Page 31 of Her Sinful Match (Lords of Pleasure 4)

Inside the studio, he went to put on his leather apron, and she disappeared behind the changing screen as was their usual routine. After a moment, her voice came from the corner. “Is there a particular section you will be focusing on today?”

The question made his cheeks flame and his collar feel tight, bringing to mind images of the dreams that had lately been haunting him instead of nightmares. He forced his attention to the marble. The face was well-defined, with most of the features clearly carved out, with only the finest levels of shaping and detailing needing to be done. “I believe the upper torso.”

Moments later, Hetty stepped out from behind the screen, the sheet draped around her in a way that not only mimicked a Grecian style, but also clearly outlined and accented her figure. She moved to her usual position near the window and took a loose, relaxed stance, partially in profile, one hand just barely keeping a grip on the sheet to keep it in place while the other traced an elegant line down her side to prop one well-manicured hand on her hip.

She looked beautiful. Shy, but not uncomfortable. A maiden’s grace and a woman’s blossoming confidence. He took a moment to appreciate the view, before turning his focus back to the marble and beginning to make careful, gentle chips to remove unnecessary material, working in silence until she began the conversation.

She always made conversation, and though he had thought he would find it irksome, instead it had become a pleasant addition to the process, allowing him to get more of a sense of his model’s personality than silent posing could ever have done. It was the dialogue between them that had inspired the impish quirk of the statue’s mouth and the slight arch of one eyebrow, an expression she often wore during their meals together before she departed.

Only two days ago, he had answered her relentless curiosity by pointing out that he knew little of her and suggesting she might give him some information about her, for a change. Her favorite color, for instance.

And so, he had learned that her favorite colors were blues and greens, though red was also one she liked. Red of roses and blue of sky, and the green of the mossy verge of the river in springtime, she had said. Also, that she had only one sibling, her brother, and that she was somewhat educated, having spent time in a noble household, from which he inferred that she might have been a wetnurse or a governess of some sort, whose charges had lately become too old to require such supervision. She appeared young for such a responsibility, but perhaps she had taken the position after an older member of her family, or her acquaintance, had retired.

It was a scenario that might account for the education and the polished speech, even the paleness of her skin and the softness of her hands, which certainly bore no marks of rougher labor. It might also account for her familiarity with horses, which had come up the day after he had given her permission to use his name.

He had also learned that she liked sweetbread, with preserves when she could have them, and preferred chicken to many other meats.

She had some skill in embroidery as well, she told him, though her plain sewing was somewhat better.

The carriage that brought her to and from the estate was one driven by a friend for whom she had done a favor a year past, which they insisted upon repaying by offering her a means of conveyance beyond her normal means.

She did not mind the long drive to his country estate, but she did enjoy living in London. From her comments, he gathered the impression that she might live near the shops, somewhere among the merchant class, or folk of that ilk. At any rate, she could not live in the poorer areas of town.

She was oddly shy about the details of her life, preferring instead to hear of his and to coax from him stories of his boyhood. She was oddly sympathetic of his previous status, son to a younger son of a minor lordling, whose few prospects had sent him to make his fortunes upon the battlefield.

She never did ask much about his time as a soldier, beyond her initial interrogation, which was a pleasant surprise to him. Oh, she listened on those few occasions it made its way into the conversation, such as when he spoke of meeting Jackson, or of becoming a soldier at an early age. But she did not ask further questions.

For that alone he was quite willing to speak to her. His few appearances in public, when he had first claimed his title and his inheritance, had involved far too many requests for ‘war stories’. Jackson, he knew, had endured the same, though in his case, he had the heavy scar, and the severity it added to his demeanor to discourage the inquisitive masses.

“Daniel?” Hetty’s soft call of his name roused him from his darkening thoughts. He realized then that he’d paused in the middle of his work, standing with a chisel poised loosely on the marble. He bit back a curse and drew his hand back, glad he hadn’t accidentally chipped the stone in his woolgathering.

Although...if he had to start again, he might secure Hetty’s presence so much longer.

He shoved that thought forcefully away, chiding himself for even contemplating such duplicity. It was a near-criminal waste of good marble to purposefully damage the statue, and every artistic instinct he had rebelled against it. Even more, to try and secure Hetty’s continued presence through such dubious methods would be a travesty.

I would rather her presence be a choice that did not involve such base methods to secure it.

He set the tools down and flexed his wrists, turning to see her watching him, a concerned furrow drawing her dainty brows together over uncertain blue eyes. “Are you quite all right?”

“I am fine. A momentary distraction.” He studied her posture, pleased to note that she had not moved, even with her concern. “You are doing well. It was only...well, it does not matter.”

“You seemed perturbed by something.” Hetty’s expression was open, inviting him to explain without outright asking.

“Nothing to do with the work. Unless one counts my frustration at losing a day in the midst of making such progress.” He indicated the stone. “It is rare for the work to go so smoothly as it has since your employment began...I am rather unwilling to break from it, however necessary the break may be.”

“I do apologize. But some things cannot be avoided forever, I fear. And surely, you will be too engaged to have much time to consider your art.” He frowned, wondering at her words, and she blushed and looked away. “You did say you would be attending some sort of event for a friend. Forgive me if I am in error, but I was under the impression it would involve one of the...it seemed that you might be talking of appearing at a social gathering of some kind. One of the events of the...Season, is it not?” She seemed oddly hesitant to voice the description.

Surely, she had at least witnessed some society events, even if she hadn’t attended them. And it was true that the working class did not have the social season that the ton enjoyed, but she could not have avoided all awareness of it, living in London.

Did she think he so disdained the ton that he would not wish to speak of it? Or was there something else behind her unaccustomed shyness?

“You are not in error, on any particular note. This will be the first event I have willingly attended since my introduction to the peerage at the very beginning of the Season.”

“Do you not wish to attend?”

“I have reservations on the matter, but I am not particularly averse to the idea.” He was not about to tell her that she was the reason he had succumbed to the impulse when Jackson had tendered the invitation. No more than he was going to admit that his fascination at the end of that first session had already sent him to the club in search of company, which he had done very well without it to that point.

He glanced at her again and reclaimed his tools to give the impression that it was his sculpting that held his interest, rather than the subject of it. The truth of it was that Hetty Smith had rapidly become as much of a distraction as she was an inspiration.

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