She was still unnerved by his presence. By the wedding she had not managed to escape.
When they had been led to the room by a maid, she had tried to pretend she was too tired to work, just as she had every night they traveled. He smiled, remembering the first night he had insisted she sketch him. How she stared at him with wide eyes, clutching her sketchbook in her hand and darting looks about the room as if wondering where her escape might be.
He had forestalled her delay by peeling off his waistcoat and asking, "Where should I pose?"
"In the chair?" She had pointed to a rather uncomfortable-looking easy chair perched by the fire, no doubt hoping that he would agree and she could once again suggest postponing the session.
He had thrown himself onto the four-poster, arms wide. "How about the bed?"
The scandalized look in her eye suggested she was about to make an objection to his boots on the bed linens, when she blushed, subsided, and said in a small voice, "Very well."
He had propped his arms beneath his head and stared at her.
For a moment she looked as if she might object, but then she settled herself in the chair she had first meant for him, and found a clean sheet of paper to draw upon. And she laid pen to paper.
She would have drawn him as he was; he was certain of it. But that had not suited his plans. So he had risen from the bed and come to stand over her. She held the pen inches from the paper and regarded him with curiosity. "Yes?"
"I am supposed to be nude," he had reminded her. Not that he thought she had forgotten.
Her excuse was the most feeble possible. "I thought you had changed your mind."
You hoped I had changed my mind, he thought, but did not say aloud. "I was waiting for you to undress me, as you did last night." She had done so that night without further protest. And every night since, as well.
She had blushed to her neckline, and no doubt beyond, each night. Each time she did he had the urge to peel away her clothing piece by piece and see for himself just exactly how far down her flush carried.
Prudence dictated that he save such a delightful experiment for a time when she had grown used to him — at least, a little more used to him. Could that time be tonight?
He shifted, uncomfortably aroused at the thought of making love to his wife. Tonight. He glanced at her. Had she noticed his arousal? She had posed him so that one bent leg obscured her view of that part of him. Still, she was an artist and noticed little details. Not that he was little. Surely she had to have noticed. He shifted again.
Helena made her inarticulate sound that meant he should not move and, without looking up, tucked a stray wisp of her hair behind her ear.
Suddenly feeling no more important than her tiny replica of David, he allowed his annoyance to show in his tone. "I have an itch."
Her voice sounded rusty, as if it came reluctantly from some deep well. "Don't move." Still she did not look up.
The trouble with modeling nude was that he had no boot or pocket watch to throw at her to break the spell her work put upon her. "Come and scratch for me, then."
"Mmm." Her pencil scratched at a rapid rate, She paused, frowning at the page.
"I need you to scratch my itch," he said, as loudly as he could without bringing the landlord and a dozen concerned maids to the room.
At last, she looked up. The spell had been broken. But the woman herself was left highly annoyed with him. "Can't you do it yourself?"
"I can't reach," he lied. He thought of a way to find out if he would be making love to his wife tonight or not, now that he had her full attention. "And since you are indisposed and I am forced to suffer the pangs of unrequited lust—" Her glance spent only a moment at his groin, but it was enough to tell him that she was not oblivious to the meaning of his words. Good. Perhaps she would suffer some guilt. He continued as if he had not noticed where her glance had gone. "It seems only fair that you do me that
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