showing his dimple again. "So you have never had a living, breathing nude human form for you to sketch?"
"Of course not." She had wished to. But William had proved shy — or rather she had interpreted his reluctance as reticence. No doubt he had been afraid that something so tangible as a nude sketch of him might get him trapped into a marriage he evidently did not want. "It would not be proper."
He shook his head at her as if to reprove a recalcitrant child. "You are married to me, now. I would not object."
She struggled to strangle the scandalized gasp that emerged from her as she realized what he suggested. "I could not," she objected. Even as she did so, Helena thought of his body as she had explored it last night. She knew, with shame, that if she had been one whit weaker, she would already have sketched him from the memory of last night.
"Could not? Or will not?"
How did he know so well what tempted her to stray outside propriety? "Imagine what talk it would cause if anyone found out."
"What? That you had seen me without a stitch? I believe most everyone has guessed that you will have done so by now." He grinned. "We are married, Helena. I want an heir. Generally, clothing only gets in the way."
"Nonsense." She realized he was deliberately trying to scandalize her and sniffed with as much disdain as she could muster while he pressed against her so very tightly. "That is why nightdresses are thin, and lift easily."
He did not reply, merely threw his head back and laughed as if she had told a ribald joke. After a moment he stopped his laughter, with effort, and asked, "If no one were ever to know, would you wish to sketch a live nude?"
Again, Helena answered honestly. "Yes. But —" He touched her lips again, just briefly, to stop her words. "Very well then, I command it."
"You command it?"
"I am your husband." His look was imperious, and she knew suddenly that he could be a very good earl, if only he would give up his profligate ways.
He commanded her to sketch his nude form? So much for his promise to let her do as she pleased. But, as he said, he was her husband. "When it suits you, I suppose," she grumbled aloud.
"It suits me now." He grinned and tapped her sketchbook. "You have no choice, Wife. Your husband desires that you capture him in the nude."
She blushed at the image his words raised. "My lord ... "
"Am I not well made enough to grace your sketchbook?"
She thought of the shape of him beneath her fingers. As she had seen him in the early morning light. "You are well made," she conceded reluctantly.
"Then how can you refuse my offer and still consider yourself an artist?" He had such the air of a naughty child that she wanted to laugh at the image of Rand that popped unbidden to her mind: lying nude upon a white bearskin rug in a painting that would hang grandly over the parlor fireplace for all visitors to view. She might even have given in to the impulse to laugh, if she was not afraid that he meant it.
"A model needs to stay very still, for a long period of time, my lord. You would become bored."
"I think you are searching for any feeble excuse to avoid putting your talents to the test."
"I am not —"
"Tonight. I will be your model."
Rand had a physique to make David envious; she knew that well enough by now. To sketch him would be any artist's joy. Helena wanted to agree, but she was afraid. What if he did not like the drawing? "The light will be gone by the time we stop, take our supper, and retire."
He struck an absurd pose, his head thrust back and his hand in his vest. "I have always fancied a shadowy night view of myself in all my glory before I run to fat and dissipation."
It was difficult to imagine Rand with silver hair and a huge barrel belly. "I —" He leaned in to plant a kiss on her lips and then pulled back with a mischievous smile. "Consider it tonight's lesson."
Helena's will dissolved in one rush of breath.
"Very well." She wanted it. How could she object? She
"Of course not." She had wished to. But William had proved shy — or rather she had interpreted his reluctance as reticence. No doubt he had been afraid that something so tangible as a nude sketch of him might get him trapped into a marriage he evidently did not want. "It would not be proper."
He shook his head at her as if to reprove a recalcitrant child. "You are married to me, now. I would not object."
She struggled to strangle the scandalized gasp that emerged from her as she realized what he suggested. "I could not," she objected. Even as she did so, Helena thought of his body as she had explored it last night. She knew, with shame, that if she had been one whit weaker, she would already have sketched him from the memory of last night.
"Could not? Or will not?"
How did he know so well what tempted her to stray outside propriety? "Imagine what talk it would cause if anyone found out."
"What? That you had seen me without a stitch? I believe most everyone has guessed that you will have done so by now." He grinned. "We are married, Helena. I want an heir. Generally, clothing only gets in the way."
"Nonsense." She realized he was deliberately trying to scandalize her and sniffed with as much disdain as she could muster while he pressed against her so very tightly. "That is why nightdresses are thin, and lift easily."
He did not reply, merely threw his head back and laughed as if she had told a ribald joke. After a moment he stopped his laughter, with effort, and asked, "If no one were ever to know, would you wish to sketch a live nude?"
Again, Helena answered honestly. "Yes. But —" He touched her lips again, just briefly, to stop her words. "Very well then, I command it."
"You command it?"
"I am your husband." His look was imperious, and she knew suddenly that he could be a very good earl, if only he would give up his profligate ways.
He commanded her to sketch his nude form? So much for his promise to let her do as she pleased. But, as he said, he was her husband. "When it suits you, I suppose," she grumbled aloud.
"It suits me now." He grinned and tapped her sketchbook. "You have no choice, Wife. Your husband desires that you capture him in the nude."
She blushed at the image his words raised. "My lord ... "
"Am I not well made enough to grace your sketchbook?"
She thought of the shape of him beneath her fingers. As she had seen him in the early morning light. "You are well made," she conceded reluctantly.
"Then how can you refuse my offer and still consider yourself an artist?" He had such the air of a naughty child that she wanted to laugh at the image of Rand that popped unbidden to her mind: lying nude upon a white bearskin rug in a painting that would hang grandly over the parlor fireplace for all visitors to view. She might even have given in to the impulse to laugh, if she was not afraid that he meant it.
"A model needs to stay very still, for a long period of time, my lord. You would become bored."
"I think you are searching for any feeble excuse to avoid putting your talents to the test."
"I am not —"
"Tonight. I will be your model."
Rand had a physique to make David envious; she knew that well enough by now. To sketch him would be any artist's joy. Helena wanted to agree, but she was afraid. What if he did not like the drawing? "The light will be gone by the time we stop, take our supper, and retire."
He struck an absurd pose, his head thrust back and his hand in his vest. "I have always fancied a shadowy night view of myself in all my glory before I run to fat and dissipation."
It was difficult to imagine Rand with silver hair and a huge barrel belly. "I —" He leaned in to plant a kiss on her lips and then pulled back with a mischievous smile. "Consider it tonight's lesson."
Helena's will dissolved in one rush of breath.
"Very well." She wanted it. How could she object? She
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