The Portrait

The Portrait by Megan Chance Read Free Book Online

Book: The Portrait by Megan Chance Read Free Book Online
Authors: Megan Chance
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Historical
remembering that brief moment when she'd seen his vulnerability, his weakness. He can't force you away.
    Though he seemed anything but weak now. She felt his presence long before he reached her—a stirring energy, a rush of thought and movement that seemed to make the very air shiver—and when he stood behind her she felt his gaze as strongly as a touch.
    "You're doing a remarkable job mixing the gesso, Miss Carter. It usually only takes minutes, yet you've managed to stretch it out to nearly an hour. Truly amazing."
    Imogene kept her eyes steady on the canvas, dipped the brush into the gesso.
    "Like this, Miss Carter." He snatched the brush from her hand and leaned over her shoulder, spreading the milky liquid onto the canvas with clean, efficient strokes, each one even, each graceful. Then he handed the brush back to her. "Try it."
    He stood so close she felt his breath rustling her hair, felt the warm moistness of it against her cheek. Imogene took the brush without looking at him, concentrating on keeping her movement steady and assured as she worked the canvas.
    "You're dripping gesso down your skirt, Miss Carter." His voice was soft and mocking in her ear. "I hope you pay your laundress well."
    He cannot force you away. Imogene gripped the brush more firmly, spreading the gesso over the canvas as evenly as she could. The liquid dripped onto the fabric, and hastily she swept it up, spreading it across, trying to imitate his clean, even strokes—and failing miserably.
    "I told you to give it only a thin coat of gesso, didn't I? That will take all day to dry." His voice dropped to a whisper, he turned to walk away. "It looks like you won't get the chance to paint Clarisse after all."
    Deliberately Imogene brought back the image of him yesterday, the way he'd stood there cradling his false hand, that moment of clumsiness and vulnerability, and it gave her strength. She spun around to face him. "Mr. Whitaker," she said, and her voice came out breathy and a little too desperate. She winced at the sound of it. "Mr. Whitaker—"
    He stopped, looking vaguely surprised. "What is it?"
    "Do you—do you think I might at least sketch her today?"
    This time his surprise was too obvious to misinterpret. He frowned. "You want to sketch Clarisse?"
    Imogene nodded. "Yes. Please."
    He hesitated, and Imogene knew without a doubt that he was going to say no, knew he would condemn her to another day of dripping gesso down a canvas, of keeping her chained to these uninspired, unfulfilling tasks that taught her nothing about proportion or colors or form, and she clenched the brush in frustration, tried to think of what Chloe would do now, what she would say.
    But then he smiled—a nasty, disturbing smile—and chuckled quietly. "Ah, well, I would hate to see you miss the lesson completely. You brought your sketch pad, I take it? I suppose you can draw Clarisse—or make an attempt, at least."
    Her frustration vanished in the clean joy of relief, of victory. Quickly, before he could change his mind, Imogene grabbed the sketch pad she'd left leaning against her case and went to her chair. She felt the apprehension of the other students in the air, knew they were watching her, waiting to see what Whitaker's game was. She met Peter's gaze with her own, saw his uncomfortable smile, his mouthed "Careful!" But she only smiled back at him and sat down, determined not to let his warning keep her from taking advantage of Whitaker's sudden boon. This was the first time she'd ever been allowed to join other artists, the first time she'd ever been made a part of things, and she wasn't going to let anything spoil it. Not even Whitaker himself.
    She looked up to see him coming toward her, his step slow and menacing. Imogene took a deep breath, ignoring him as she reached for a short and crumbling stick of charcoal. She worked to still the excited, nervous trembling of her fingers and focused on Clarisse, looking for the form as her father had taught her,

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