The Portrait by Megan Chance Read Free Book Online Page B

with some of that cognac you're so fond of." He glanced around the room, taking a cursory inventory of Clarisse, of Daniel, Tobias, and Peter, before his pale gaze came to a stop at Imogene. He stared at her for moments, long enough that she felt uncomfortable, and then his brow furrowed in surprise. He turned back to Whitaker. "Well, well. You have a new student? I didn't realize you were planning to take on another."
    Whitaker shut the door. His frown deepened. "You're interrupting my class, Childs."
    "Send them home early." Childs shrugged. The motion made the bright strands of his long hair catch the sunlight. It seemed impossibly golden against the dark blue of his coat, gold as a new coin. "Besides, you've got the key to my studio, and I need it now, before my trunk arrives."
    Whitaker's mouth was set in a thin, disapproving line. His green eyes burned. His gaze swept Daniel, Tobias, and Peter before he jerked his head toward the door. "Very well then. We're done for today."
    Immediately the three got to their feet. Imogene waited for him to exclude her, to tell her to stay, that there was some other project he wanted her to work on, another canvas to prime. But it was as if he'd forgotten her, and she felt a brief, embarrassing wave of disappointment as he crossed the room, disappearing behind the tapestry-hung doorway, seemingly oblivious to the bustle going on around him.
    The last thing she wanted to do was leave now. But she dropped the charcoal stick into her case and gathered up the rest of her things anyway, heading distractedly toward the door, still thinking about that moment with Whitaker, the artist's sight—
    "Not so fast, chérie ."
    She felt the soft press of a hand on her arm. Imogene jumped and spun around, nearly falling into Childs, who stood there with a small smile on his lips. "Stay and talk to me a bit, won't you, while I wait for your moody tutor?"
    She stared at him, too surprised to do more than gape. Childs was the kind of man who never looked twice at a woman like her, the kind of polished sophisticate who noticed a Chloe but never an Imogene. He was like the men who had haunted her parents' parlor in Nashville , men who hovered, smiling and too kind, while they waited for her sister to make an appearance. A man practiced in flirtation and games.
    A man like Nicholas.
    She had no idea why he was standing next to her. A man like this always had a reason. It made her uncomfortable that she didn't know what it was, and she was too muddled to think it through, was still too stunned by Whitaker's teaching to care. Imogene stepped away. "I'm afraid I can't," she said uneasily. "I'm sorry, but I must go."
    "You must? Whyever for?" Childs asked casually. He didn't release her arm, and though his touch was light, Imogene felt the slight pressure, the insistence in his long, slender fingers. He lifted a dark blond brow, looked at her with that pale blue gaze. "Is it because we haven't been properly introduced? I assure you I can amend that error, ma chérie ." He made a slight bow. "I am Frederic Childs."
    Reluctantly Imogene offered her hand. "Imogene Carter," she said.
    He let go of her arm long enough to take her fingers in his. "Imogene." On his tongue the name sounded like the finest French delicacy, smooth and luscious. Vaguely obscene. "How lovely. So tell me, Imogene Carter, what you're doing in my friend's studio. I must admit I find it . . . curious . . . that Jonas is teaching a woman."
    "My godfather knows Mr. Whitaker quite well."
    "Your godfather?"
    "Thomas Gosney."
    "Gosney?" Childs's eyebrows rose in surprise. It disappeared quickly, melting into thoughtfulness. "How intriguing." He released her hand and gave her a captivating smile—one so bright it left her feeling dazed. "Well then, Miss Imogene Carter. If you ever decide you've had enough of Jonas, I hope you'll consider taking up with me."
    So much like Nicholas. The thought made her a little sick, and she stepped away from him,