criticized her exquisite body nearly cost him the ruse. It was all he could do to suppress a laugh. She was absolutely livid at the comment. How she could possibly believe her image wouldn’t give rise to a eunuch’s manhood was beyond him. Women! He’d gotten the answer he’d been seeking. The adorable little hypocrite wouldn’t dream of posing naked for him, yet she’d turned pea-green with envy at the thought of another doing so. That gave him hope that at least the attraction was mutual. It fed fuel to his own fantasy that somewhere in his own imperfect time, he’d found a woman without guile whomight even be tempted to love him for who he was—sans the wolf that lurked just beneath the surface, ready to devour his newfound hope with one ravenous chomp. For that brief space of stolen time, like an oasis in the midst of a parching desert, it was a pleasant fiction.
Giles only half-expected Tessa to come to the solarium after nuncheon, and he was visibly surprised when she did just that. It was an awkward moment when he turned to find her standing on the threshold. The gentle rap of her knuckles on the seasoned wood of the open doorframe spun him toward her.
He strode at once to her side and, taking her elbow, led her into the room. He’d repositioned the easel facing the lounge and gestured toward the canvas. “I would like you to recline on the chaise thus,” he said, pointing to the model’s position with the handle of the paintbrush he’d been using when she entered, “…with your hands just so.”
He handed her the hourglass and motioned her toward the lounge. Once she had reclined there, he gestured toward her hair. “May I?” he asked, waiting. Handing her the hourglass was a stroke of genius. He would give anything to feel that wonderful hair again, to let its soft, fragrant silkiness spill down over his hands. She would have to give the glass back to him, if she were to take the hair down herself. Since his fingers were at the ready, poised over the tortoiseshell hairpins, he hoped she would allow him. For a moment she hesitated, then nodded permission, and he withdrew the pins. “Thank you,” he said, slipping the hairpins into the pocket of his buckskins. “I just need to arrange it as I have it begun on the canvas. It won’t take but a minute.”
Giles suppressed the breathless moan that lived in his throat as her hair slid through his fingers. How he longed to scoop up handfuls of that luxurious hair, pressit to his nose, and inhale the sweet scent of wildflowers drifting toward him from it until it filled his senses. He wished he’d tossed back a couple gulps of brandy earlier. That might have blunted the edges of desire that gripped him now. Something else was gripping him as well, the pull of the un-risen moon. If it was so strong before dark, what would it be when the sun set and the full moon rose over the patchwork hills, over the Abbey? When would he lose consciousness? When would the nightmare begin? He had no way of knowing, for he had no memory of any of that from the last time the moon rose full in the indigo vault above and drove him naked onto the moor. He couldn’t think about that now. Moonrise was still a few hours off, and he was facing The Bride of Time in all her radiant glory. Tessa LaPrelle had bewitched him. She had cast a glamour over him, arriving in the dead of night out of nowhere with naught but the clothes on her back; a lady of mystery. It suddenly occurred to him that she knew all about him, but he knew virtually nothing about her.
Having lingered over her hair as long as he dared, Giles captured her hands and positioned them in the proper attitude holding the hourglass. “Perfect,” he said, backing away for a panoramic view. “Place your left hand under the glass…That’s it; now caress it with your right, but let the sand show…There! That’s it. Hold that if you will. Tell me when you tire, and you can rest. I shouldn’t want to wear you out
Giles only half-expected Tessa to come to the solarium after nuncheon, and he was visibly surprised when she did just that. It was an awkward moment when he turned to find her standing on the threshold. The gentle rap of her knuckles on the seasoned wood of the open doorframe spun him toward her.
He strode at once to her side and, taking her elbow, led her into the room. He’d repositioned the easel facing the lounge and gestured toward the canvas. “I would like you to recline on the chaise thus,” he said, pointing to the model’s position with the handle of the paintbrush he’d been using when she entered, “…with your hands just so.”
He handed her the hourglass and motioned her toward the lounge. Once she had reclined there, he gestured toward her hair. “May I?” he asked, waiting. Handing her the hourglass was a stroke of genius. He would give anything to feel that wonderful hair again, to let its soft, fragrant silkiness spill down over his hands. She would have to give the glass back to him, if she were to take the hair down herself. Since his fingers were at the ready, poised over the tortoiseshell hairpins, he hoped she would allow him. For a moment she hesitated, then nodded permission, and he withdrew the pins. “Thank you,” he said, slipping the hairpins into the pocket of his buckskins. “I just need to arrange it as I have it begun on the canvas. It won’t take but a minute.”
Giles suppressed the breathless moan that lived in his throat as her hair slid through his fingers. How he longed to scoop up handfuls of that luxurious hair, pressit to his nose, and inhale the sweet scent of wildflowers drifting toward him from it until it filled his senses. He wished he’d tossed back a couple gulps of brandy earlier. That might have blunted the edges of desire that gripped him now. Something else was gripping him as well, the pull of the un-risen moon. If it was so strong before dark, what would it be when the sun set and the full moon rose over the patchwork hills, over the Abbey? When would he lose consciousness? When would the nightmare begin? He had no way of knowing, for he had no memory of any of that from the last time the moon rose full in the indigo vault above and drove him naked onto the moor. He couldn’t think about that now. Moonrise was still a few hours off, and he was facing The Bride of Time in all her radiant glory. Tessa LaPrelle had bewitched him. She had cast a glamour over him, arriving in the dead of night out of nowhere with naught but the clothes on her back; a lady of mystery. It suddenly occurred to him that she knew all about him, but he knew virtually nothing about her.
Having lingered over her hair as long as he dared, Giles captured her hands and positioned them in the proper attitude holding the hourglass. “Perfect,” he said, backing away for a panoramic view. “Place your left hand under the glass…That’s it; now caress it with your right, but let the sand show…There! That’s it. Hold that if you will. Tell me when you tire, and you can rest. I shouldn’t want to wear you out
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