Page 6

Evelyn sighed. Lucy did, too— more’s the pity. To her parents’ chagrin and her own delight, Lucy had grown up to be a radical.

As though the Chance family did not have enough of those.

“I had not expected so many… well, unpleasant, creepy characters,” Evelyn admitted, shifting uncomfortably in her armchair. “I thought finding someone to just sit quietly and doze, even, would be easy enough.”

“The world doesn’t exist to be your inspiration, Evelyn,” her sister said quietly.

More’s the pity. Ever since Evelyn could remember, there was beauty and elegance in the world and her fingers had itched to capture it.

Somehow, imitating the world and its nature on a canvas was like bottling a moment—precious, and suddenly accessible whenever one wished it.

Who would not want to step into a happy memory?

The trouble was, landscapes were all very good. However, if she wanted to be a truly expert artist, then she would have to master the portrait. And that was difficult.

Not that she wanted to admit to as much to her sister, anyway.

“It is scandalous, the way you accost perfect strangers to sit for you as a model,” Lucy said firmly. “Mama said so, and I—”

“Quite agree,” finished Evelyn with a sigh. It was not as though they hadn’t had this conversation before.

“And Papa—”

“I know what our father thinks,” said Evelyn, her jaw tight.

He had made himself quite clear. No daughter of his was going to exhibit their paintings in public, so there was no point in worrying herself about improving.

It was galling to the extreme.

“You don’t have to sigh like that, Evelyn.”

Evelyn sighed again. “But I have painted everyone else I know who will sit for me, and I want a challenge.”

Her sister snorted. “A challenge? You try finding yourself at the wrong end of the arm of the law for no good reason other than the fact that you bear a passing resemblance to someone spotted at the end of an alley in the dark, that’s a challenge.”

Evelyn allowed her sister to keep talking for a few moments. It was a good cause, she had to admit, and she had no wish to throw cold water over her sister’s passion. Even if Lucy did occasionally throw cold water over hers.

Only when the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour, indicating that her sister had been twittering on for at least ten minutes, did Evelyn say, “Yes, and that’s all very well, Lu, but it doesn’t help me, does it?”

Her sister’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Oh, and is everything in this world to be set up to help you, a daughter of an earl?”

Evelyn bit her lip. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Lucy’s expression immediately softened. It was now a gorgeous medley of irritated and sympathetic, one Evelyn would have attempted to capture if she had a sketchbook to hand. “I know that. It’s just… Well, can’t you make up people in your head? Isn’t it enough to have the means to draw and paint?”

It wasn’t the worst idea in the world. The trouble was, Evelyn had already tried that, without much success.

Perhaps it was a sign that I am not a true artist , she thought morosely. Surely, the greats could create an image in their mind’s eye, then transfer that to the canvas before them.

She couldn’t.

Evelyn swallowed down the retort that she simply wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t good enough yet . She was still young. She had plenty of time to learn and grow her craft, did she not?

Even if she did not have a teacher.

And the sense that she was alone, the only one of her family an artist rather than a mathematician or a campaigner, the only one who felt the lure of painting, the only one who understood how frustrating it was to see the world and not be able to replicate its beauty with her hands, washed over Evelyn like a tidal wave.

It was so… so isolating. No one truly understood.

“I want a challenge,” Evelyn said aloud, jutting out her chin. “I don’t see why I can’t have one.”

“‘A challenge’?”

Both Chance sisters rose from their seats, Evelyn turning on her heels to see what man had dared enter their drawing room without an introduction.

And her lips parted in astonishment.

He… He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

Not perfect. There was no perfection, no true perfection, in beauty. There had to be a small flaw, some asymmetry, some dissonance between proportions or something of the like to make something truly beautiful.

And he was. Tall, but not overly so. A lean build, leaner than most, with a dark gaze from brown eyes that challenged and rebelled even as she looked at him.

There was a sharp angle to his jaw that suggested he was not one to be easily won over, and a scar flickered over one eyebrow that told a story she was desperate to hear.

The beauty, Evelyn swiftly realized, was not in the body itself, but the way the soul held it. A wary, animalistic readiness to run. A strength, and a confidence in that strength.

He was intoxicating.

“And you are?” asked Lucy, her voice quavering as it often did when she spoke to someone she did not know.

The man raised an eyebrow. “And you are? I came to meet with the artist. The butler directed me here. Where is he?”

Evelyn swallowed, her mouth dry.

Oh, goodness. She had not expected anything like this. Anyone like this. He was in complete contradiction to the other ninnies who had come before.

Still, her sister was right. It was a little scandalous to be drawing strangers, and this man was so potent in his desirability that she would not have been surprised if there were swift rumors spread about the whole of town about the two of them.

Him, and her, alone in a room, for hours on end…

Oh, yes, please…

Of course, that could not be. She was a lady. Her maid, at least, would have to be present.

Though the galling fact that a man in her position would not need a chaperone did not escape her.

“The artist?” Lucy repeated.

Evelyn’s head jerked up as her attention focused.

It would probably be a very bad idea to even consider this man for the role of model.

Laurent was not the type to keep that close an eye on her—she’d step out on occasion, citing work to do or perhaps even winking at her as she took note of the way Evelyn would be gaping at this model.

No, Evelyn shouldn’t be left alone with him, not for a moment.

She wasn’t sure she could trust herself not to reach out and feel the change of his skin over that scar.

Interviewing him on her own to decide whether he was a suitable candidate for sitting for her was absolutely out of the question.

Which was why she had to do it.

“Lucy, I believe our mother wants you,” Evelyn said hastily, grabbing her sister’s arm and tugging her toward the door—not unlike the way she had swiftly rid herself of Mr. Halifax.

“Evelyn! Ouch, that hurts!”

“Go and see our mother,” said Evelyn through gritted teeth, body hot as she passed the man.

Lucy’s eyes were wide. “But Mama is out visiting Lady Dalton. Should I not at least send for Laurent? I don’t think you should—”

“Don’t send anyone. I’ll talk to you later,” Evelyn hissed as she pushed her sister out into the corridor and slammed the door behind her.

Then she whirled around, leaned against the door, and stared.

He was magnificent. Had he any idea? Perhaps he had already modeled for another artist but was looking for additional work. That would explain it.

Oh, he was splendid. The curve of his fingers, long and strong, would make for an excellent study. Even his nose—so distinct, so full of character—was perfect.

“I came to see the artist,” he repeated in a quiet voice, one that resonated with boredom.

Boredom?

“I am the artist,” Evelyn said.

Her voice had not resonated with boredom. It had quavered, shaking as she’d stepped forward to examine him more closely.

She shouldn’t have. She had to.

The man took a step back. “ You ?”

That drew Evelyn up short. Bristling ever so slightly, she glared. “And why not?”

His eyes darted around, as if the man was just realizing he was alone with a lady. He did not, however, comment on her lack of chaperone. “I just—I thought—”

“I said nothing about who I was in the advertisement,” Evelyn said, restraining herself from jabbing the man with a finger. Well, it had been a long day. “Do you think ladies cannot paint?”

“Not in the slightest,” said the man levelly. “I just did not think a woman would be so bold as to advertise. I thought a gentleman’s son might have been. I had not considered a gentleman’s daughter.”

Now it was Evelyn who was being examined. She flushed as the man’s eyes raked over her, unapologetic in his curiosity.

Well, really! There’s no need for that.

“Please, sit,” she said, hastily gathering her thoughts for the questions she had to put to him.

She wasn’t exactly sure why. She had questioned the other men in an attempt to discern whether they would be suitable, and the queries had been well chosen, swiftly revealing they would not be.

But one look at this man was sufficient to tell her he would be perfect.

All she had to do was convince him of that.

The man inclined his head and seated himself on the sofa. Evelyn mirrored him, then realized she had never formed a question aloud in her life.

Words, Evelyn, words! I know they are not your strong suit, but please—say something! Anything!

“You… You know how to sit, then,” she said in a slightly strangled voice.

The man’s lips twitched. “For many decades.”

“I mean,” Evelyn said, her confidence growing now, “you have sat before, for an artist?”

He frowned. “No.”

No? It seemed incomprehensible. That a man like this should have been walking about the world for so long without anyone capturing that expression, those taut lines across his forehead that showed he was displeased…

Evelyn swallowed. It would be most pleasant to do so. It would be most pleasant for her heart to calm down and not thunder so loudly that she was certain Mr.… Mr.…

Had she even asked his name?