The Portrait Read Online Free PDF

for I had been intent on watching his hands as they
squeezed paint from bladders and set brushes into a tall jar. Although his fingers were not
artistically long, they moved with a certain grace, one that gave the feeling of restrained strength.
They lingered on each item he touched, as if he enjoyed the tactile sensation. I imagined his
fingers touching me that same way, my face, my hands. Remembered the feel of his hands on my
shoulders the first day, and realized that they had lingered there that same voluptuous way. A
shiver made its way down my spine.
    "What are you thinking of?"
    I could feel my face bloom with heat. "N-n-nothing."
    "A man, no doubt. Good. I want that expression. Go to the couch."
    I found myself wondering if anyone ever simply sat in any of his portraits. Once I was
seated, he proceeded to rearrange my limbs as if I were a doll. First he had me half-recline, with
one elbow on the higher scroll and my legs lying stretched the length of the seat. After a few
moments in which he sketched rapidly, he threw down the charcoal. "No, Damn it. You look a
cliché. Sit up."
    I sat.
    "Tuck one foot under you. Yes, like that. Now, lean on the other arm." He cocked his
head and regarded me. Long fingers stroked his chin.
    I shivered again, wondering...
    "No, that's still not right. Lie down, with your feet on the high end. Yes, that way. Now
turn your head."
    My skirt slid toward my knees. Without thinking, I leaned forward and pushed it to
cover my ankles.
    "For God's sake, woman, forget your maidenly modesty. This is Art!"
    "This could also be my reputation, sir. I will not stretch the bounds of modesty beyond
what is proper." Although I had shown some ankle last week, I was sure that having my feet in
the air and my skirt rucked halfway to my knees went beyond what would be acceptable to even
the most liberal art critic.
    "Ha!" The scritch of charcoal punctuated his exclamation. For several minutes he
sketched in silence. I let my thoughts wander, building in my mind an imaginary encounter with
Mr. Sutherland, somewhere far from this room.
    A ballroom, perhaps. A masquerade. I would be wearing this gown, without a chemise.
My domino would be black satin, lined with the palest gold, perhaps with a feather trim at the
hem. My slippers--
    "Lie down, on y our belly this time. No, the other way, with your arms across the
foot."
    I turned and scooted until I was lying prone on the settee, my upper body more or less
draped over the foot. Although my back was, of necessity, somewhat arched, I found the position
no more uncomfortable than the one I had assumed on the chair last week.
    Mr. Sutherland stared at me for a moment, chewing his lower lip. "No," he said again.
"It won't do. Your shape is hidden."
    I thought that might be for the best, but said nothing.
    "Turn over. Tuck your shoulders up against the foot. Yes...a little more. Let your hand
drop over the edge. Relax!"
    Tossing his charcoal onto the table beside his easel, he strode to me. His fingers fastened
on my chin and turned it so my face was three-quarters facing him. Before he released me, he
stroked one finger across my lips.
    I didn't try to catch it. I was tempted.
    He went to one knee beside me and reached across to catch my opposite wrist. "Let's put
this here--" He made several small alterations in the position of my hand above my ear before he
was satisfied.
    Was it possible to feel sensation with each strand of one's hair? Or did I imagine the heat
from his hand as it passed lightly over my crown?
    "And this one can trail, thus."
    My fingertips grazed the floor. The position was quite comfortable. "I'll fall asleep," I
told him, before I could stop myself.
    "As long as you do not move. Now, your hair." His fingers plucked the pins from my
braids. They fell free of their own weight. My hair, never obedient, started to unravel, and he
helped it with his fingers.
    "Impossible hair," he said, his voice gruff. "No color, yet all colors. How will I