Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Emmaline stared with fascination at the arresting male specimen before her as the most ridiculous words in all of Christendom fell from her lips.

“Where shall I have you?

She was innocent but not ignorant, for heaven’s sake.

Heat rose in her cheeks as Emmaline snapped her mouth shut, but it was far too late. Blast her tongue, it was always getting her into trouble of some sort. She had an annoying habit of losing her good sense when she was nervous.

Lord Seton paused mid stride at the words, glancing at her before moving forward again, and Emmaline swore she saw the faintest hint of a smile curve the corner of his sensuously shaped mouth.

No, it must be her imagination. There was no way that a man such as he, with his serious, almost sombre expression, had an iota of humour in that lean, lithe body.

The lord stepped up onto the dais that had been erected and draped elaborately for the portrait, elegantly lowering himself onto the couch and crossing his legs in a nonchalant manner that did funny things to her belly.

Some low, fluttery feeling like a buzzing sensation inside of her that Emmaline was sure she had read about in the illicit novels she smuggled up to her bed chamber.

Her father did not approve of romantic fantasies. Those were for others, people who did not need to worry about putting food on the table.

Shaking herself out of the stupor, Emmaline took a deep breath and surveyed her subject in all his glory.

Squinting slightly, to separate the shadows from the light, she observed the narrow planes of his face, almost wolfish, his blue eyes were hooded but slightly slanted. His wardrobe was pristine black - black superfine jacket, waistcoat, black pantaloons and footwear. It was broken only by the snowy perfection of his shirt and intricately knotted cravat, topped by the fashionably tousled dark blond hair that fell across his brow.

From the light catching the crown of his head to the manicured tips of his fingers Lord Seton was a perfect specimen of male power.

It was one of the many luxuries Emmaline enjoyed about painting portraits, the opportunity to stare unabashedly at people. People, of all kinds and classes, fascinated her. Never was there a face that did not offer some small unique quality that did not cry out for her to sketch it down quickly, gathering faces and features with her pen or charcoal as selfishly as a child hoarding sweet candy.

The lord cleared his throat, then again, more loudly, and Emmaline started on her chair, smiling with embarrassment as her hand started to move across the canvas, the brush tracing wash lines across the surface with light, energetic movements.

She squinted at the lines and tones already laid down, noting the inconsistencies and shaky lines of her father’s hand. More and more he was leaving her to do the bulk of the work. They were trading on his name alone at this point, as he had not finished a painting start to finish in more than a year.

Lord Seton looked steadily back at her as she worked, and Emmaline felt herself grow hot under his view. Her gaze flicked up to his on more than one occasion to gauge what she could see there. His eyes were a startling clear blue framed with thick dark lashes, and they flashed with something that made Emmaline squirm in her seat.

She needed to change the atmosphere, it was getting too hard to concentrate, her hand wavering unsteadily as it picked up some fresh paint with the brush.

Her tongue took control once again. “You look like a Puritan, My Lord,” said Emmaline with a daring tilt of her head. “Surely your valet despairs at the austere palette of your dress. He must long for a brightly coloured waistcoat.”

The lord narrowed his gaze and cleared his throat, eyes running from her head to the tips of her toes where her plain calfskin half-boots peeked out from under her hems.

“And you, my dear, look like a sensible young woman. It seems we must both be wrong.”

For a moment they just stared at each other, taking the other’s measure, and then Emmaline began to paint again, tracing the angular line of his jaw slowly with the tip of her brush. “Brummel himself would approve, I suppose, that style of knot is very complex. Your valet must be much sought after.”

“I wouldn’t know, you would have to ask the man. It is what I pay him for.”

“You do not like fashion?” Emmaline could feel two high spots of colour blooming on her cheeks at her boldness to speak in such a manner.

The man seemed almost confused for a moment, blinking at her in a perplexed manner that made Emmaline bite back a smile.

“I have more important things to think about than the colour of my waistcoat,” Lord Seton muttered, adjusting said garment and shifting on his chair.

“Such as?” prompted Emmaline, sitting forward and listening with half an ear as the man finally relaxed and allowed her to see him properly. The natural tilt of his head, the concentration of his gaze and the coiled energy that radiated off him.

And so the conversation finally started, Emmaline offering the odd soft word of encouragement as Lord Seton launched into a discussion about the finer points of popular politics and the crown.

The change in light as the afternoon drew near was her cue to put down her brush, standing up slowly as her feet remembered how to hold her weight.

“Thank you, My Lord,” Emmaline said as she untied her apron, pulling it away from her dress briskly, but taking her fichu with it. As the lacy scrap of fabric floated to the ground, Emmaline gasped and instinctively bent to snatch it up, standing up again with her cheeks flushed and quickly turning and tucking it back around her chest.

When she looked up again, Lord Seton was staring at her in a strained manner. He nodded to her, carefully looking away from her person to rise and stalk out of the room in a brusque manner that belied the pleasant afternoon they had spent together.

Apparently, she had managed to upset the man with her clumsiness. Although that did not feel quite right.

“Well I never,” muttered Emmaline, gathering up her sketchbook and making her way to the hallway.

There was a room assigned to her in this vast house, and after such a trying morning she intended to find it. And order a bath. And food. And sweets, too, purely because the man had not even said good afternoon before he quit the room.