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Smiling, Emily put the last picture aside, keen to find more. Instead, she spotted a thick, leather-bound sketchbook. Curious, she picked it up, opening a page at random.

It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing.

A woman sat cross-legged on a chair, staring directly out of the page with a wry half-smile on her face. Curls of dark hair fell around her shoulders. It was a simple line drawing, efficiently done.

But she was naked.Entirelynaked, with not a stitch on her.

Emily sucked in a breath.

Genteel ladies did not look at such paintings, not even the ones done by the old Masters. They avoided Grecian sculptures of male and female figures in a state of undress. Oh, male art students were able to view such things, but ladiesneverdid.

Her pulse pounded in her throat. She turned the page and found herself confronted by a similar image. This time, however, the naked figure was aman. He had wild curly red hair, and he was grinning, completely unabashed. Lean and wiry, he draped himself over a velvet chaise—she was fairly sure it was the chaise she had seen in the other room—and seemed entirely at ease.

Of course, one’s eye dropped at once to the mess of red hair between his legs.

Emily’s face burned. She turned the page hastily, but that wasworse.

Thatdrawing was of the young man and woman together, both sitting on the chaise—both naked—and hishandwas on herbreast. They were kissing—no, not quite kissing, but their lips were a hairsbreadth apart. It seemed so comfortable, so natural.

She turned the pages quickly and found herself faced with image after image, with the same couple, some finished and detailed, some little more than sketches.

“Oh dear,” Cassian murmured, his voice close to her ear. She flinched. “I see that you have stumbled upon some scenes of an unusual nature.”

“It is entirely inappropriate,” Emily managed. Her voice was a little strangled. “Whoisthis man?”

“I have no idea. And this sketchbook, by the way, is rather famous. It’s been here for years, and nobody is entirely sure who drew the pictures. We suspect that the artist is the rather comely young woman depicted in the previous page.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks. Emily found herself imaginingCassianleafing through the pages. What would he think of them? What would he think of thatwoman? Did he find her beautiful? Shewasbeautiful.

The heat remained inside her, tightening her chest and reddening her face. She could feel Cassian’s eyes on her, and they seemed to smolder.

“If you are not comfortable, I suggest you put the book down,” he said, almost gently. “If you’d like to return downstairs, I shall take you at once.”

“No,” Emily responded, a little surprised to hear herself say it. “I am an artist. I cannot be squeamish about the human body.”

“Why, do you intend to draw pictures like this?” Cassian asked, his voice rumbling with amusement.

“No, I think I should die of embarrassment,” Emily muttered. “But the artistisvery good.”

She turned to the last page, not daring to stop on it to investigate justhowtangled together the young man and woman were. She closed the book with a snap.

I could always look at it later, I suppose. For my artistic progress, of course.

“If you wish to see other depictions of the human body,” Cassian suggested kindly, “you ought to look at the old Masters’ paintings. I know ladies aren’t generally meant to look at such things, but I rather think you would learn a great deal from them. And practice, of course, is key.”

Emily turned, eyeing him curiously. In the gloomy room, with the flickering candlelight, odd shadows flitted over his face, giving him a curiously intense air.

Hungry.That was the word. There was hunger in his eyes when he looked at her. Emily had never seen a man look at her in that way before. Something inside her tightened, the heat intensifying as if her own body was trying to burn her up from the inside out.

“Practice,” she repeated, almost unconsciously. “I should like to practice, yes. In fact,Your Grace, I think I have already found my new subject.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How delightful. That is, after all, why I gave you that sketchbook. If you intend to paint the naked human body, I would suggest retiring to a private room.”

She flushed, heat building within her. “I wasn’t going to paint anybodynaked.”

“Ah. How disappointing.”

Emotions, of course, were crucial to a good painting. Emily could recall exactly how she felt for every single drawing and painting she had ever completed. It was rarelysimple, of course. There were often tangled emotions to sort through. The original sketch forWoman In The Window, for example, was drawn late at night, when she had felt particularly furious over something and believed that she would neverbeanything besides a wife and a mother.