never had close friends, and more casual acquaintances had dropped her after the idiotic elopment with Frederick had exiled her from respectable society. The members of her father's inner circle treated her with careless good nature, but only Lavinia and her honorary Uncle George were truly fond of her. To the others, she was merely Sir Anthony's eccentric daughter.
It had been the same with her father's previous secretaries. All had been polite and respectful, but she guessed they saw her as some kind of freak, a disgraceful painting female who must be tolerated as part of the job. No wonder she was susceptible to Kenneth's wholehearted attention.
Heaven knew they were very different, yet there was an unexpected empathy between them. Perhaps it was simply their aloneness. Certainly Kenneth could not be attracted to her; she wasn't the sort to inspire a man to unruly passion. Frederick had been in love with the idea of love, not with her.
A thought struck her. Kenneth's tension probably stemmed from his awareness that any sort of relationship with his employer's daughter was fraught with potential hazards. She shouldn't have insisted that he sit for her. Though she hadn't intended coercion, he'd probably felt he had no choice. It might have been better for them both if he had felt free to refuse. Yet she could not regret having him for a model.
Her pacing had brought her to the studio end of the attic. She picked up her sketchbook to study her drawings. Several were quite good, though well short of what she wanted to accomplish.
Slowly she paged through the sketches, wondering what would be the best way to capture his essence, the mingled qualities of warrior fierceness and sensitive observer. Perhaps she should paint the captain in his army uniform. She had a vague recollection that Riflemen wore dark green. That would be more interesting than the usual scarlet uniform, and the color would not dominate the canvas. She could show him after a battle, weary to the soul, yet unbroken.
Dissatisfied, she shook her head. Though it would be effective, such a picture belonged in her father's Waterloo series. It would not have quite the mythic quality she wanted.
That led her to imagine Kenneth in a mythic white toga. She smiled at the fanciful thought. Women often looked splendid in classical garments; the gowns of the French Revolution had been fashioned after antique clothing. However, the style did not suit modern men nearly so well.
She considered other possible compositions without finding one that seemed suitable. Then she flipped a page too far and unexpectedly found one of her falling woman sketches. Jolted by pain, she ripped the drawing out and threw it into the fire with a muttered oath. Kenneth Wilding might be a problem, but at least with him there was pleasure mingled with the pain.
----
Chapter 8
Kenneth woke gasping from a restless sleep. Nightmares again.
He'd always had an excellent visual memory. He could recall the exact colors of a sunset or sketch the face of someone he had seen for only a few minutes. Having looked at Rebecca's hand earlier, he could have drawn the pattern of lines if he wished. He'd thought his ability a blessing until he entered the army. It was far more pleasant to remember sunsets than battles.
The last image of Maria flared in his mind again. Stomach churning, he sat up and lit his bedside candle, forcing himself to think of other things. He visualized how Rebecca's eyes narrowed when she was studying an object. The hint of a dimple in her left cheek. Her delightfully free-spirited hair.
She was only ten feet away, on the other side of the wall.
As his pulse quickened, he acknowledged that thinking of her was not without its own kind of hazards. Still, arousal was far more pleasant than images of death and desolation.
Knowing he would not sleep again, Kenneth rose and quietly donned his worn robe. He would do some sketching; he'd learned very young that for him,
It had been the same with her father's previous secretaries. All had been polite and respectful, but she guessed they saw her as some kind of freak, a disgraceful painting female who must be tolerated as part of the job. No wonder she was susceptible to Kenneth's wholehearted attention.
Heaven knew they were very different, yet there was an unexpected empathy between them. Perhaps it was simply their aloneness. Certainly Kenneth could not be attracted to her; she wasn't the sort to inspire a man to unruly passion. Frederick had been in love with the idea of love, not with her.
A thought struck her. Kenneth's tension probably stemmed from his awareness that any sort of relationship with his employer's daughter was fraught with potential hazards. She shouldn't have insisted that he sit for her. Though she hadn't intended coercion, he'd probably felt he had no choice. It might have been better for them both if he had felt free to refuse. Yet she could not regret having him for a model.
Her pacing had brought her to the studio end of the attic. She picked up her sketchbook to study her drawings. Several were quite good, though well short of what she wanted to accomplish.
Slowly she paged through the sketches, wondering what would be the best way to capture his essence, the mingled qualities of warrior fierceness and sensitive observer. Perhaps she should paint the captain in his army uniform. She had a vague recollection that Riflemen wore dark green. That would be more interesting than the usual scarlet uniform, and the color would not dominate the canvas. She could show him after a battle, weary to the soul, yet unbroken.
Dissatisfied, she shook her head. Though it would be effective, such a picture belonged in her father's Waterloo series. It would not have quite the mythic quality she wanted.
That led her to imagine Kenneth in a mythic white toga. She smiled at the fanciful thought. Women often looked splendid in classical garments; the gowns of the French Revolution had been fashioned after antique clothing. However, the style did not suit modern men nearly so well.
She considered other possible compositions without finding one that seemed suitable. Then she flipped a page too far and unexpectedly found one of her falling woman sketches. Jolted by pain, she ripped the drawing out and threw it into the fire with a muttered oath. Kenneth Wilding might be a problem, but at least with him there was pleasure mingled with the pain.
----
Chapter 8
Kenneth woke gasping from a restless sleep. Nightmares again.
He'd always had an excellent visual memory. He could recall the exact colors of a sunset or sketch the face of someone he had seen for only a few minutes. Having looked at Rebecca's hand earlier, he could have drawn the pattern of lines if he wished. He'd thought his ability a blessing until he entered the army. It was far more pleasant to remember sunsets than battles.
The last image of Maria flared in his mind again. Stomach churning, he sat up and lit his bedside candle, forcing himself to think of other things. He visualized how Rebecca's eyes narrowed when she was studying an object. The hint of a dimple in her left cheek. Her delightfully free-spirited hair.
She was only ten feet away, on the other side of the wall.
As his pulse quickened, he acknowledged that thinking of her was not without its own kind of hazards. Still, arousal was far more pleasant than images of death and desolation.
Knowing he would not sleep again, Kenneth rose and quietly donned his worn robe. He would do some sketching; he'd learned very young that for him,
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