He stood by her easel, not a stitch on his person, and though Psyche had seen him many times in a state of nature, the impact here—in her studio, alone, without her Mr. Henderson accoutrements—was… not strictly artistic.
“You are paying me to model for you,” he said, prowling to the fireplace in all his natural glory. “The setting seems a bit domestic for a nude, but artists pride themselves on the effective use of contrast. I hope those cushions don’t itch.”
Firelight loved him. Found all manner of warm tones in his complexion, sculpted his muscles and joints with rosy definition, and put garnet highlights in his hair.
“I had thought we’d start with a few seated studies, and I had not thought… I am torn between humor and mortification.”
Mr. Delancey turned such that his muscular backside faced the flames. The play of firelight on flesh, shadows dancing along the smooth curve of sinew and muscle was a visual symphony. Psyche had worked in clay enough to know that wasn’t her medium, but for the sake of posterity, somebody should immortalize Michael Delancey’s hips, buttocks, thighs, and…
“You aren’t in need of a nude model, Mrs. Fremont?”
“I had not thought to ask that of you.” Hoped maybe, a little, eventually, when they’d become at ease with each other, if they ever did. And yet, he’d assumed…
“Shall I dress?”
Yes. No. Heaven help me. “Let’s try dishabille. No cravat, no coat. Man at his leisure at the end of a long day. Boots off too.”
“As you wish.” His tone was utterly indifferent, but Psyche was considering the palette she’d need for his hair, and thus she saw his eyes.
“You are amused,” she said, fascinated to find it so. A lack of humor was one of the characteristics that made his beauty so dull. “You think it hilarious to have stripped naked by mistake.” Was that the epitome of poise? Such aplomb certainly wasn’t churchly.
“Why not see a little ridiculousness in the situation?” He strolled across the room, not a care in the world. “I debated the moral difference between posing nude for educational purposes and posing for one woman’s artistic ambitions. Is there a continuum of indecency? When I agreed to come here in exchange for generous coin, did I fall off the far end? I am given to introspection by nature—modeling is a good fit with me in that regard—and I nearly did not keep our appointment.”
“But you walked to my garden gate,” Psyche said, passing him his shirt, “and used the time to talk yourself past your doubts.” And into more coin. Why? He was gainfully employed at a gentleman’s occupation, in great good health, dressed in the first stare of understated good taste. Why risk compromising his good name for more coin?
Did he like sporting about without benefit of clothing?
He pulled the shirt over his head. “I prefer to walk. For much of the day, I sit at a desk, reading some of the worst penmanship ever to disgrace the royal mail. Movement soothes my spirit. I had a horse in Yorkshire, but that’s a luxury beyond my means now.”
Money was much on his mind. “What happened to him?”
“Passed him on to the next curate, who was deliriously happy not to have to patrol the length and breadth of the dales on foot in all weather. Waistcoat?”
Psyche handed over the requisite article and decided on turned-back cuffs rather than sleeve buttons. By the time she had her subject posed in the wing chair, a book in his lap, the camellias gently drooping on a table beside him, she found the whole business with his gratuitous disrobing a little silly.
Jacob would have been vastly diverted. He’d never been a good model—too fidgety—but he’d had a wonderful sense of the absurd.
“You look wistful,” Mr. Delancey said as Psyche sat opposite him, her pencil poised above the page.
“Thinking of my late husband. I still hear his voice in my head. I still recall his favorite aphorisms and expletives. Chin up half an inch. Yes, like that.”
“How did you meet?”
“Cease with your preacher’s tricks, sir. I have great art to create.” Though Psyche’s ambition at the moment was merely a competent sketch, an exploration of possibilities. A glass of brandy would have made an interesting addition to an oil—oh, the reflections—while a cat curled on the arm of the chair would turn the final result more domestic and less daring.
Domestic scenes were for the unambitious. Gainsborough and Reynolds had gone to their celestial rewards. Sir Thomas Lawrence could not live forever, while demand for skilled, grand portraits would never expire.
Mr. Delancey obligingly fell silent as Psyche started on general contours. “Jacob was my best friend,” she said. “We’d known each other since childhood, and our parents always assumed we’d marry.”
“What did you assume?”
She rose and winnowed her fingers through Mr. Delancey’s hair so that his forehead wasn’t obscured by wayward curls. A good forehead, high, smooth, worthy of those dramatic, dark eyebrows…
Psyche resumed her seat and took up her pencil. “I assumed Jacob would always be there, and he was. He supported my art and denied me nothing.” Not quite true, but close enough. He’d denied her nothing that had been his to give.
“You miss him.”
“Not as badly as I did at first, but yes. When you’ve known somebody that long and they have become that dear… Chin, Mr. Delancey.”
“Why not remarry?”
Sometimes, a composition refused to cooperate with Psyche’s attempts to create its likeness, but Mr. Delancey radiated such a sense of ease and relaxation that capturing him on the page was effortless.
“‘Why remarry?’ is the more obvious question. I am comfortable, I have my independence, and I can pursue my art as I please.”
“Can you?” Now he sounded wistful. “Can you really?”
Well, no. Having to don male attire and sneak into classes at one of the less renowned academies was not exactly as Psyche pleased, but this evening was exactly as she pleased. She had a willing, interesting subject, a warm fire, and peace and quiet.
What more could she possibly want—for now?
She worked in silence for another hour, then paused at a tap on the door. “Dinner. If you are soothed by movement, you are probably ready to get out of that chair.”
Mr. Delancey rose and stretched up tall, then twisted at the hips in each direction. He finished by bending slowly from the waist until his knuckles rested on his toes. The whole progression might have taken him a minute, and he was utterly unself-conscious about it.
Jacob had been at ease with his own body, too, but not… not like that. Or not like that when Psyche was on hand.
“You are staring,” Mr. Delancey said. “One of the other models warned me that muscle cramps are a hazard of the profession, and the antidote is stretching, even on the days when I don’t sit for Berthold. I ignored his advice until my left calf rebelled against a particular pose Berthold was keen on. That night, I could not have made the distance to Lambeth on foot to save my soul. Something smells good.”
“We’ll eat in the parlor,” Psyche said, leading the way through the door that opened onto her bedroom. Mr. Delancey followed without comment, though he doubtless noted the landscape hanging opposite Psyche’s bed. They continued to her sitting room, where supper had been laid out on the table by the window.