Page 39 of Holly & Folly

He chuckled as she traced the other side of his collar, then stepped back to survey the finished product.

She let out a sigh and pulled the paper from the wall. “It is not a factual likeness, perhaps, but it captures your capricious spirit.”

He stepped off the stool and came to look at it over her shoulder.

Something very much like a snort ruffled the hair at her ear, and she looked over her shoulder, her breath catching when her nose nearly collided with his.

“It is every bit as good as I had hoped it would be,” he said, his voice shaking with amusement.

“And every bit as good as you deserve, my lord,” she said, the last two words coming out with a bite of acerbity. “Let us see how you do.” She set down the silhouette on the floor against the wall, gave the pencil to him, then took her place on the stool, trying to decide whether to be the model of stillness or to make his task as difficult as possible.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him go to the wall and hang a new piece of paper.

He took the pencil and put it to the paper, and Nell understood the impulse to turn her head and watch him. Smiling, she surrendered to it.

His hand halted on the paper, and he turned his head to look at her.

“Miss Prescott,” he said patiently. “Would you kindly turn your head forward?”

Without a word, she complied.

He went back to his task, and Nell let him trace for a few seconds before slowly turning her head to watch him.

He stopped again, and even though she could not see his mouth, she saw the lift of his cheek betraying a smile.

He strode over and stood before her, his free hand on his waist. “My dear Miss Prescott, every time you turn your head, I must stop tracing your lovely silhouette. And even when you return your head to its place, it is not in the same exact position it was before.”

“Maddening, isn’t it?” she said sweetly.

His lip lifted at one edge, and he put a finger to her cheek, guiding it back to its proper place. His eyes flitted to the wall to check that the shadow matched the little work he had done.

Nell admired his real-life profile, thinking yet again how unjust a world it was where a man born with every privilege of position and wealth should also be so handsome. Or that his touch should affect her so.

He dropped the finger from her cheek and returned to the silhouette.

How very ordinary her profile must look. At least it matched every other ordinary thing about her. The only extraordinary thing she could boast of was the scandal she had made. What an offering!

The next time she shifted—this time not on purpose—he walked over to her with a feigned breath of aggravation to move her head to the precise position in which he needed it.

Gaze fixed on the wall, his finger lifted her chin from beneath. “There.” His gaze met hers, and he smiled.

She returned it, and his finger lingered, his eyes searching hers.

Her breathing paused, suspended as they regarded one another in the flickering candlelight. It gave a false sense of privacy that made Nell’s skin tingle and her eyes want to explore every bit of his face.

He dropped his finger and cleared his throat. “If you move again, I shall have no choice but to give you horns.”

“Your mother would like that.”

He laughed. “Be still, Miss Prescott, or horns shall be the least of your worries.”

“Oh?” But she kept as still as she could.

He tweaked the position of her face once more. “Yes. For, I find that I have the same problem as you.”

“A mortifying lack of feminine accomplishment?”

“No, though I suppose I do have that problem as well. The problem”—he met her eyes again, and his gaze flickered to her lips for a fraction of an instant before he dropped his hand—“is that when I am with you, I am inclined to do things I ought not.”