Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Painting Lord Seton had become an exercise in control for Emmaline.

There was just something sensual in the act of tracing his form on the canvas, each slow drag of the brush describing the masculine contours before her in a language only she could understand.

Sometimes they spoke, sometimes they sat the whole day in silence, but always Emmaline was thinking.

For heaven’s sake could she please just stop thinking?

Thinking about the tone of his voice, the veins that lined the back of his hands, the way he clenched his jaw when he was deep in contemplation. All the details that one noticed if they spent hours examining a person.

The worst was the feeling that she was growing to know him. That was the most dangerous.

Emmaline had to constantly remind herself that although he might be telling her stories of his boyhood, his sister or details from his day, he was not opening up to her in actual truth.

He was merely bored.

Emmaline had worked on being easy to talk to, she had some practice in making her clients comfortable. That was all.

Anything to bring her down from the clouds and ground her in reality.

He was a Viscount, a peer of the realm. She was just a lowborn woman who was painting his portrait.

She was working .

Emmaline looked down at her hands and grimaced at the sight. That was a reminder enough of the divide between them. Her hands were calloused from holding the brushes and constant cleaning with turpentine. Her nails were a travesty, and paint was perpetually embedded in her cuticles.

These were not the hands of a gently bred lady. She would never be anything but plain, practical Emmaline.

Just at that moment, a lady walked into the ballroom, a vision in white ruffled muslin. She was blonde and pretty, her cheeks glowing with health and her eyes sparkling with good humour.

The woman waltzed up to Benedict and stepped up to the diaz, bussing his cheek affectionately as she greeted him.

Looking between them Emmaline noticed a resemblance, they must be related.

It was chastening how relieved she felt at the realisation.

Viscount Seton stood up and led the lady over to where Emmaline was seated before the canvas.

Emmaline jumped up and stepped back with a bow of her head, giving them space to view the progress of the work as she tried to inconspicuously clean her hands on an oil-stained rag.

But Lord Seton walked straight past the painting to Emmaline with a smile that almost stole her breath, her hands paused mid-wipe.

“Miss Winters, this is my sister, the Countess of Windham. Honora this is Miss Winters, she is a most accomplished artist.”

Emmaline blushed shyly as she bobbed a curtsy for the lady, quickly hiding her hands behind her skirt and murmuring her greetings and thanks while the pair smiled at her most confusingly.

It felt like she spent most of her days here with her cheeks flushed. It was mortifying.

Lady Windham turned to the painting and exclaimed in delight, gushing over the details to Lord Seton as Emmaline gratefully stepped back from the unusual attention.

After a moment, Benedict excused himself and left the room. Lady Windham turned to Emmaline and engaged her in the finer details of painting technique, surprising Emmaline with her knowledge of the subject.

Within minutes, they were chatting away, and Emmaline was bemused to discover that she rather liked Lady Windham.

“Miss Winters, I am so enjoying your company,” said Lady Windham, running her fingers along the cover of Emmaline’s sketchbook and then impulsively picking it up and flicking through the pages. “Oh, good heavens!” the lady laughed, opening the page to a sketch of Lord Seton’s profile, a stern expression on his face.

“This is just the most perfect depiction of Benedict I have ever seen,” she exclaimed, flicking through all the other sketches Emmaline had done from various angles. “He is always far too serious in any situation. He does not know how to relax at all.”

She leaned close in a conspiratorial manner, checking quickly that they were still alone. “I also like to dabble at portraits, I must show you my sketches of Benedict, especially those in his parliamentary finery. He always carries himself so superior, it's terribly amusing.”

Emmaline smiled at the Lady’s good humour, feeling a bit uncertain about her familiarity.

She took Emmaline’s hand, squeezing it quickly. “You must call me Honora, I feel like we could be great friends. And I could call you…?”

“Emmaline…” answered Emmaline with surprise. “Of course, you must call me Emmaline.”

“What a lovely name, it suits you perfectly!” Lady Honora put her hand to her stomach, flashing Emmaline a smile that she had only seen on women in a certain condition.

“I am expecting. I know you can’t tell quite yet, but I am. Do you think you would be able to do a painting of me for my husband? I know he would love your work.”

“I am sure my father would-”

“Oh, no, I want you to do it, my dear Emmaline. This is something only another woman would truly only be able to capture, and look at your skill. Please?”

Emmaline smiled shyly, bopping a quick curtsy in happiness. “Of course, Lady Windham. I would be honoured.”

“Honora, my dear,” she said with a delighted clap of her hands.

“Yes, thank you, Lady Honora.”

At that moment Lord Seton strolled back into the room, and Lady Windham called for a chair to be arranged for her beside Emmaline while Lord Seton settled himself for his sitting.

The rest of the morning seemed to pass in a blur as Lady Windham talked Emmaline’s ear off while she painted.

It was such a pleasant time, Emmaline was almost disappointed when it was time to pack up for the day.