Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait Read Online Free PDF Page B

quite good.”
    Quite good. Like saying a baby was adorable, a young gentleman well-mannered.
    “The pose was simple,” Jenny said, “the lighting uncomplicated, and the subject…”
    “Yes?”
    He was one of those men built in perfect proportion. Antoine had spent an entire class wielding a tailor’s measure on Mr. Harrison’s body, comparing his proportions to the Apollo Belvedere, and scoffing at the “mistakes” inherent in Michelangelo’s David.
    Jenny wanted to snatch her drawing from his hand. “The subject is conducive to a pleasing image.”
    He passed the sketch pad back, but Jenny had the sense that in some way, some not entirely artistic way, she’d displeased him. The disappointment was survivable. Her art had been displeasing men since she’d first neglected her Bible verses to sketch her brothers.
    “You next, Mr. Harrison.”
    “Of course.” He passed her a charming little study of Fleur perched on the hearth, the tip of her tongue peeking from her lips as she concentrated on sketching Jenny. Something in his portrait reminded Jenny of Fleur’s sketch of her aunt.
    “You made her hair tidier,” Amanda noted. “Fleur hardly ever looks that serious, though.”
    “One takes a few liberties in the name of diplomacy,” Mr. Harrison said. He aimed a look at Jenny, likely intended to give the words deeper meaning.
    He was tired, and he was rumpled. Where was the harm in showing those things?
    “He means,” Jenny said in anticipation of Amanda’s question, “that one needn’t show every unflattering detail when trying to render a person’s essence on the page.”
    “Like if the crow had some tattered feathers, you’d still try to show how shiny they were?”
    “Yes, Amanda,” Mr. Harrison said, though he was looking at Jenny as he spoke.
    The nursery maids returned, looking somewhat restored, and Jenny’s half hour—an hour in truth—with Polite Society’s most in-demand portraitist was over.
    And in that hour, she had not earned his respect for her art. This should be a relief, should give her ammunition to aim at the part of her that wanted nothing but to disgrace herself with an artistic life, and damn the consequences.
    As he escorted her down through the house, Mr. Harrison stopped on the first landing. “Why so quiet, my lady?”
    The daughter of a duchess was capable of great feats of diplomacy, also great feats of courage. Jenny would never have an opportunity to work with an instructor of Elijah Harrison’s caliber again, or at least not for many years.
    “You did not like my sketch.”
    The servants had been busy. In the foyer below, wreaths hung in the windows, cloved oranges in the middle of the wreaths. The scents were lovely and the light cheerful, but the space, being high ceilinged and windowed, was cold.
    “I liked your sketch quite well.”
    “What did you like about it?” Because in five minutes, he’d be on his horse and disappearing into the winter landscape, and Jenny had to know what he’d seen in her work, even if he’d seen only trite, unprepossessing efforts.
    “You are good, Lady Genevieve. Your accuracy is effortless, you’re quick, and your technique very proficient for one who has likely had little professional instruction.”
    Those compliments would have distracted her, had she not been watching his eyes. His soul was not in those terse compliments, and he’d be gone in four minutes.
    “But?”
    He captured her hand and placed it on his arm, moving with her down the last flight of stairs. “But you rendered me tired and rumpled, when I was quite sure the fellow in that nursery was the most charming exponent of English artistry ever to aspire to membership in the Royal Academy. You also made me look…” He glanced around as they gained the empty foyer. “Lonely.”
    “Amanda said you looked like a papa. I tried to convey the affection with which you—”
    “I miss…” He frowned, unwound his arm from Jenny’s, and stepped back.