Page 10

H e was three minutes late.

Not that she was counting. Evelyn put aside the pocket watch she had borrowed from Percy—well, not borrowed , taken without his knowledge or permission. But no matter, she had expected Percy to keep it properly wound.

So was it showing the correct time? Was Richard truly late?

Evelyn sighed as she sat in the chair in the center of her studio and tapped her pencil against her thigh.

Late. Late!

Precisely why it mattered that he was late, she was trying not to investigate. The need to see him, the aching disappointment that he had not been waiting as usual outside her art studio—apparently, he was too respectful to enter without her permission—was most acute.

Where was Richard?

It was because she wanted to be painting again. That was it, Evelyn tried to convince herself. It had nothing to do with the man in question. She was almost certain she would be this eager, whoever her model was.

No, she could not even lie to herself.

Evelyn sighed, rose from the seat, and peered out of a window once again. Once again, the view to the house did not reveal a waiting Richard.

It was most inconvenient. Here she was, hoping to continue on with the study of his arms, and he was not—

“I do apologize for being late,” said Richard hastily, stepping through the hurriedly opened door. “A carriage overturned on the street and it was impossible to get through the crowd of onlookers. I had to double back and go around.”

Evelyn smiled broadly—then remembered she should probably not be grinning broadly at a man. Any man. Though should she have been chastising herself for that when she knew she ought not to be alone with a man, either?

She most certainly should never have asked to see one nude, whatever her justifications.

Evelyn had wrestled most excessively with herself about that.

There was no way any of the servants aware of what she was up to imagined she would be quite so bold.

If anyone in her father’s employ had ever discovered such a scene, they’d have been honor-bound to report it to her parents—and she’d have been lucky if the gossip didn’t spread to half the town within hours.

She knew the potential consequences, so she’d almost avoided making the request until it had sprung from her lips at last, most unbidden.

Evelyn had been unable to help herself in his presence. That form, teasing her from beneath the layers of clothing. She swallowed.

Swiftly nodding and stepping to her canvas, she busied herself with selecting a pencil to continue on with her drawing.

She did not need to instruct Richard. He knew now to remove his jacket and waistcoat, roll up his sleeves, and adopt the exact same position as last time.

The question was, would she ever attempt to convince him to actually take off his shirt?

Heat blossomed in Evelyn at the mere thought. It is for my art , she told herself sternly in the privacy of her own mind. It wasn’t because she wanted to see what was beneath that layer of linen!

Well. She did.

But for artistic purposes!

His arms truly were very fine. In fact, Evelyn did not believe she had ever seen forearms quite like them. Strong, and muscular, with a thin scar on one side.

Here was a man, she was quite sure, who had worked with his body for a living. This was not the sort of man who sat as a clerk or used his brain to earn his keep. The question was, what precisely did he do?

No . Evelyn stopped herself before her lips could form the question.

It would be far more suitable if she did not know anything more about the man who sat before her. No entanglements. No pretensions to friendship.

She picked up her pencil and returned to where she had left off two days ago: the particular curve of his right sleeve against his arm as he’d rested his hand on the edge of the chair.

Evelyn swiftly lost herself in the careful movements of pencil across paper. The delicate shadow—it was a very difficult thing to attempt. Her concentration narrowed until the only thing in the world was her pencil and the paper and the arm.

And she reached a point where she needed more. More. More .

“Push up your sleeve,” she said distractedly, attempting to darken the shading.

“No.”

“This isn’t actually a debate,” Evelyn said vaguely, tilting her head slightly as she moved her gaze from real arm to drawn arm. Had she managed to get that part right?

It was only a few minutes later when she realized her decree had not been obeyed.

Evelyn blinked. The world rushed in on her, reminding her she was standing before an easel, in an art studio, in the world. And there was a man there. And he was not following orders.

“I said—”

“I know what you said, and I know what I said,” murmured Richard, not taking his eyes from her. “I am not rolling up my sleeve.”

Evelyn bit her lip as she examined him.

Why on earth was the man so reticent? It wasn’t as though he wasn’t beautiful. Surely, he knew what a fine specimen he was. Surely, he realized there would be no judgment from her even if he were not. She was here to draw, not appraise.

She sighed, placing a hand on her hip as she studied him. “I asked you to take all your clothes off when you first arrived.”

“And you suggested a compromise,” Richard pointed out.

“I did not make any promises that the compromise would suit forever,” Evelyn said sternly. That was what she was supposed to do, wasn’t she? She was the artist. He was the model. Wasn’t he supposed to succumb to her every whim? “Please. I need to draw the rest of your arm.”

He flinched, and Evelyn wondered if it was mere shyness preventing Richard from removing that item of clothing. But shyness… regarding what? Where did this discomfort with his own body come from?

“I will take my shirt off,” he said quietly, “if, and only if, you close your eyes while I do so.”

Evelyn’s aforementioned eyes widened.

Close her eyes? What on earth for?

If it had been any other man, she would have been worried. Why, a man could do a great deal in a few moments if a woman’s eyes were shut. What if he… Oh, she didn’t know. Stole paint?

Evelyn could not think of anything else dastardly he could do, now she came to consider it.

Besides, he had knocked over enough paint to have sufficiently stolen from her, worse luck.

It was going to mean she would have to ask her father for an advance on her June and July pin money. He wasn’t going to like that.

Richard’s gaze was steady, and it was obvious he was not going to budge.

Evelyn sighed and threw up her hands. “Fine! Fine, though I do this in protest. It is most ridiculous.”

“It is my only term.”

“And I am agreeing, preposterous though I think it is,” Evelyn said wryly. “Go on, then.”

She closed her eyes.

Only then did she realize just how vulnerable it made her. Her most important sense, gone, just as she heard Richard rise to his feet.

He isn’t… He won’t come over to me, will he?

Was such a situation not precisely what a chaperone’s presence was supposed to prevent?

But a chaperone would have changed her art. A chaperone would have been a barrier, causing both Richard and her to stiffen, to bow to convention, to remain at arm’s length and remain polite.

A chaperone’s presence would have muted her beating heart.

Her lungs tightened as something spread through her at the thought. It wasn’t dread, but desire.

Which is ridiculous , Evelyn told herself silently as she listened to the rustle of linen and the sudden drop of his shirt to the floor and the creak of the chair as Richard settled back into it. She did not desire Richard. She… She admired him. As an object of study. Nothing more.

“You can open your eyes now.”

Evelyn opened her eyes—and gasped.

Well, now she knew why Richard had not wished to remove his shirt.

Scars. Scars blossomed over him and along his upper arms, scars that had once been flame. The puckered, taut, shiny skin looked healed enough, but it had clearly not been long since Richard had been in a fire.

Tears prickled the corners of her eyes. Such pain, such agony he must have endured. And here she was, demanding he remove his shirt just to draw his arm.

“I—I…” she breathed.

Richard met her eyes and there was harshness there, and iron, and a determination not to be pitied.

Evelyn swallowed. “You can put your shirt back on, if you wish.”

“You asked me to take it off, and I agreed,” Richard said in a low, level voice. “Draw.”

Almost stumbling as she returned to her canvas, Evelyn blinked back tears. The man had clearly suffered. Perhaps he worked at the docks—there were frequently fires there—or perhaps he had rushed into a burning building to save someone. Someone he loved.

Evelyn’s stomach swooped as the thought occurred to her. She had purposefully not asked any questions. Knowing more about the subject before her would distract her hand, make her think about the man instead of the art.

Only now did she regret that decision. Was he married? Had he been married, perhaps, and lost his wife in a fire?

So many possibilities, so many questions, all swirling about in her mind. Only after Richard cleared his throat did Evelyn realize she had not brought pencil to paper in quite some time.

“I have distressed you,” he said gruffly.

“No!” Evelyn stepped out from behind her canvas and hastily shook her head. “No, I-I was surprised. I am sorry, that you have suffered so.”

Richard’s gaze was steady as it met hers. “It is of no matter.”

“If you were in pain, then it matters,” Evelyn said fiercely, sounding almost like her sister in her vehemence. “I am sorry for that. I am grateful you chose to reveal yourself to me.”

“You ask no questions.”

“I told you, I want to know as little about you as possible,” said Evelyn quietly. “And if you wish to tell me, you will.”

He wouldn’t. She could sense it in the air. She did not need to catch his eyes to know.

“Besides, it will be a sad tale,” she added. “Something like a forgotten candle, or a fallen curtain, or something like that.”