Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Benedict was late to the ballroom for their morning painting session the next day.

For an hour Emmaline fretted over his delay, her mind buzzing with all the possible reasons for this unusual change in routine.

He was never late, for anything. It was one of the first things she had noticed about Lord Seton, his punctuality. His need for order and to abide by his schedule had seemed slightly too rigid for someone of his station, who could do what he liked, when he liked.

The world waited on him, and other men like him. Not the other way around. But always, he was checking his timepiece.

Emmaline heard the notes of the hall clock even now, tolling the new hour with a dour, dull chime that sent a wave of dizziness through her.

Feeling faint, Emmaline sat down on the stool, cradling her head in her hands. Caring not if she disturbed the carefully coiled chignon she had taken the time to arrange this morning.

It had felt foolish, choosing her prettiest dress of pale lavender, fixing her hair and pinching colour into her cheeks since she had been pale with nerves. But Emmaline had so wanted to make a good impression in the light of the new day, knowing not what Benedict thought about their midnight tryst.

She would wait for the whole morning if that was what it took. She had no other recourse. This painting was her only purpose for being there.

It had not seemed that way last night, her traitorous inner voice reminded her. When Benedict had told her she was clever, and beautiful and all the other sweet words that she had not even understood.

Was that why he was late? Was he having second thoughts about their late-night liaison?

Emmaline nibbled nervously on a fingernail, staring unseeing across the extravagantly appointed ballroom.

That was surely the reason. He would discard her now, it seemed inevitable.

Her heart raced with panic, palms growing damp as her chest constricted.

She did not want it to be true. Emmaline wanted to believe that the moment they had shared last night had been real. The pleasure, the connection, had felt like more than just physical desire.

She was tired, she told herself sternly. Becoming overwrought.

Taking some long, deep breaths, Emmaline tried to soothe her panic. Instinctively she picked up a brush, choosing a badger hair blender then dipping the bristles into a pool of vermilion pigment and starting to smooth the tones depicting the silk hangings behind the couch.

The man might not be there, but there was a lot of detail lacking in the background of the painting. Highlights and embellishments. She lost herself in the work, letting her hands and talent take charge while her mind thankfully went blank.

Another hour must have passed, for the sound of the clock again interrupted her reverie, growing louder as the door to the room finally opened.

A footman wheeled in a trolley, coming to a stop beside her.

Emmaline blinked at this strange occurrence, then felt her gaze drawn to the door again, where Benedict was finally making his appearance.

He walked into the room looking as pristine as she had ever seen him. His long, lean legs ate up the floor as he strode towards her.

The footman had laid out a tea service and revealed a plate of lemon tea cake, cream and sandwiches on the trolley.

Lord Seton dismissed him with a wave and a nod, standing as still as a statue until the man had closed the door behind him, leaving them alone.

Benedict cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair somewhat agitatedly. He indicated the trolley parked beside her workstation.

“You missed your tea this morning, my apologies. The staff told me this was your favourite.”

Emmaline blinked at the repast in confusion, then up at the man who had touched her with such passion in the dark of the night before.

He thought she wanted tea? The impulsive urge to laugh was so strong, that she had to cover her mouth and avert her eyes.

Was this the same man, had she imagined the whole thing?

“You are late this morning,” she managed to murmur, the unspoken question hanging in the air between them.

Looking at him, she could still feel his kisses on her mouth, his hands on her skin. She burned for him to touch her again, for him to look at her and see her for who she was.

Her very heart hung there too, only Emmaline was the only one who knew that.

Benedict stepped up close, looking down at her as she sat, breathless, staring up at him.

He reached out and picked up her rag, leaning close as he gripped her chin and tilted her face towards him. Taking the cloth, he gently wiped at something on her cheek and Emmaline realised she must have paint smudged there.

She must look like an urchin. A dishevelled, paint-stained raggamuffin not fit to be in his presence.

“And you look beautiful, as you always do,” said Benedict in a low tone, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His gaze blatantly dropped to her mouth as Emmaline felt her stomach flip with desire, her chest heaving to draw breath past the lump of hope that lodged in her throat.

He still thought her beautiful.

He turned and walked to the dias, stepping up and settling himself on the settee where he had so thoroughly ravished her.

“I am sorry for making you wait, I had to attend to something important. Do you still want to continue with our session?”

“Umm, yes, of course,” Emmaline stammered, seating herself quickly and picking up the paintbrush in confusion.

She hid her face behind the canvas and frowned, utterly confused.

Was this what he wanted, for them to pretend like nothing had happened?

Emmaline sniffed in misery and then raised her chin, steadying herself against the disappointment that flared in her chest.

Very well, she would pretend the same. She could be a professional.

Lord Seton would never know her true feelings, or how much he had hurt them.