PortraitofPassion Read Online Free PDF

the space that separated
them, calling to her.
    She would not answer it. She would not allow herself to fall
into that trap.
    She looked away from him, back toward the path the horses
had trod only minutes before. She saw her hat, her new riding hat with its
narrow brim and tall body, styled to look like a man’s, lying upon its side in
the grass.
    She looked back at Easton and forced her lips into a teasing
smile as she cocked an eyebrow.
    And then, oh then, he was his father all over again. His
father whom she had loved nearly as much as she had loved her own. Simon
Carlisle, Viscount Easton threw his head back and laughed. And it was a great
booming laugh that shook his frame and startled his mount. It drew the other
two gentlemen’s surprised gazes and brought them over to join the laughing
viscount and his smiling companion. My God , Bea thought, it was so good
to hear that laughter, to know that she was in some way responsible for it. She
hoped that he would be like the others and allow the desire to be washed away
by the laughter.
    Easton dismounted from his horse and walked away to retrieve
her fallen hat and Bea turned her smile upon Hastings, who dismounted to assist
her from her horse. She gathered her loose hair and pulled it forward to hold
it securely away from the wind’s grasp.
    “That bonnet is ever so pretty, both in looks and price,”
Bea said, as she arched and stretched to loosen the muscles of her lower back.
The lady’s saddle was pure torture.
    “And I am quite certain you shall look beautiful wearing it
perched just so atop your head,” he replied.
    “Our Bea looks beautiful in whatever hat she dons,” Bertie
said, joining them on the ground, “but surely she is most beautiful with her
hair flying free behind her as she races toward the finish line.”
    “So she is,” Hastings agreed with a smile. “I am only sorry
I could not stop to enjoy the picture she made. But alas, I was trying to beat
her to that finish line.”
    “Perhaps you should paint yourself just so, my girl,” Bertie
suggested.
    “Have you ever painted a self-portrait?” Hastings asked as
Easton walked up beside her with her hat.
    She held out her hand but instead of the hat, he placed
three hairpins in her palm. She met his eyes briefly before she looked up at
Hastings. “No, I prefer to capture faces I find interesting. I have been
looking upon my own for far too long to find it of any interest.”
    “But if you could capture that moment when your hair fell
back only to be picked up by the wind…what a painting that would be,” Bertie
exclaimed.
    Bea laughed at his foolishness. “I have no idea how I looked
at that moment. How could I possibly paint it?”
    “I can describe it,” Easton said quietly. Three pairs of
eyes swung in his direction. There was a beat of absolute silence.
    “But surely you were too far away,” Hastings pointed out.
“And her horse was flying. You could not have seen the expression on her face.”
    “I can describe it,” he said again. Bea turned and looked
away from him, from all of them, to gather her hair into a loose bun at the
base of her neck. She took her time securing it with the hairpins. She needed a
few moments to gather her wits. The way he had said it, so sure, as if he had
the image captured in his mind. And perhaps he did. She closed her eyes and
there he was, sitting on his horse, his eyes intent, his jaw hard, his face a
picture of—what? She wondered. Desire she had recognized but there had been
more. Shock? Restraint? Contempt? Perhaps some combination? She didn’t know.
She told herself she didn’t want to know.
    With her hair confined to her bun and her wits restored to
some semblance of normalcy, Bea turned back to address the gentlemen. “I for
one would certainly enjoy a lemon ice right about now.”
    “By all means, Miss Morgan.” Hastings threw out his arm,
motioning her to precede him. The little group walked along the path, leading
their horses