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He scrubbed a hand over his face then glanced around the room, as if looking for his wayward ma
Parisians drank at all hours, and the ladies indulged in spirits there too. “Yes, please.”
He prowled over to the sideboard, his blue velvet dressing gown making a beautiful line of his back. “Have you ever taken spirits before, Genevieve?”
“Of course.”
He turned, a glass stopper in the shape of a winged lion in his right hand. “Don’t lie to me, my lady. I’ll find you out.”
He could too. He could look her in the eyes and know all her secrets—or at least paint them.
“When we’re ill or ailing, Her Grace advises the medicinal tot. She says one learns to appreciate medicinal tots as a function of marriage and children.”
“Does she say that within the duke’s hearing?”
Je
Je
“Slowly. Bad enough you’re secreted with me in dishabille at a late hour. If you’re found tipsy or worse, I will not forgive myself.”
The scent hit her nose before the liquid touched her lips—peat smoke, apples, oak wood, and a complex of things… botanical. Almost a perfume, and not the same as brandy.
She took a modest sip, which bloomed like a small firework in her mouth, the streams of glory trailing down to her belly. “What is it?”
“A fine old Scottish whisky. I travel with it, packed with my paints and frames and easels. Where will you pose me tonight?”
She wanted him stretched out, as he had been on the floor with William. Relaxed, a little preoccupied, and not very clothed. Her nerve deserted her, though, when she considered he’d probably balk at posing as her odalisque.
“Have you written to your sisters?”
He paused with a glass halfway to his mouth. “I’m to write to all six? I’d be at my desk the entire night, and that would mean an unproductive day tomorrow.”
He had been drinking. The Je
This Je
“Write to your sister, then. Just the one, at your desk.”
He took a swallow of his drink and eyed the desk like a martyr beheld the lions’ den. The escritoire was pretty and French, japa
He sat. She moved candles, positioned his drink to catch the light, passed him a white quill pen, shifted the inkwell, moved his drink again, and then considered how to position herself. She couldn’t very well stand when she sketched him, but she wanted his face in shadows again, the better to apply what she’d learned the previous night.
“I have an easel,” he said, rising and disappearing into the bedroom. He emerged a moment later with a sturdy wooden frame, one sporting clamps at the corners for holding paper if one were not inclined to work on a canvas.
“How did you know?”
He set it up a few feet from the desk, exactly where Je
“You don’t want to be directly in my line of sight lest you distract me, and if you’re doing a night study of me, you want a bit of distance and superiority, some detachment about the point of view.”
No, actually, she wanted intimacy, but he wanted the distance, so she did not argue.
He resumed his seat, moving his drink a few inches closer to the blotter, which was where Je
“Is that how you want to remain for the next hour, Elijah?”
He glanced at the clock. “Forty-five minutes, Genevieve, and no. I might as well tend to my correspondence while you work.”
Je
Which would need oils, of course.
Elijah had assembled the requisite tools for correspondence: paper, pen, penknife, sand, ink, and a focused expression. While he stared at the blank page—assembling thoughts, perhaps—Je
An hour later, Elijah sat back and sprinkled a final quantity of sand over his letter, just as Je
It would do. In fact, it would do nicely, and yet, she didn’t want to show it to him. For a time, she wanted to revel in the notion that she’d applied what she’d learned the previous evening, and the result was impressive.
“You wrote only the one page,” she said, unfastening her paper from the easel and laying the finished sketch on the table by the door.
He tossed the pen on the desk and capped the ink. “One doesn’t want to be too loquacious. Females take their epistolary co
“I dread hearing from my siblings for just that reason.”
A hint of a smile scampered around his mouth. “You are teasing me. I deserve it.”
“No, I am not. My siblings have lives, you see. This child cut a tooth. That husband is a
He rose and held out a hand to her, and Je
“While you sketch your cat, visit the sick with your mother, and seethe with frustrated artistic talent. Let’s hear a curse, Genevieve. Let the drink, the lateness of hour, and the company inspire you, hmm?”
No cat came between them, no stays, no layers of proper attire. Held against Elijah’s body, Je
“The only curse I know is damn—double damn.”
“That’s a start, like a few lines on a page. Damn has promise, but it needs embellishment. Bloody double damn?” He spoke near her ear, his breath tickling her neck.
“Bloody is vulgar and graphic. Also quite naughty, and daring.”
“All the better. Come, let’s be vulgar and graphic on the subject of my sketches for the day.”
He turned her under his arm, as if they were drinking companions, and Je
“I like perishing damn,” Je
“Bloody, perishing damn,” he said, tucking his arm more closely around her. “Say it. You’re off to make war on France soon, like that We Happy Few fellow the Bard wrote about. Nobody will understand your English curses.”