Read Online Leslie Lafoy by The Rogues Bride - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: The Rogues Bride
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thoughtful.”
“It was my pleasure.” His knowing smile returned. “Are you comfortable sitting there like that?”
She wasn’t comfortable at all, actually, but it had nothing to do with where and how she was sitting. Standing wouldn’t be any better, either. Not unless it happened to be where he could wrap her in his arms and pull her against him. “I suppose so,” she answered, wondering why he so filled her senses this morning when he hadn’t the night before. Had the stresses of the fire clouded her perceptions that thickly? Good God, he was nothing short of … well, intoxicating.
Still holding her gaze, still smiling that certain smile of his, he asked, “If I might make a suggestion or two?”
Emmaline beamed up at him. “Oh yes, please do, Tristan. You’re so very good at this sort of thing and I need all the help I can get.”
“Squared-off or sharp angles don’t make for very flattering portraits. Lady Simone, if you would be so kind as to leisurely and fully recline yourself on the chaise.”
And wait for me there , her mind wantonly finished. She looked away from his gaze and shifted about as he’d asked, bringing her legs up and turning onto her side. Propped against the arm of the chaise, she asked, “Like this?”
Emmy peered around the side of the easel. “Oh yes. That’s much better.”
Tristan looked over the top of the canvas, considered her, and then slowly cocked a brow to ask, “Do you always wear a ribbon in your hair?”
“Very seldom, actually,” she admitted, keeping to herself the fact that she’d decided to tie her hair back that morning in the hope that he’d like the style. So much for trying.
“Please feel free to remove it.”
And anything else you’d care to.
“Where are your pencils, Em?” he asked as Simone brought her wayward mind under control, tugged the ribbon streamer, and undid the bow.
“Pencils?”
“Yes, to sketch in the basic lines.”
“Oh. They’re in my room. I’ll be right back.”
Simone absently reclined on the arm of the chaise and watched in amazement as Emmaline took off like a shot. Last night, in the midst of a fire, Emmy had been worried about leaving her brother and her alone together in a smoke-filled room. But today? Apparently, with the dawn of a new day, they could be trusted to behave themselves.
“You look very starched.”
“Starched?” she repeated, bringing her gaze to Tristan’s.
“Prim and proper and ever so respectable.”
The look in his eyes was anything but. “Emmy plans to give the portrait to my sister and her husband,” she explained, smiling. “They pray every night for prim and proper and ever so respectable. They’ll be delighted to know I’m capable of at least looking that way.”
He laughed, the sound deliciously low and rumbling. “With Em wielding the brush,” he said, making his way toward her, “your portrait, when finished, is going to look like a mangled monkey on a battered cushion. It will never leave this house. There’s no harm in relaxing and being yourself for the process. No one but us will ever know.”
She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “And just what would being myself entail?”
“Being a bit daring,” he answered, easing down onto the very edge of the chaise beside her.
She was only vaguely aware that the ribbon slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor. She was acutely aware, though, of the scent of his cologne, of the cleanly chiseled line of his jaw, of how his dark eyes seemed to see right to the center of her soul. Her heart racing and her blood warming, she considered it nothing short of a miracle that she could coolly reply, “Really. Daring?”
He cocked his brow slightly higher and his eyes sparkled. “And a bit provocative.”
She resisted the urge to swallow. “Oh?”
“Do you like being buttoned all the way up to your neck, Simone?”
Oh, dear. She knew where this was going. The proper response would be a very
“It was my pleasure.” His knowing smile returned. “Are you comfortable sitting there like that?”
She wasn’t comfortable at all, actually, but it had nothing to do with where and how she was sitting. Standing wouldn’t be any better, either. Not unless it happened to be where he could wrap her in his arms and pull her against him. “I suppose so,” she answered, wondering why he so filled her senses this morning when he hadn’t the night before. Had the stresses of the fire clouded her perceptions that thickly? Good God, he was nothing short of … well, intoxicating.
Still holding her gaze, still smiling that certain smile of his, he asked, “If I might make a suggestion or two?”
Emmaline beamed up at him. “Oh yes, please do, Tristan. You’re so very good at this sort of thing and I need all the help I can get.”
“Squared-off or sharp angles don’t make for very flattering portraits. Lady Simone, if you would be so kind as to leisurely and fully recline yourself on the chaise.”
And wait for me there , her mind wantonly finished. She looked away from his gaze and shifted about as he’d asked, bringing her legs up and turning onto her side. Propped against the arm of the chaise, she asked, “Like this?”
Emmy peered around the side of the easel. “Oh yes. That’s much better.”
Tristan looked over the top of the canvas, considered her, and then slowly cocked a brow to ask, “Do you always wear a ribbon in your hair?”
“Very seldom, actually,” she admitted, keeping to herself the fact that she’d decided to tie her hair back that morning in the hope that he’d like the style. So much for trying.
“Please feel free to remove it.”
And anything else you’d care to.
“Where are your pencils, Em?” he asked as Simone brought her wayward mind under control, tugged the ribbon streamer, and undid the bow.
“Pencils?”
“Yes, to sketch in the basic lines.”
“Oh. They’re in my room. I’ll be right back.”
Simone absently reclined on the arm of the chaise and watched in amazement as Emmaline took off like a shot. Last night, in the midst of a fire, Emmy had been worried about leaving her brother and her alone together in a smoke-filled room. But today? Apparently, with the dawn of a new day, they could be trusted to behave themselves.
“You look very starched.”
“Starched?” she repeated, bringing her gaze to Tristan’s.
“Prim and proper and ever so respectable.”
The look in his eyes was anything but. “Emmy plans to give the portrait to my sister and her husband,” she explained, smiling. “They pray every night for prim and proper and ever so respectable. They’ll be delighted to know I’m capable of at least looking that way.”
He laughed, the sound deliciously low and rumbling. “With Em wielding the brush,” he said, making his way toward her, “your portrait, when finished, is going to look like a mangled monkey on a battered cushion. It will never leave this house. There’s no harm in relaxing and being yourself for the process. No one but us will ever know.”
She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “And just what would being myself entail?”
“Being a bit daring,” he answered, easing down onto the very edge of the chaise beside her.
She was only vaguely aware that the ribbon slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor. She was acutely aware, though, of the scent of his cologne, of the cleanly chiseled line of his jaw, of how his dark eyes seemed to see right to the center of her soul. Her heart racing and her blood warming, she considered it nothing short of a miracle that she could coolly reply, “Really. Daring?”
He cocked his brow slightly higher and his eyes sparkled. “And a bit provocative.”
She resisted the urge to swallow. “Oh?”
“Do you like being buttoned all the way up to your neck, Simone?”
Oh, dear. She knew where this was going. The proper response would be a very
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