Page 13 of The Labours of Lord Perry Cavendish
“My sister used to have a box like this,” Perry said, coming up behind him to peek over his shoulder. “Not that she used it much. She wasn’t very good at drawing or painting—though shedidlike Mr. Soames, her drawing master.”
Jonny glanced at Perry, amused by his thoughtful frown which rather suggested it had only just occurred to him that there may have been a particular reason why his sister had liked the drawing master.
“It’s very curious to me that art has come to be regarded by society primarily as a suitable accomplishment for genteel young ladies,” Jonny said. “But there you are. It seems that young ladies are expected to acquire a great number of skills without then being allowed to use them in any practical way. My two sisters can converse in French and Italian and play the pianoforte and the harp, as well as drawing and painting. What’s more, they both have a far better grasp of mathematics, geography, and history than most men I know, thanks to their bluestocking of a governess. But the only path in life open to them is to get married. They may as well be a pair of breeding ewes.”
“Didn’t they want to get married then?” Perry asked. “My sister Bella certainly did. It was all she spoke about from being about fifteen years old.”
Jonny, who had heard all about the irrepressible Arabella Cavendish from Adam and Lysander, decided not to comment on Perry’s sister.
“My older sister, Harriet, seemed happy enough to get wed,” he said instead. “In all honesty, she’s quite a quiet sort, and so’s her husband—I suppose they’re well suited in that respect. But Anna, the younger one, most certainly did not wish to be married off. She resisted for all of three seasons till she finally agreed to accept an offer from a not terribly eligible but quite adventurous fellow. I think it was the offer of a honeymoon trip to the Continent that persuaded her. They left two years ago and have not yet returned, so I assume she’s happy enough.”
“That sounds like ripping fun,” Perry said, with boyish wistfulness. “I’d love to travel to other countries. Wouldn’t you?”
Jonny smiled tightly. “I’d like tovisitother countries—I almost agreed to go to Italy this year—but the actual travelling part would be tedious, I think.”
He reached for the tie on the leather folio, deftly undid the knot, and opened it up. Inside, the first sheet contained half a dozen studies for the Narcissus painting—Lysander’s head in a variety of different poses.
“Bloody hell,” Perry breathed beside him. “That’s—he’s—”
He seemed lost for words, just staring down at Lysander’s perfect face and profile.
“He’s a very beautiful man, isn’t he?” Jonny said.
“Well, yes—of course he is,” Perry agreed. “But thesedrawings—” He swallowed, then said thickly, almost sounding embarrassed, “These are extraordinary.”
Jonny glanced at Perry. He was staring at the studies, reaching out a hand to trace his fingertips over one of Lysander in profile, neck slightly stretched forward and gaze downcast. It was Jonny’s favourite of them all and the one he’d used to lightly sketch out the final composition he’d decided upon—Narcissus stretching forwards, as though in motion, leaning out over the water to stare at his own reflection in the pool.
Jonny hadn’t managed to get the final work started before he’d had to leave Edgeley Park. He’d expected to be eager to start on it as soon as he returned, but now he found himself staring at Perry’s large, strong hand where it rested on the narrow table, and all he could think about was drawingthisman—searching for the perfect composition for his form through patient sketching and long hours of observation. He could think of a dozen ways he’d like to sketch Perry right now.
“Could you take off your clothes?” he heard himself say, without having planned to say it.
Perry startled and turned to stare at him, wide-eyed. “What?”
“Sorry, that was blunt—I am sometimes, when I’m talking about painting. It’s just, I’d like to see what I’m going to be working with—if you don’t mind?” Jonny stepped back and let his gaze sweep up over Perry, from the toes of his polished boots to the top of his head.
The flush that pinked Perry’s cheeks had him biting back a grin.
“We’re starting now?Today?” Perry sounded panicked. “I thought you were only showing me the studio.”
“No time like the present,” Jonny said cheerfully. It was natural that Perry would be embarrassed, but in Jonny’s experience, a matter-of-fact approach was the best way to deal with such nerves. “Shall I help you off with your coat?”
The dark blue superfine was nicely tailored to Perry’s broad shoulders, but not so tight that it would be impossible to get off without assistance.
Alarm crossed Perry’s face, swiftly followed by another rush of heat that reddened his cheeks still further.
“Do you—that is, do I have to takeeverythingoff?” Perry whispered, eyes wide with barely controlled panic.
Even as Jonny struggled not to smile, his chest ached a little. Odd how Perry Cavendish affected him like that—amusing him and exciting tender feelings in him in equal measure. He wanted to push him and coddle him at the same time.
“No, of course not,” Jonny said. “Not if you’re not comfortable with that. How do you feel about getting down to your drawers? Would that be all right?”
Perry visibly swallowed, but some of his panic seemed to settle. He nodded and began to remove his clothes, layer by layer. Slowly, patiently, the glory of that big, masculine frame was revealed.
And Christ, but he was a sight. The perfect form, in Jonny’s humble opinion.
Perry was big. Broad shoulders, wide chest, and burly arms. His thighs were heavily muscled from riding, his calves well-formed, and his large feet had high arches. He had a light pelt of hair across his chest—that would get thicker as he aged, Jonny thought, mouth watering—and his long legs were likewise furred with dark hair. He had small, dark-brown nipples and a shallow belly-button. The freckles speckling his wide shoulders hinted at boyhood sunburn.
His lean belly and well-defined muscles were evidence that he was a sporty, physical sort of chap; a man who rode and boxed and fenced according to Adam, the type that Jonny would have assumed would be boorish and dismissive of a man like himself. But though Perry was plainly not bookish, he was no brainless boor. In fact, Jonny had a feeling he might be quite a sensitive fellow, in his own way.