Free The King of Threadneedle Street by Moriah Densley

Christian.”
    Alysia could not help her full-fledged smile at this. Andrew didn’t trust the marquess to take care of his own son? She sighed and closed her book.
    “No — let me see.” He made a grab for it and amended, “Please?”
    Alysia conceded and retreated to her chair while Andrew thumbed through her sketches. The front of the book held vignettes of the family, scenes of the waterfront at the lake and various animals at the park. She enjoyed his knowing smiles; she had captured Andrew’s family at rather telling moments, mostly flattering but others less so. She could see Andrew understood her perspective, and it afforded her no small pleasure.
    It was obvious when he arrived at her drawings of the Dying Gaul. He turned his head to the east windows and followed the line of light as it cast upon the statue. His eyes narrowed in understanding. His face fell, and he studied each page soberly. Then he sank into the chair next to her and dropped his head into his hands.
    “Alysia…”
    She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but only guessed that she had perhaps been too private in her interpretation of suffering.
    He held out a finger to trace the lines, but withdrew. “The Dying Gaul? ” He turned his discerning gaze on her.
    “One of my favorites. He reminds me of you,” she confessed. The heat of his stare was too intense; she diverted her eyes to the case of pastels in her hand.
    “But I have no moustache.” Playful, but she knew he was trying to draw her out.
    “The resemblance is in his form and his masculine expression.”
    “But he is dying .”
    “But not in despair. He is brave. He meets his fate proudly.”
    His eyes gleamed with mischief. “He is naked. Surely you don’t imagine me that way.”
    “As an admirer of great art I am quite unaffected by heroic nudity in the erotic sense.”
    His eyebrows raised into his tumbled hair.
    She took her book back and looked again at the drawings he found so disturbing. Admittedly, from the perspective of an objective viewer, there was indeed a great deal of emphasis on suffering.
    Alysia noticed Andrew was removing his clothes. He often shed his jacket, waistcoat, and necktie in her presence, but he now had his shirt off and was unfastening his trouser buttons.
    “Andrew! What are you doing?”
    “You said you wanted to sketch me?” He held his arms out. “I want to be sketched. No better time than now.”
    He shut the door of the salon. The turning lock echoed, a sinister sound.
    “But — I… I had a portrait in mind. A decent one.”
    “Oh, it will be better than decent.” He tossed his boots and stockings into a chair.
    “I mean, presentable . To the public.” She watched with wide eyes as Andrew wadded his trousers and launched them into the chair as well.
    “You said you aren’t averse to heroic nudity.”
    “But not yours!” She felt on the verge of panic. “Besides, what is heroic about this?”
    “You are the artist with the vivid imagination. Make something up.”
    He tossed his drawers into her lap, and a whimper squeaked from her throat. She heard him drop onto the settee opposite her.
    “Well?”
    Alysia reined in the giddy feeling making her lightheaded and opened the book to a blank page. She selected a pencil then looked up at him.
    Andrew reclining on the settee, naked and glorious, took her breath away. His long limbs draped casually over the sides and propped on the cushions, were perfectly muscular, with a latent strength she wanted to capture. His proportion measured closely to the heroic canon , the template physique Michelangelo used to sculpt the gods. A living specimen lay before her like a fantastical offering.
    Right away she noticed the details that mattered; the lazy turn of his foot so near the powerful stretch of leg, the impatient curl of his fingers indicating skilled and sure hands, and the sunlight glinting on the ends of his hair and eyelashes.
    He was more beautiful than her beloved Dying Gaul,