Portrait

B Glad Judith

Description

Even in the Regency, marketing plans were useful, especially when parents were seeking to marry a daughter advantageously. Lord and Lady Curran expect their daughter's portrait to convince potential suitors of her beauty, her worth and her desirability. Of course, it must also show her as a perfect, obedient, demure lady.Kermit Sutherland is a popular portraitist, so of course he is engaged to produce the portrait. What Chastity's parents don't understand is that Sutherland paints more than the surface. He has a knack for seeing into a woman's heart and soul.Under her obedient facade, Chastity harbors a rebellious heart, and Sutherland sees it and encourages it. When her portrait is finished, it might show more than her parents--or she--have bargained for.

Sujets

• Historical romance
• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Uncial Press
• Date de parution: 15 mai 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 3
• EAN13: 9781601740731
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Portrait
A Regency Fable
 
By
Judith B. Glad
 
 
Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon 2009
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are productsof the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Anyresemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirelycoincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-073-1 ISBN 10: 1-60174-073-5
Copyright © 2009 by Judith B. Glad
Cover design Copyright © 2009 by Judith B. Glad
All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work inwhole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known orhereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.
Published by Uncial Press, an imprint of GCT, Inc.
Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com
The Portrait
Fortesque opened the parlor door. "Mr. Kermit Sutherland," he announced, his toneindicating that the person about to enter was a bit less than a gentleman, but a trace higher than atradesman. He stepped aside.
Uncertain what to expect, I found the breath catching in my chest as Mr. Sutherlandstrode into the parlor. He was quite the most unusual man I had ever seen. Craggy faced,clean-shaven, with a sleek mane of deep red-brown hanging straight and silky below the level of hiswide shoulders. He paused just inside the door, staring at me.
I know I colored under his scrutiny. No gentleman would ever stare so openly and sopenetratingly at a lady. Fortesque's instinct had been correct.
He spoke without looking at Mother. "This is the young woman I am to paint?" Theslight emphasis on the first word held a hint of scorn.
"This is my daughter, Miss Wayman." A slight lift of Mother's chins signaled me tostand. I did so, reluctantly, feeling as if his deep-set, dark eyes were seeing right through myclothing. The heat in my cheeks spread into my body, until I wanted to reach for the fan I hadlaid on the small table beside my chair.
"Step forward."
"I...I beg your pardon."
"Step forward girl. I want to see all of you, not just your front."
"Do as he says, Chastity," Mother commanded. I wondered at her tolerance of the man'srudeness. She rarely stood for lack of good manners or respect in anyone.
I stepped to the middle of the room. The sensation of being stripped to nakedness grewas he slowly circled me.
"Good posture," he muttered. He tugged at a curl, dislodging half a dozen hairpins."Hair's a rotten color, but a little cobalt blue in the mix should liven it up."
I shivered as his fingers drifted across my nape.
"Skin's like silk. No, that's too common. Ivory. The finest African ivory. It gleams." Hecupped my chin. "Let's see your teeth."
I wanted to bite the finger that stroked my lower lip. Instead I clamped my teethtight.
"Your teeth, girl! Or are they rotten and black?"
I bared them. I am, however, a lady. I did not stick my tongue out at him, temptedthough I was.
"There! That's what I wanted to see. That sparkle in your eye!" He flicked a fingeragainst my cheek.
It stung. I jerked free of his loose clasp and stepped back. "Are you quite finished withyour appraisal, sir?"
"Chastity!" Mother cried. "Behave--"
His lip curled and one eyebrow rose. "Never mind, Lady Curran. I like to see a bit ofspirit in my subjects. One becomes tired of working with perfect little dolls." To me he said, "Getused to having my eyes and hands on you, missy. There's no one in London who can paint youmore beautiful than I. But I can't do it by admiring you from afar."
Mother and he made the arrangements for my sittings. I did not participate, wanting aslittle to do with the man as possible. Revealing my intense dislike of him to Mother would do meno good. She was convinced that a portrait of me, to be displayed over the fireplace here in theparlor, would add to my consequence and make me more attractive to would-be suitors.
Mother and Father were determined to see me wed advantageously, with little regard formy sentiments toward my future husband. I was resigned to following their dictates. Nineteenyears of living with them had taught me that their vision for my future would prevail.
The first sitting was on Wednesday, one week after my introduction to Mr. Sutherland.He arrived early in the morning, followed by a servant loaded down with an assortment of sticksand boxes. I watched from my bed chamber as they climbed to the third floor where the artisthad approved a large, empty room with a northern exposure, calling it "as good as can beexpected in a residence."
Mother had not been amused. "I supposed one must put up with a certain artistictemperament," she said to Father, "when one considers his reputation."
The room was directly over my bedchamber, and I listened curiously through the nexthalf-hour to the considerable thumping and bumping that occurred. Eventually the servantdescended the stairs. There was not a sound from overhead for several moments, then I heardfootsteps crossing the room and descending the stairs. I remained inside my bedchamber, curledon the window seat, book in hand. To this day I cannot remember what I was reading...if I wasreading.
Shortly thereafter Mattie, the maid who usually brought my morning chocolate, tappedlightly at my door. "Miss? Miss, you're wanted upstairs."
We ascended, I not entirely without trepidation. The man unsettled me in a way no onehad. There was no pleasure in my anticipation of the next few weeks. Ever since I had arrived inLondon, just ten days ago, I had been dreading the entire adventure. Other girls might, as Motherhad often told me, look forward to their Season with delight and eagerness. I, who had neverbeen more than five miles from Father's principal seat, dreaded the entire process. I would farrather stay in the country, would prefer to remain unmarried, for I did not deal well with others,having been a solitary child without playmates. Only a nurse until I was five, then a series ofgovernesses, most of them pleasant enough but lacking warmth.
The draperies had been stripped from the tall dormer windows and the bright winterlight streamed through, turning the polished oaken floor to a pond of molten gold, reflectingfrom the white walls until one's eyes were dazzled. I paused at the doorway, squinting.
"Don't dawdle, girl. Come here! And you--" He glowered at Mattie. "Go away. I don'tpaint in public."
Mattie hesitated. "My maid will remain," I said. "Surely my mother made thatclear."
"Are you afraid I'll ravish you?" His voice was no longer harsh, but was a seductivepurr, one that sent small shivers down my spine.
After our first encounter, I had resolved not to let him gain the upper hand again. I liftedmy chin in perfect imitation of Mother and said, "Not at all sir. However, there are certainproprieties to be observed, and I am careful to do so."
"Huh! Silly twit." He turned his back and fiddled with objects on the tall table beside hiseasel. After a moment, he looked at me over his shoulder. "Well? Why aren't you sitting? There.On that stool."
For the first time I saw the tall stool sitting alone in the middle of the room. Surely hewould not paint me without background, simply perched there like a child on a fence. I openedmy mouth to protest.
"Sit, sit!" His pointing finger commanded me. I decided to save my arguments for amore important issue. I sat, exposing a considerable length of ankle while doing so.
His eyes gleamed.
I felt heat rise in my cheeks.
"Look at me."
Reluctantly I turned my face toward his, letting my gaze rest upon his chin. It wassquare and firm, the chin of a man who gave little quarter.
He began to sketch, his hand moving quickly across the wide sheet. The soft rasp ofcharcoal against paper was the only sound. After an interminable time, he said, "Raise your head.I want to see your eyes." Without looking at me, he tore the sheet of paper from the large tabletand sailed it across the room. It came to rest against the far wall, just out of my sight.
I turned to look.
"Damn it girl! Look at me."
I jerked my chin higher and glared at him. It was a mistake.
His eyes blazed hot green fire, compelling, mesmerizing. I could not look away, couldnot even blink. Within me a small core of warmth bloomed, just enough to make me wonder ifthere were not something after all to the fairy tales of love and passion in the half-dozenromantic novels left to me by the only governess I had found a kindred spirit.
She lasted five weeks before Mother discharged her as too frivolous.
In the several years since then, I had decided the stories were the imaginings ofdemented minds. Men simply did not behave with such silliness. Imagine a man believing he hadto woo and win a maid with candy and flowers. Why should he go to such effort when all he hadto do was buy her from her parents?
His gaze held mine. The warmth flared into heat, suffusing my entire body, until I felt afaint sheen of perspiration upon my upper lip and between my breasts.
"Don't move! No, don't close your mouth either." His hand swept over the paper,moving with the speed of a darting hummingbird. As he worked, he muttered to himself. I heardonly the occasional word. They made little sense. At least he no longer held me captive with hisgaze.
"Enticing...that little curve...there, now to...slight slant...no! Innocent seduction..." Aftera interminable time, he looked at me again. "Stick out your tongue."
"I beg your pardon!"
"Don't poker up that way.