PAINTING PENELOPE

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  PAINTING PENELOPE

  by

  LYNDI LAMONT

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

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  Painting Penelope

  An Amber Quill Press Book

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2004 by Lyndi Lamont

  ISBN 1-59279-227-8

  Cover Art © 2004 Trace Edward Zaber

  Layout and Formatting

  Provided by: ElementalAlchemy.com

  Published in the United States of America

  PAINTING PENELOPE

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  Lisbon, 1810

  He was watching her. Again.

  Penelope Porter gathered the folds of her brown cloak closer and attempted to disappear into the crowd. The people of Lisbon, attired in their colorful best, strolled leisurely on their way to Mass in a cheerful, meandering mob.

  She glanced at her observer. He was none other than Captain Logan Wilding of the Devil’s Own Connaught Rangers. The dashing rogue had the worst reputation of any man in his regiment. Her heart beat faster as the handsome Irishman smiled. Why was he doing this? It seemed like every time she turned around, there he was. What did he want with her?

  Tired of the cat and mouse game, she worked her way through the crowd toward him.

  He gave her a slight bow. “Good morning, Miss Porter, you’re looking well today.”

  She murmured her thanks, thinking that “looking well” did not begin to describe Captain Wilding. His smile carved two deep grooves in his cheeks and his light blue eyes seemed all the more dramatic in his deeply tanned face. Firm, sensual lips seemed perpetually curled as if always on the edge of laughter. He had to be at least six feet tall, with massive shoulders that filled his scarlet coat, and a body that tapered down to narrow hips and muscular legs. A lock of wavy, black hair fell over his forehead giving him a boyish look that belied his reputation.

  She struggled to keep her tone of voice cool and disinterested. “Did you want something, Captain Wilding?”

  “A few moments of your time. May I escort you home?” he asked, offering his arm.

  It would be impolite to refuse, so she gingerly placed her hand on his arm, aware of the iron muscles under her fingers and the warmth of his body when the crowd forced them together. Heat surged through her body despite the cool breeze off the Tagus River. She fought to contain her reaction to him.

  As they walked, she glanced around to see if anyone she knew had observed them, not certain if being seen with Captain Wilding would ruin or enhance her reputation. The man’s name certainly suited him. Logan Wilding was, indeed, wild to a fault—by all accounts, a rakehell popular with the younger officers, not to mention the light-skirted females who inevitably accompanied an army on the march. But the older officers tended to frown on his escapades and the respectable ladies gave him a wide berth. What on earth could he want with her?

  Captain Wilding cleared his throat and asked, “Did your father speak to you about my offer?”

  Surprised, she glanced up at him. Why does the dratted man have to be so tall? And so good looking? “I have no idea what you mean. I haven’t spoken to Papa this morning. He came in very late last night.” And drunk as a lord. Was that Captain Wilding’s doing?

  Wilding frowned. “I had best let him explain matters to you then.”

  “Captain, I do not understand—”

  He smiled down at her and her pulse raced. Fool, are you so lonely that attention from any man is welcome?

  “We will speak later. I believe this is your lodging house.” With a bow, he was on his way.

  Penny frowned as she climbed the stairs to the winter quarters she shared with her father. It sounded as if Papa had some explaining to do. She had a very bad feeling about this.

  “You did what?”

  Penny stared at her father, hoping in vain he would deny the words that had just issued from his mouth. She had been faintly alarmed when he left their quarters last evening to return in the wee hours, obviously drunk. To her dismay, it now appeared that he’d been gambling. Again.

  “Now, Penny—”

  “Don’t you ‘Now, Penny,’ me,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “You promised me your gaming days were over.” Too outraged to speak, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  Major Porter sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Penny, love, but you know how it is with gaming debts. Debts of honor, don’t you know, between gentlemen…”

  She heaved a sigh. “To whom do you owe money?”

  “Logan Wilding.”

  She rubbed a hand over her suddenly aching forehead. “No one has ever accused Captain Wilding of being a gentleman.”

  Her father looked up. “Now, Penny, he may be a bit of a rogue, but he’s from a good family. And he is an officer.”

  And therefore a gentleman, if only by default? A shiver ran through her at the thought of the rakish officer with his black hair and bold blue eyes. Eyes she had observed watching her intently on more than one occasion over the last few months. And today he’d approached her to discuss his “offer.” The shivers turned to heat. Captain Wilding was handsome as sin, and by all accounts well acquainted with it.

  “But I’m not a gentleman. Why should I have to suffer by paying your debts of honor?”

  Her father wrung his hands. “I never meant to involve you in this. I know I should’ve sent you back to England when your mother… ” He passed a hand over his eyes and cleared his throat. “But how could I part with both of you?”

  Penny’s heart softened, if only marginally. Her mother’s death from influenza three years ago had been difficult for both of them.

  “How did I become involved in this matter?”

  “I’m really not sure,” he said, sounding a bit bewildered. “It was Wilding’s idea. The only choice I have is to come up with the money or—”

  “How much?”

  “Two thousand pounds.”

  His words sealed her fate. It would be impossible to come up with such a sum. Not unless her father sold his commission and left the army, but what would they do after that? He was unsuited for any other life. And how would he exist apart from his beloved army? She had no choice. Whatever Captain Wilding wanted, she would do. For her father’s sake.

  “What does he want?” she asked softly.

  Her father cleared his throat. “Er, apparently the man’s an amateur artist. Spends most of his time drawing and painting when the Army is in winter quarters.”

  Penny folded her arms across her chest. “And precisely what does that have to do with this matter?”

  Her father refused to meet her gaze. “Captain Wilding is in need of a model. He wants you to pose for him.”

  “Is that all?” she asked, still suspicious.

  “I swear it, Penny.”

  It wasn’t until the next day that Penny found out there was indeed more to Logan Wilding’s unholy bargain.

  “In the nude? You must be mad.” She stared at the man who was attempting to ruin her life, not to mention her reputation. Logan Wilding had all the good looks and charm his c
ountrymen were renowned for, but he was no gentleman. He hadn’t even had the courtesy to don his jacket and cravat to speak with her. No, he stood there in trousers and a white shirt, open at the neck, revealing a strong bronzed neck and a glimpse of manly wisps of chest hair as black as his heart.

  He raised one eyebrow. “Any artist would be pleased to paint you, Miss Porter.”

  She swallowed a snort of disbelief. “Has no one told you that red hair is quite out of fashion?”

  He smiled, displaying a row of perfect white teeth, drat him.

  “Many of the great beauties painted by the Renaissance artists were redheads. Botticelli’s Venus and Titian’s many models, for example. And being Irish, I’m somewhat partial to red hair.”

  She glared at him.

  “Seriously, Miss Porter, I’ve admired you for some time now.”

  She sank down onto a ratty-looking settee. Bad enough that she had come to the quarters of a single man, but he was barking mad to boot. She took a quick glance around the large, airy but somewhat shabby room, badly in need of new whitewashing on the walls. Was it any wonder Army officers were such a rackety lot? No real home, just temporary rooms during the winter and tents while on campaign. And Logan Wilding appeared to be crazier than most.

  Penny had no illusions about her own charms. Besides the red hair, she was a tall girl of ample proportions, more suited to riding a horse than maneuvering around a ballroom floor. And the slim, high-waisted fashions of the day did nothing to flatter her figure. That was why she hadn’t remonstrated when her father decided not to send her to London for her debut. She had known she wouldn’t take in London society. And now this reprobate was pretending to admire her. It was the outside of enough.

  “Spare me,” she said briskly. “Captain Wilding, I refuse to do as you ask. Is there nothing else that will satisfy you?”

  He studied her, an assessing stare in his bold blue eyes. “Nothing that will involve keeping your clothes on.”

  She jumped up, her heart pounding an erratic tattoo. “How dare you make such demands? Have you no respect for ladies?”

  He moved closer and she backed up until her legs were against the settee. She wavered and he clasped her elbows to steady her. Her heart hammered in her chest and her breathing increased.

  “I have the utmost admiration for you, Miss Porter, but until now, I have not been able to gain your attention. Now that I have you here—”

  “At your mercy,” she said bitterly.

  He raised one black brow. “As you wish. Now that I have you at my mercy, as it were, I find I’m not gentleman enough to let you out of the obligation your father owes me. I will have my painting.”

  She pushed at his chest and he backed off. “You, sir, are despicable.” Without another word, she turned and bolted for the door, but he was too fast for her.

  Blocking the exit with his arm, he smiled apologetically. “Pardon me, Miss Porter. It’s clear I’ve rushed my fences with you.”

  She stared at his bare arm, his shirtsleeve rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular forearms silky with black hair. She quickly averted her gaze.

  “To say the least.” Suddenly warm, she stepped back and removed the hooded brown cloak she’d worn on the short walk to his quarters, despite the warmth of the day, in hopes of evading detection by anyone who might recognize her.

  He chuckled. “No doubt. However, as you’ve never modeled before, I think we should take things slowly. Allow me to show you my studio and some of my drawings.”

  “Very well,” Penny agreed. Not that it would make any difference. “How does a mere captain rate such spacious quarters?” she asked, gesturing at the large room.

  He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “There are some benefits to being attached to the Quartermaster Corps. How do you like your quarters, Miss Porter?”

  She looked at him speculatively. Their rooms this winter were better than usual. “Very nice actually.”

  “I thought you might like them. It never hurts to have friends in the right places.”

  “Indeed,” she murmured, not wanting to appear grateful to him.

  Instead, she glanced around. A blank canvas sat on an easel in the middle of the room. A screen blocked off one corner, presumably where she was expected to disrobe. Beside it, a full-length mirror hung on the wall. At the far end was a faded blue velvet chaise longue where he probably expected her to recline, bare as the day she was born, while he studied every inch of her…

  Suffused with heat, she waved a hand in front of her face. Heavens, what was wrong with her? Why did the idea of Captain Wilding staring at her naked body make her go hot, as if her insides were melting? The muscles in her abdomen, and below, tightened as if in anticipation. Why did her whole being seem to be filled with waiting?

  He gestured to a small table that held a tray with two glasses of wine and a plate of fresh fruit. “Would you care for some refreshment, Miss Porter?”

  She sipped a glass of sherry as she studied the half dozen books and sketchpads on the tables, reading the titles of the books. Shakespeare’s sonnets sat next to a book on anatomy. Well, she supposed, the latter might come in handy for an artist.

  She opened the sketchpad and began paging through it. “These are quite good,” she commented.

  She turned another page and came face to face with her own countenance. There were drawings of her on horseback, working at the hospital after a skirmish, and reading to a small group of children. Now she knew why he’d been watching her these last few months.

  Lastly, she found a portrait of herself, a merry smile on her face. “This is extraordinary,” she exclaimed. She had never looked so pretty, but then she’d always thought darker hair would be an improvement. She looked up at him. “This is quite a good likeness, if I do say so myself. Why do you need me to pose when you have this to go by?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “That is well enough, but it’s cold, lifeless, without color. With oils, I can do justice to the ivory and peach of your complexion, the glorious sunset of your hair.”

  Her hand flew to her hair, pinned into a bun at the back of her head. “Glorious sunset?” she asked dubiously.

  “That has to come down.” He reached up to pull pins from her hair, scattering them all over the floor.

  “Oh, look what you’ve done.” She knelt to pick up the hairpins and he joined her, his hand covering hers. She looked at him, so close she could see the shadow of his beard, a tiny scar on his chin, feel his breath on her face. Spellbound by sensations that were new and compelling, she felt her body swaying toward him.

  “Penny,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I may call you that, may I not?”

  She wasn’t sure she liked the seductive tone of his voice, but under the circumstances, what was one less propriety? “I suppose, Captain—”

  “Logan,” he said firmly. Rising, he held out a hand.

  As if in a trance, she put her hand in his, acutely aware of the warmth and rough texture of his skin. As she stood, the pins she’d collected fell to the floor from her limp grasp. She was close enough to catch a whiff of his scent. Soap, linseed oil and his own musky odor.

  He led her to the chaise where he commenced to remove the rest of her hairpins. “You have such glorious hair.” He ran his fingers through the strands, tugging gently, teasing her scalp. “Promise you won’t cut it.”

  Would shorter hair get her out of posing? “Actually, I’d thought of selling it to a wig maker.”

  “No,” he said abruptly. “Please, Penny, not until the painting is finished.”

  Her brows rose in surprise. There had been such a pleading tone to his voice. “Very well, Logan.”

  He smiled his approval, new warmth in his eyes. “Now, lie back and put your feet up. I want you to be comfortable. Yes, that’s it,” he said as she reclined, feeling a bit awkward.

  “Turn toward me with your right arm on the side of the chaise.”

  Penny reclined on one side, her
right hand supporting her head. The pose was fairly comfortable, though she supposed it would become tiresome over time.

  “Place your left arm like this.”

  He moved her arm until her hand was resting close to the increasingly sensitive mound between her legs. She resisted the urge to squirm. If posing was this uncomfortable fully clothed, how could she even think of removing a stitch?

  “Logan, I don’t know if this will work.”

  “Just give it a try, love,” he said absently as he moved to stand beside the easel, his gaze still on her. “I just want to get a quick sketch today. Try to relax.”

  Aware his scrutiny of her had taken on a more abstracted air, she slowly relaxed, but she was aware, as never before, of her woman’s body. She briefly wondered how it would feel to have her skin exposed to the air for more than the few minutes it took to change clothes or have a quick wash. Even more, how would it feel to have Logan’s intent blue gaze on me? Or his hands. His strong, capable hands with the long, slim artist’s fingers.

  She was no naive society girl; army life was notorious for its lack of privacy. She knew very well what happened between man and wife. And it wasn’t as if she were still pure. Not after that hurried coupling with Walter. It had left her unsatisfied and wondering what all the fuss was about.

  She peeked at Logan. His stance emphasized the power of his thighs and the slimness of his hips. Her gaze was inexorably drawn to the bulge in his trousers. Did it seem larger than usual?

  Could he actually desire her despite her spinster status and hateful red hair? It had been so long since a man had shown any interest in her… Not since Walter was killed. For years she had held his memory close to her heart, but that was little comfort through a long, cold night. Would it be so very wrong to let another man into her life, into her heart? Into her body?

  Don’t be a goose. A spinster of four-and-twenty has no business longing for a husband.

  She sighed. There was little chance of that happening now, and taking a lover was out of the question. Of course, so was being alone with a gentleman in his quarters. If word got out, everyone in the camp would think she was no better than she ought to be.