative hand, Joy reached for her breast, fingers brushing the silken skin before grasping her nipple, pinching gently. A gasp escaped her parted lips as a jolt of sensation shot through her, unlocking something primal within. "Like this?" Joy asked, her thoughts quivering with a mix of surprise and curiosity.

"Yes," he replied, his eyes capturing her every movement. "Allow yourself to explore, to feel."

Emboldened by his encouragement, Joy's touch became more daring, rolling the sensitive bud between her fingertips, each pulse of pleasure blooming deeper than the last. Her late husband had never awakened such sensations, had never fondled her breasts in his quick ruttings. The tingling warmth spread, unfurling like petals between her thighs, and she paused, breathless. "Mr. Russell," she managed to say, her eyes wide, "is that enough?"

He grunted in response, and his gaze lingered upon Joy's figure, the intensity of his stare both unsettling and profoundly personal, as though he touched her without laying a finger upon her flesh. The air between them seemed to thrum with unspoken understanding as his eyes traced the curve of her breasts, down the slope of her waist, then back up to meet her own gaze. The look in his eyes smoldered with a silent acknowledgment, and with a simple nod, he affirmed her question and continued his sketching.

The scratching sound of pencil against paper filled the room, a gentle rhythm that accompanied Joy's rising breaths. She watched him work, each stroke on the page a caress she felt upon her skin, and it dawned on her—the scars of her past were fading in this man's presence.

As this revelation settled within her, a warmth spread through her chest, chasing away the remnants of her insecurities. Lost in contemplation, her fingers wandered back to her breast, playing idly with her nipple, rediscovering the pleasure she had so recently discovered.

The graphite danced in Mr. Russell's hand as he rendered the final strokes upon the parchment. "Finished," he declared. He placed his pencil behind his ear and set the book aside.

She rose, not even thinking about the dressing gown on the floor, and crossed the space unselfconsciously to where the book lay open on the table. The paper was more detailed than she expected in the short time.

It wasn't the sensuous arch of her back or the soft roundness of her breast that captured Joy's attention, it was her face—her eyes alight with a fire she had not known they possessed. They were not the smoldering, licentious orbs she had seen in the sketches of other women that Mr. Russell had done. Her visage was imbued with a different kind of emotion—a pure, radiant yearning that seemed to reach beyond the confines of the page.

What was the difference between her and these other women? What was she lacking?

Joy turned to the artist. "The women in your other portraits...they appear so...wanton in their pleasures." She paused as she searched for the right words. "Yet you have sketched me with such...such innocence. Why?"

He regarded her, his eyes revealing nothing of the thoughts that lay behind them. For a moment, he seemed to weigh his words. "I drew what I saw. The difference is you, your enjoyment of your touch. They didn't stop when you did."

She tipped her head to one side. "I didn't enjoy it as much as they did?" She didn't understand.

He closed his eyes and sighed. "Your husband must have been a beast. Would you like me to show you?"

Her nipples tingled at the thought of him touching her. She bit her lower lip, then nodded. "Please."