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his
scent, a combination of snuff, sweat, and the strong solvent he used to clean his brushes. His
heart beat was a steady, strong vibration within his chest. I imagined I could feel my own heart
taking on its rhythm, as if we were in perfect tune.
    Even as the thought was born, I felt him stiffen. The arms that held me straightened
slightly, pushing me away. Although he took no step, he somehow moved back, away from me.
"Please resume your pose." His tone was neutral, lacking all warmth.
    Stepping over the scattered sketches, I returned to the couch, my knees still weak. As I
sank on it, I looked to him. But he had turned his back and was attacking his palette with a short
knife.
    "Turn your head," he said, over his shoulder. "I want to see your profile."
    I obeyed, staring up at the ceiling. It was water-stained, the dark blotches like angry
clouds against a creamy sky. Deliberately I forced myself to seek patterns and pictures in the
blotches. Anything to banish all memory of the strength of his arms, the scent of his body, the
comforting throb of his heart.
    He had returned to charcoal, The scritch-scritch of it lulled me, relaxed me,
until I drifted, half asleep. When I opened my eyes, he was there, on one knee beside the blue
velvet couch. His gaze was gentle, rather than austere. His smile invited mine. When he cupped a
rough palm around my chin, stroked a hard thumb across my cheek, I leaned into the caress. My
eyes closed again as his face drew close. My lips parted upon a sigh as his breath lightly touched
them. "Chastity," he breathed. "Sweet, innocent Chastity."
    I waited...waited...waited, for his kiss.
    "Miss Wayman, if you are so desperate for sleep, perhaps you should retire."
    Startled, I rolled to my side and stared. Mr. Sutherland was methodically packing his
case. The easel stood empty, and his large portfolio was leaning against the wall near the
door.
    "Oh, I am sorry!" Mortification caused a wave of heat to sweep upwards. I knew I was
blushing furiously.
    "Never mind. I was finished." He tossed several sticks of charcoal into the case and
closed it. "Next week you will arrive appropriately clothed, remember." His gaze lingered upon
the neckline of my gown.
    Again that wave of heat. "I remember." All I had to do was convince Mattie that my
chemise was unnecessary. I wasn't quite sure how I would manage that particular feat.
    A few days later Mother returned from some social event or other and immediately
summoned me to her parlor. I had been in the garden, attempting to free neglected roses from a
stranglehold of bindweed, so I wore my oldest muslin, faded and shabby.
    "Good heavens, Chastity, what have you been doing?" was her greeting.
    I attempted to explain, but she interrupted me after only a few words. "The garden is
none of your concern. You will cease to grub about in the dirt and you will never again let
anyone see you looking so disreputable. What if I had invited one of my special friends for
tea?"
    Knowing it to be a rhetorical question, I said nothing, only bowed my head. Mother's
circle of friends was not one I wished to join.
    "Lady Gilmartin was speaking this morning of her daughter's portrait. It was her
recommendation, you will recall, that led to our engaging Mr. Sutherland to paint you. She says
that he completed her Olivia's portrait with only five sittings. Furthermore, he painted her in
white muslin, as befits a young girl in her first season." She paused to sip from the teacup on the
table beside her. "Well? What have you to say to that?"
    "I...I don't know." Olivia Gilmartin and I had met once. I had not warmed to her, nor she
to me. She is a small, delicate girl, with guinea-gold curls and a short, upturned nose. I suppose
most young men would find her extremely attractive, and a small part of me envied her
prettiness. "Mr. Sutherland seems to be making progress with my portrait." If one could call
dozens of sketches progress.
    "Well, I shall have a word with him when he arrives