Free The Stepsister's Triumph by Darcie Wilde

sorry,” she whispered.
    â€œDon’t be. Find your place again. The flowers. Very good.”
    Madelene sat still. She was good at this. She could do it for hours on end. She had sat still in ballrooms, in drawing rooms, in parlors, in carriages. But that was when she wished to be unnoticed. Now, this once, she wanted to be seen, and that made all the difference.
    Don’t
, she told herself.
He’s already made the situation plain. He wants a subject for his painting. Anything else was your imagination. You wanted to know, and now you do.
    Madelene waited for her bashfulness and shame to take hold. Those feelings might be unpleasant, but they were familiar, and she knew what to do with them. But they did not come. Instead, there was a restlessness and an awkward consciousness of growing boredom. There was also the nagging desire to watch whatever Benedict might be doing, and to delight in watching him just as she had before.
    Don’t. Think of something else.
    But nothing else would come. Her mind filled with the memory of seeing Benedict work last winter—the line of his body, the swift and graceful movement of his hands. She remembered how tense his shoulders had been, how he seemed able and willing to sit perfectly still, surveying his grand work.
    What does he see now? What is he thinking?
    Benedict glanced up from his sketch, frowned, and told her what he was thinking.
    â€œLook. At. The. Flowers. Please.”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œYou’re not. You’re looking at me.”
    â€œI’m not.” He raised his eyes and met hers. “I am,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”
    She stared at the flowers, trying to keep her growing misery from showing in her expression. This wasn’t at all what she’d thought it would be. She’d entertained dozens of different fancies since Adele told her Lord Benedict had agreed to take their commission. She’d lain in bed at night and imagined she’d suddenly gain all a belle’s skills. She’d dreamed how she’d laugh and flirt and make him smile. Benedict’s smile would be . . . would be . . . Her imagination failed her. She had not yet seen Lord Benedict return a smile, a genuine smile, not just a polite curve of the lips.
    That didn’t stop her more outrageous fantasies from forming. In those, he put down his pencils and his papers and came to stand in front of her. He lifted those graceful hands to her brow, and one by one, he pulled the pins from her hair.
It’s better this way
, her imaginary Benedict murmured as he lowered her curls to her shoulders and let his fingers brush her skin.
This way, and this.
His warm, gentle touch trailed across her shoulders, her arms.
    Madelene didn’t hear Benedict’s pencil moving. Her eyes flickered sideways. He wasn’t drawing now. He was staring, his dark eyes wide, his face tight with astonishment, and something else.
    Need.
    It was unmistakable. She’d never had a man look at her with such naked desire, but her woman’s heart recognized it instantly and leapt in delight.
    Then Lord Benedict dropped his gaze. “I, ah, I apologize,” he muttered. “My charcoal snapped. I . . .” He groped on the easel’s tray for another stick. “Look at the flowers. Please.”
    Madelene did. Her heart was thundering in her chest, and she was conscious of a new plummeting feeling that chilled and deadened her previous delight.
    Disappointment.
    Was this all she was going to gain from her careful arrangements? All the hoping and . . . other things . . . in the dark. This was it? One heated glance and a stiff neck from sitting for so long?
    The sound of Benedict’s pencil against his paper became louder, harsher, as if it was whispering angrily at her.
    â€œLook at the flowers, please,” he said.
    â€œLook at the flowers, please . . .”
    â€œDamn it,