The Stepsister's Triumph by Darcie Wilde Page A

pausing for reply, or breath. Madelene was grateful. She didn’t trust her voice. Her heart was hammering so hard beneath her breasts, she could almost believe it was that sound that made Benedict open the door rather than his landlady’s knock.
    â€œGood morning, Miss Valmeyer.” Benedict bowed. Madelene curtsied. “Will you come take your place, please?” Lord Benedict gestured Madelene forward as impersonally as if he’d been a footman in a great house.
    Madelene told herself she had no business being disappointed at this brisk, efficient reception. She wanted to know the truth of matters between them. Here, surely, was her answer. She was the source of his latest commission, nothing more and nothing less.
    Madelene kept her eyes fixed straight ahead of her as she walked through the studio to the little stage. The rush-bottomed chair was still at its same angle. This time, though, the flowers had been set on a smaller stool in front of it, with two lengths of butcher’s twine tied around the pot.
    â€œIf you’ll just take these.” Benedict picked up the strings and held them out to her, at arm’s length.
He doesn’t want us to touch
, she thought.
    â€œWhy?” she asked him aloud and in her own thoughts.
    â€œAs I told you during our last session, you are to be Selene in her chariot. These”—he shook the strings—“are your reins. Hands are among the most difficult pieces of the human form to recreate, so it helps if they can be seen in the correct pose.”
    â€œOh.” Feeling mildly silly, Madelene seated herself and took up the strings. Benedict positioned himself behind his easel, selected a fresh pencil, and began to draw.
    This time, Madelene vowed, she would keep her mouth closed and her eyes fixed on the proper point. She would meditate on Helene’s growing guest list for the ball and on the results of the latest fitting. She would look forward to Cousin Henry’s visit to No. 48 and the dance and deportment lessons he’d promised. She would think about the season, about anything and everything except Lord Benedict. She was resolved. If,
if
, he felt anything for her, it was up to him to make it known clearly this time, not with any muddled words or confusing behavior.
    So far, all Benedict was making clear was that any such feelings, if they had ever existed, had now been brought fully under control. He was on the other side of his easel, and she was here, holding two strings and looking at primroses. If she dared to push or probe for any hint of what she thought she’d seen or heard before, she would only succeed in making herself ridiculous. That she must not do under any circumstances. Therefore, she must not bring up the last session. She certainly must not feed her over-heated imagination by looking at him, no matter how beguiling he appeared with that one unruly lock of hair falling down across his shoulder.
    She wondered what it would be like to draw her fingers through his hair and feel the warm strands slide across her skin. He was imperfectly shaven this morning, she noted. His jaw would be rough to the touch. And his hands . . .
    â€œMiss Valmeyer? The flowers, if you please.”
    Benedict’s words grated harshly against her ears. Madelene blushed furiously.
What’s the matter with me? Why can’t I behave like a grown woman for even five minutes? I have people depending on me. I can’t waste the money we’re paying or court any kind of scandal.
    Madelene stared at the flowers on their stool. She thought about how the sunlight was warm and pleasant against her face. She and the other girls might go out for a walk later. Helene was very much in favor of venturing into Hyde Park during the fashionable hour. She maintained that the practice at being out among people did Madelene good, and besides, she got some of her best ideas while walking. That was where the idea for the afternoon