Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(10)

After a few minutes, Mr. Finn clapped the pencil to the table and turned the easel so she could see what he’d done. “Not elegant, but it’s the sort of picture I do.”

Celia looked into her own face. Not posed and regal, as in the portraits she’d sat for in her father’s house, but as she looked at this exact moment. Her lips were parted, her eyes focused, her brows drawn. One curl of her dark hair had escaped the careful knot at the back of her neck and trickled down her shoulder, and the lace cap on top of her head was slightly askew. Celia put a hand to it, and found it out of place in truth.

“That is remarkable,” she said in breathless pleasure.

“It’s a trick, but one that makes me a living. Now then—you’re having the lesson, my lady, not I.”

He clipped a new sheet to the easel then picked up the pencil and thrust it back at her. “More than one finger, lass. I want an entire hand.”

A grin spread across his face as he spoke, as though he’d said something naughty. Celia’s blood warmed, even though she had no idea what other meaning the words could have.

She took the pencil, her suddenly tight stays constricting her breath. Mr. Finn shoved his chair back with strong feet, sliding into the table and slapping his hand to it. Whatever bond held his hair broke, sending a thick red-brown wave to his shoulders.

Celia drew it, then the curve of his jaw, the square of his chin, his eyes full of fire. She was supposed to be sketching his hand, but an abrupt fever streamed through her, moving the pencil before she could stop it.

His face took shape under her fingers, a Scottish soldier, hard and fearsome, yet full of intensity and warmth. The protective look he’d given the child in his arms came through, as well as the teasing gleam he’d reserved for Celia.

Celia’s arm ached, her throat was dry, her eyes burning. But she couldn’t stop, not until— “Celia, you are lingering,” came a brisk voice. “Your next student has arrived, Mr. Finn.”

Celia jerked and dropped the pencil, gasping as her breath poured back into her. The mists cleared to show her Lady Flora poised in the doorway, her wide skirts touching its frame, her eagle gaze fixed on Celia. Every entrance Lady Flora made was a portrait, a beautiful woman pausing in grace before she glided into a room.

Why the devil she’d come to announce Mr. Finn’s next appointment herself instead of sending a footman, Celia had no idea. But she was there now, gazing in narrow-eyed disapproval at Celia hunched before the easel and Mr. Finn lolling on her gilded furniture from Paris.

Mr. Finn calmly leaned down and picked up his shirt, bunching it up to pull over his head and settle on his shoulders. Lady Flora watched him then took in Celia’s hot face with keen, knowing eyes. She marched over to the easel as Celia slid off the stool, and frowned at what Celia had drawn.

“A good likeness,” she pronounced. Her tone betrayed her doubt that Celia could have rendered such a thing. “A very good likeness.” She glared at Mr. Finn as though annoyed with him.

Mr. Finn returned the look blandly. “Lady Celia has skill.”

Celia knew her drawing had caught Mr. Finn well. She’d captured the good humor in his face, his unruly hair, his eyes holding a wicked light as well as an emptiness, as though he had a gap in his soul. Celia had sketched in a quick shadow behind his head to give the picture depth, and now she fancied she saw another in that shadow, a second man as strong as he was, but this one as insubstantial as smoke.

Lady Flora’s frown turned to a scowl. She snatched the paper from the easel, the clips that held it down flying. She shoved the picture at Mr. Finn. “This much skill?”

Mr. Finn gazed at the picture first in surprise, then with admiration, and finally in dismay. “Mm,” he said grimly. “I think we’ll abandon anatomy and work on bowls of fruit.”

If Celia did have a gift, it was of being able to detach herself from a situation, to see it with the eyes of practical sense instead of emotion. Any of her friends would have burst into tears if Lady Flora and Mr. Finn had looked in such disparagement at her drawing. Celia only watched the two of them, trying to decide what had upset them about it.

It wasn’t Celia’s talent, or lack of it, she surmised. They weren’t condemning the likeness itself, but the fact that she’d caught it.

Why? If Mr. Finn were truly an enemy Highlander in disguise, why on earth would he be here in Lady Flora’s grand house on Grosvenor Square, teaching art to ladies of the ton? And why would Lady Flora, of all people, invite him to stay?

It was an oddity, and oddities intrigued her.

Lady Flora swiftly rolled the drawing into a scroll. “I will keep this for you, Celia. You must be off now.”

As Lady Flora turned away, Mr. Finn caught Celia’s gaze. His eyes held understanding and amusement, recognition that both of them were trapped in Lady Flora’s snare. Celia flashed a smile at him, acknowledging, and he gave her a swift wink.

Lady Flora turned back, and they both immediately assumed neutral expressions. Out of the corner of her eye, Celia saw Mr. Finn’s lips twitch.

Lady Flora waved at Celia with the rolled paper. “Off you go, Celia. Rivers will see you out. Be here tomorrow morning, promptly at eight. Promptly, mind.”

Celia curtsied and then held out her hand. “Might I take my drawing, so I can study it in the meantime?”

“No,” Lady Flora snapped, then she deliberately softened her tone. “No, dear Celia. I will keep it for you, and when you are finished with your instruction, we’ll have a little exhibition in my salon. You will like that, won’t you?”