He was so bemused with her ire, he didn’t understand what she was about until she’d gone up on her toes and slid a hand to his nape. Her other hand rested on his chest, and a whiff of jasmine came to him on the thought: She’s going to kiss me.
And I’m going to let her.
Soft, soft lips pressed not against his cheek—Lady Genevieve was no coward—but to his mouth. The kiss was chaste—no tongues, no expressing the groan that lodged in his chest, no plunging his hands into her hair and desperately clutching her to him. And yet, he could taste anger on her and a frustration that wasn’t entirely artistic.
When she might have eased away, he settled his arms around her and brushed his mouth over hers. Kisses could be about anger, but they could be about so much more too: joy, pleasure, comfort… lust.
He dropped his arms. “Happy Christmas, Lady Genevieve.”
She smiled up at him, her anger nowhere to be seen. “My father says the traditions should be upheld where they don’t interfere with good sense, and you said mistletoe was a harmless tradition.”
He glanced up. “In this house, it appears to be a much-respected harmless tradition. Would you like me to sit to you while we’re waiting for the children?”
Because for the first time in years of sketching, painting, drawing, and otherwise rendering artistic images, it occurred to Elijah that the sitter was in an excellent position to study the artist.
“No, thank you.”
“No? But I owe you hours, my lady.” Eight long, lovely hours when he might study her chin, the curve of her shoulders, the way light shifted in her green eyes.
She stopped outside the door of his studio. “By candlelight, that was my condition. All of Antoine’s classes were by daylight.”
What was she about, and did he want to stop her?
“Some days were gloomy. You’ve sketched by candlelight, haven’t you? I’m sure you’ve had other subjects oblige you in this regard.”
She passed through the door, and Elijah was pleased to see somebody had started the fire. A tea tray sat near the hearth, the teapot swaddled in thick white toweling. Morning light, fresh and bright, came streaming in the windows.
Lady Genevieve turned in a slow circle. “We will need to make some adjustments, Mr. Harrison.”
Please God she wanted to hang some mistletoe in his studio. Elijah watched the sunbeams dance along the gold of her hair and realized he’d just had his first holiday-minded impulse in ten years.
“In what regard must we make adjustments, and you never answered my question.” She was forever dodging his questions.
She crossed her arms. “What question?”
“Have you sketched by candlelight?” And what would she look like, sketching by candlelight?
“I’ve sketched my dear sisters, though they aren’t particularly obliging about holding a pose. I’ve painted enough still lifes to cover every surface in Carlton House.” She aimed a glare at the hearth. “I’ve sketched Timothy in every position imaginable from every possible angle.”
Dislike for this Timothy fellow rose up, ranking nearly equal with dislike for holiday folderol—most holiday folderol. “Who is Timothy?”
Her glower shifted, taking on a hint of despair. “My blasted cat.”
He might have laughed, out of relief, but the image of her relegated to depending on the patience of a mute beast was not amusing. “Try something for me, Genevieve.”
“We need to find some toys,” she said as if she hadn’t heard him. “The boys will be here directly, and if we don’t entertain them, they’ll entertain themselves.”
Dreadful thought. “This won’t take but a moment. I want you to curse.”
Not only were her arms crossed, but she’d drawn herself up, aligned herself with some invisible, invincible posture board such as Helen of Troy might have relied upon to get all those ships launched in a single day. “I beg your pardon?”
“Curse. Call him your blasted, damned cat.”
Her brows knitted, making her look like one of Kesmore’s daughters. “I love Timothy.”
“Of course you do.” Lucky cat. “But you do not love having to rely on his good offices for your candlelit sketches.” He prowled closer. “You do not love being shuffled about from family member to family member.” Another step, so he was almost nose to nose with her. “I daresay you do not love baking.”
“I rather don’t.”
He unwrapped her arms and kept her hands in his. “Genevieve.”
“I do not enjoy baking in the least.”
He waited, certain if he were patient, she’d rise to the challenge.
The corners of her mouth quivered. “I perishing hate all the mess and heat.”
“Of course you do.”
“It’s a dashed nuisance, and one gets sticky.” A smile started, turning up her lips, lighting her eyes.
“How sticky?
“Blasted, damned sticky.”
“Say it again.”
She beamed at him. “Perishing, blasted, damned, damned sticky.”
He wrapped his arms around her. “Well done. You must curse for me more often, Genevieve. It makes your eyes dance.”
And her cursing made him happy too. As she hugged him back, it occurred to Elijah that Christmas was touted as the season for giving, though in recent years, the occasion hadn’t arisen for him to do much of that.
He’d give to her. He’d give her a safe place to curse, a place to draw as she pleased, and some kisses. If he counted his approval of the mistletoe tradition, that was two holiday sentiments in one morning.
Elijah dropped his arms and stepped back. Two sentiments signified nothing.
“You said something about toys?”
She blinked, though the smile did not entirely leave her countenance. “Toys. Yes, for the children.”
“So I might pose them with their familiar objects?”
“Why, no, Elijah. We need toys because we’re going to spend the next hour playing.”
Myriad prurient connotations danced in his head in the instant he stared down at her. He mentally nudged them aside when he should have taken a cricket bat to them. “Playing?”
“I assumed you’d take Sir Joshua’s approach to children as subjects.”
She had gold flecks in those green eyes, and Elijah didn’t know any Sir Josh— “Sir Joshua Reynolds. He played with the children he painted.”
“Of course.” She took a step back, looking self-conscious. “Not everybody ascribes to the same method, but these are very young children. I assumed you’d—”
“Of course. The children will have to be comfortable with me if I’m to spend hours taking their likeness. Toys are a given.”
He’d dreaded this aspect of the commission. Dreaded the notion of getting down on the floor and playing at jacks or Patience or some inane, juvenile pastime. The dread had faded to a mild distaste. “What do you recommend?”
She prattled on about playing cards and spinning tops, toy soldiers, and jumping ropes, while Elijah thought back through their short, unusual conversation. He did not want to spend the morning playing with children, but he’d manage that.
Something she’d said had pleased him, pleased him even more than her hesitant, polite cursing. Something she’d said rivaled even that kiss, which he took as a perfunctory nod to holiday protocol on her part, one that had turned pleasurable and sweet despite its origins in seasonal nonsense.
Something…
He lit upon it with the glee of a boy opening a holiday present, absolutely certain his heart’s desire lay under the pretty paper.
He’d called her Genevieve, and she hadn’t objected. Again, she hadn’t objected, and better still, she had called him Elijah.