Free Passionate by Anthea Lawson

broke off.
    Lily’s hair was coiled tightly at her neck, though chestnut strands were already escaping. Her blue apron was drawn over a soberly cut gray gown. She was standing by her easel, speaking to her aunt who was seated on the wicker chaise and holding a portable writing desk. James squared his shoulders.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Huntington,” Lily said. “Aunt Mary will be lending us the pleasure of her company as we work today.”
    “Yes, Lily suggested I catch up on my correspondence here. The atmosphere is lovely, don’t you agree?”
    “Very much.” James flicked his gaze to Lily.
    “Please sit, Mr. Huntington.”
    He returned to the stool and tried to let his body remember the pose. One foot firmly on the ground, the other heel resting on the lowest rung. Shoulders at an angle, just so. He did not remember the leaf that was now tickling his neck, though.
    Lily eyed his pose with a frown. She began to move toward him then hesitated. “Come and look at the sketch from yesterday. That should give you a better idea of the positioning.”
    He rose and rounded the easel for his first glimpse of the portrait. Even unfinished the painting had a vital energy to it, a sense of coming into being that stirred him. Or perhaps it was standing so close to the woman he had so recently kissed.
    “I see.” He studied the lines of the pose, imprinting them in his mind, then returned to the stool.
    Lily rewarded him with a faint smile. “Yes. That’s it precisely.”
    He lowered his voice. “I’m glad you are continuing with the portrait. After yesterday, I wasn’t sure how you felt.”
    A hint of color rose in her cheeks. “The painting is coming along very well.” She looked directly into his eyes. “I am not in the habit of abandoning my work.”
    “An admirable quality. Have you always been so single-minded?”
    “Yes.” Her smile was gone now. “In fact, I find it difficult to work and converse at the same time. Because flowers do not require it, I never developed the ability to banter while painting.”
    “As you wish.”
    In silence he watched her begin to paint. Her focus narrowed, her sea-green eyes became more intense as they moved over him, but today the transformation did not catch him so completely off guard. There was more of a respite, periods when she focused on the image on her easel. James wondered what she saw when she looked at him, how the colors spoke to her and then were translated into his face and form. The quiet was broken only by the dip and scratch of Lady Mary’s pen and the faint whistling of the gardener somewhere beyond James’s vision.
    There were times when the intensity of her gaze became too much. Then he stared straight ahead and concentrated on the sweeping lines of the greenhouse—glass and iron imprisoning and at the same time sheltering the lush foliage. Outside the trees were still leafless, but inside was a tumult of green.
    The sound of light footsteps on the walkway broke the spell. A maid with freckles on her nose entered and dropped a curtsy to Lady Mary.
    “Beg pardon, milady. A man is here with more packages. I think they need your direct attention.”
    “Very well, Anne.” Lady Mary rose, setting aside her lap desk. “Please excuse me for a moment.” She smiled at Lily and James, and then led the servant from the conservatory.
    They were alone, and the silence between them quickly grew as tense and charged as the air before a lightning storm.
    “Miss Strathmore,” he said. “I hope I did not cause you distress yesterday.”
    Her fingers tightened on her brush. “Distress? Oh, no.”
    “I did not intend to put you in a compromising position.”
    Her gaze dropped to the brick pavers. “Mr. Huntington, I took no offense. In fact, our interchange had all but slipped from my mind.”
    “I wanted to reassure you—”
    “Please, it is unnecessary. Do not worry yourself further on my account. I’ve put the incident behind me, and would ask that you do