Free Saffina's Season by Flora Dain

discreet. As to the number of sittings—”
    “Four at the most.” I gave him a winning look. “My husband must know nothing about this, you understand.”
    Signor Canelli looked startled for a moment, then downright scared. “Yes, yes, Your Ladyship. But we must allow time for the pigments to dry—”
    “Good. Then that’s settled. Can we make a start now ? I see the milliner at noon.”
    If Martin’s friend was surprised that I planned to pose fully naked, he hid it well. After his first shock, he grew thoughtful, even suggesting a ruffle of drapery here , or a wisp of lace there , to spare my blushes and enhance the effect.
    I’d also brought my grandmother’s diamonds, to make sure I looked recognizable. In Martin’s loose, flowing style, his subjects were hard to make out.
    Interplays of light and dark in the new Italian fashion looked all very fine in a grand modern salon, no doubt, but from what I’d seen of his work, my face might be hard to recognize. My lavish diamonds, by contrast, were very distinctive. I wore them often, to great acclaim.
    I undressed behind a screen in the far corner, arranging my hair and my jewels to best advantage. Then I lay back with a sigh on a vast pile of cushions in the middle of the room.
    Signor Canelli had already placed another, larger screen opposite, pierced with oriental carvings to let light through. It covered a doorway leading to workshops beyond and hid the artist and most of the easel.
    Martin, I noticed, kept very quiet and well out of sight, no doubt mindful of his commission.
    For the next hour, I simply relaxed. To take my mind off the raw studio smells of paint, linseed oil and turpentine, I thought about Jacquard. Soon I could almost feel my heart beat faster and my skin glow. It made posing all too easy. I had merely to think of him sternly watching, directing me to keep still.
    From behind the screen came much heavy breathing and the scratch of chalks on paper during the first stage, a set of rapid pastel studies outlining my pose and capturing light and shade. At last Signor Canelli called out from behind the screen.
    “Now a color test, Your Ladyship. A small sketch in oils to catch your range of skin tones. After that, the sittings will be plain sailing, merely to confirm tints and highlights. The bulk of the rest can be done in the workshop.”
    Now the smells grew stronger. I heard the clatter of brushes and the whisper of rag, and finally my first sitting was done. I struggled back into my things, hard to do neatly without my maid. I finished just as Signor Canelli stepped out from behind the screen.
    “Thank you so much,” I gushed. “I hope the artist was pleased. He was so quiet that I’d hardly have known he was there.”
    Signor Canelli looked bewildered. “Ah…yes, Your Ladyship. Indeed, the artist is quite overcome by your beauty and the boldness of your—”
    “Oh, good. Then I look forward to our next session, sir.” I hurried to the door. “Must dash. My milliner awaits.”
    So far, so good.
     
    * * * *
     
    To my relief, Jacquard seemed almost cheerful over luncheon. “You enjoyed your errands this morning? You’ve barely stopped smiling since you sat down.”
    “I had a most successful morning, sir. You?”
    “Not as thrilling as yours, I’ll wager.” His mouth twisted at the corner. “If my tailor put a sparkle like that in my eye, I’d punch his jaw. So, did you make up with Lady Hornsea? And how was the gossip? Tell me all, in case I’ve missed some.”
    Drat. I’d forgotten Jacquard knew all my engagements. His secretary kept a list.
    “I-I cut some of my visits. The milliner took longer than I thought.” I felt myself go pink.
    Jacquard’s hand paused as he reached for his glass. He eyed me in silence for a moment, then drained his wine.
    For a dizzying second, I thought he would press the point. Mercifully, he let it pass.
    Later I was changing into an afternoon gown and clinging to the bedpost for my maid