Free Ophelia's Muse by Rita Cameron

actually here, she just felt embarrassed. It had seemed too good to be true, and it was: Deverell hadn’t chosen her because she was beautiful, but rather because she would make a decent pageboy.
    But, she told herself, if she left now, she wouldn’t have another chance. She could picture Mrs. Tozer shaking her head, and sending a note to Mrs. Deverell to apologize for Lizzie’s rudeness. Perhaps she would offer Mr. Deverell the use of another girl, like Jeannie, who wouldn’t have Lizzie’s qualms, but would be happy for the opportunity. And Lizzie would be back in the workroom, squinting at her needle and dreaming of knights and ladies.
    The thought of the workroom made up her mind. She unhooked her bodice and shimmied free of her tight sleeves and heavy skirts. She stood, shivering in her slip and trying not to think of Mr. Deverell standing just beyond the screen. Then with a shrug she pulled on the costume. When she was fully dressed, she looked at herself in the mirror and almost laughed: But for her long hair, she could very well have been a medieval pageboy. She was as tall as many men, after all, and the clothes hugged her slim frame closely. She did a quick turn, enjoying the freedom of britches. Then she pulled her hair into a loose chignon and stepped out from behind the screen.
    Deverell stopped setting out his paints. “You’re a vision! A heroine of Shakespeare brought to life.”
    Lizzie blushed again, sure that Deverell must be making a joke at her expense.
    â€œThat’s enough,” Mary said, “or you’ll have poor Miss Siddal scampering back behind the screen.”
    â€œWhen I see perfection, I must speak. And I never saw a more perfect Viola in my life.”
    Mary turned to Lizzie. “When Walter’s on about a painting, there’s no accounting for him. He goes quite off his head and forgets his manners, all in the name of art and the pursuit of beauty, or so he likes to claim. But you really do look quite the part.”
    Lizzie allowed herself a small smile. She knew that flattery was cheap, but if Deverell was half as pleased as he appeared, then perhaps she didn’t look completely ridiculous. She admitted to herself how excited she was at the prospect of sitting for a painting, even if it wasn’t quite what she had imagined. In the end, after all, Viola did marry a duke, despite her humble clothes.
    Deverell offered her his hand. “Shall we begin? I’ll show you where you’ll sit, and we’ll start with a few sketches.”
    Lizzie followed Deverell to the end of the studio. He asked her to sit on a stool, with her elbows resting on a table and her hands clasped. He used his hands to position her head, and Lizzie held her breath and told herself that it was no different from modeling a bonnet in the shop. Her profile was angled toward him, and she leaned slightly forward, her eyes upturned.
    â€œPerfect.” Deverell went behind his easel and began to sketch, glancing up occasionally and humming quietly to himself.
    He seemed to be perfectly at ease, but Lizzie could not get comfortable. She tried to sit completely still, but she kept shifting, blushing every time Deverell looked up from the canvas. She was conscious that she no longer had a dozen layers of petticoats and skirts between her and the world, and she felt the absence of her high-necked gray work dress keenly. It was one of the few things that stood between her and the men who came to the shop to leer at the pretty girls. Now she was stripped of its shield, and she felt that not only her body, but her very self was on display, as if Deverell could read her every tortured thought.
    But as an hour passed, and then another, she forgot her embarrassment. Deverell tossed off page after page of studies, and he stopped often to give her an encouraging smile or word. His attention was flattering, and Lizzie began to think that the work of modeling was rather