The Portrait

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Book: The Portrait by Megan Chance Read Free Book Online
Authors: Megan Chance
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Historical
breast, a fourth for detail. He heard Miss Carter's breath pounding in his ear, felt the tension in her body. He finished in seconds, dropped the charcoal into her lap and drew back.
    "Is that what you were going to draw, Miss Carter?" he asked, pointing to the breast he'd drawn on her paper. Just a breast, nipple erect, intimate in detail, without arms or chest or throat to give it proportion. He looked down at the top of her head, at her honey-brown hair. "Well?" he asked.
    She lifted her chin, he saw the deep rise and fall of her chest beneath the candy-striped satin. "I wish I could do it half as well," she said, and her voice was quiet and even and without a trace of fear.
    Her answer took his anger; the soft wistfulness of her words left him standing there, suddenly cold and ill at ease. Jonas looked away, stiffening when he saw Clarisse's raised brows, McBride's castigating gaze. Daniel's face was set, and even Tobias—silent, servile Tobias—was squirming in his chair. Suddenly Jonas realized that he'd forgotten the plan he'd had spent most of last evening plotting.
    He had meant to embarrass her with Clarisse's nudity. Had meant to send her running from the suggestion of sex. Had meant to see her blush and squirm because she was too innocent and too naive.
    But it was that very innocence that disarmed him, and instead of humiliating her, he'd lost control and humiliated himself. Her naive determination defeated him as easily as she'd defeated him the other day, as cleanly as if she'd looked at him and said once again the silly words that had been ringing in his head since she'd spoken them. "You must wish you still had it." Christ, so absurd: that dewy-eyed pity, the misplaced compassion. As absurd as the wistful longing in the words she'd just said. "I wish I could do it half as well."
    He stepped away from her chair and turned his back to them all, closing his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart. No one had ever done that to him. No one in a very long time, and it was intolerable that it was happening now, and with a woman who was nothing more than a pampered backwoods daughter, an innocent without wit or cleverness or beauty. It was intolerable that when he looked at her he saw everything he hated —the powerlessness that had forced him to take her on, his weakness—
    His fear.
    There was no more time for subtlety. It would take more than the suggestion of sexuality to make her run. It would take seduction itself. Much as it annoyed him, there was no other choice. Jonas rubbed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and waited for the drumming in his head to subside.
    "Sir?" It was Daniel's voice, young and concerned and a little frightened.
    Jonas waved his hand. "Go on," he said. "Continue."
    He waited until he heard the scratching of charcoal on paper again, the hiss of brushstrokes and the wet suck of paint, and then he walked as casually as he could to the empty canvas in the corner by the window, to the half-drawn odalisque, and forced himself to remember what was at stake. He waited until he was calm enough to trust his voice, and then he sat on the windowsill, feeling the cold from the windows against his back, letting it soothe him before he spoke.
    "Miss Carter," he said, and then he noticed that she hadn't moved, that she was sitting there watching him. He forced himself to speak evenly, quietly. "I would like you to stay after class today."
    She nodded shortly, but she didn't look away, and when he saw the look in her eyes, the quiet speculation touched with pity, he felt the baffling rage growing again, and he made himself turn away to look at the courtesan. But the sight of the unfinished canvas only angered him again, and he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cold glass. The motion reminded him of Rico, of yesterday. Where the hell was Childs? He found himself thinking of last night's fine French cognac, wishing he had a glass of it in his hand. A drink for courage . The thought brushed

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