Page 102 of Oddity of the Ton
He shook his head. “I have no cause to conceal myself as you do.”
She caught his hand. “We may be opposites in the eyes of the world—but we are also alike. You would have the world believe that you care little for others.” She lifted his hand to her lips. “But youdocare. I saw it in the way you helped those children—in how kind you were to give books to Joe, even though you said they were nothing and you’d have cast them aside had he not taken them. And I saw it in how you treated Olivia as your sister despite how she’s viewed by the world.” She smiled up at him. “I even saw it in the way in which you ensured that the drawing room tonight would not be well lit so that I might not be overwhelmed by the noise and lights with my family here. You even asked your mother to play the pianoforte to ensure the conversation was kept to a minimum.”
“It’s not much to boast of, Eleanor.”
“I disagree,” she said. “It means the world tome. What is a grand gesture, intended to draw in the admiration of the world, compared to the small, almost insignificant gestures that go unnoticed by most, but make a world of difference to one person? It’s the very fact that those gestures are unnoticed that makes them honest, and pure. For they were not done with your own gratification in mind—but for the comfort and pleasure of others.”
“You’re too kind,” he said.
“And…” She hesitated, lest he be offended by her request. But they were soon to part—where was the harm in asking?
“Is there something you desire?” he asked.
“I wondered if I might be permitted something to remember you by.”
He captured her mouth in a swift kiss, then brushed his knuckles against her breast, grinning as her nipple beaded. “I’vealready given you that. But the night is young—I can do so again.”
“N-no—I meant…” She inhaled, summoning her courage. “May I sketch you—I mean, from life this time?”
He cocked his head to one side. “You’ve sketched me before, from memory? May I see?”
“If you grant my request.”
“Then, my Eleanor,” he said, stretching his long, lithe body along the bed, “your wish is my command.”
*
The pleasure ofsketching him from memory was nothing compared to the pleasure of having the living, breathing man before her, his perfect naked form at her command, to draw as she liked, to follow the contours of his body—the muscles, the sinews, right down to the detail around his knuckles.
She cast her gaze over his body, settling on the very essence of him that had given her such exquisite pleasure earlier that night—thick and beautiful, nestling among the dark curls. She ran her pencil over the page, curling around its form, depicting every wrinkle in the skin, from root to tip, and her body tightened with the memory of him inside her…
“I believe the artist isblushing,” he rumbled.
She initialed the sketch. “It’s done.”
“May I see?”
She handed over the sketchbook, and he flicked through it. He had posed for two full sketches, several studies of his hands, his feet, and his manhood, and a line drawing as a portrait.
“You called me a flatterer, Eleanor—but you are just as guilty of that particular crime. You’ve made me too perfect.”
“It’s howIsee you.”
He sighed. “If only I could draw you as well. Could you draw yourself?”
“It would be somewhat vain, wouldn’t it?” she said.
“But for me?” he asked. “As a keepsake?”
She could hardly refuse. “You want a portrait?”
“A full sketch. I want to remember that beautiful body.”
She rose and studied herself in the mirror—her unremarkable body with its soft curves and overly large breasts that Mother had said were too vulgar for Society, but that Montague had worshiped with relish, making her feel beautiful.
“Look at yourself,” he whispered, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Look at yourself throughmyeyes—not the eyes of those who fail to understand you.”
She continued to stare, imagining the woman in the mirror was desirable. Then, with a nod, she sat and began sketching.
