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She's always wanted to date a gentleman - so why does she find herself falling for a rogue?
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Ophelia Prescott is a hopeless romantic, and she's determined to find her own Mr. Darcy during her s...
"Ophelia." Andrew looked up from the easel. "Take a seat."
Digby pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I'll see you later, love, alright?"
"Okay."
He shot Andrew a dark look before retreating down the stairs. Ophelia settled on a wooden stool, reaching out to touch the gardenia's soft white petals.
"It's beautiful up here."
Andrew dipped his paintbrush in a red pot. "Mum used to ring just to remind me to water them once a week."
"She did all of this, right?"
He nodded. "Can you shift your body to the left a little?" She complied, and Andrew frowned. "No. More from the shoulders."
Ophelia tried again, and Andrew set the paint brush down, moving towards her. Spicy cologne clung to his jumper.
"May I?"
She nodded breathlessly. His warm hands gripped her shoulders, rotating them gently, and she could feel her heartbeat rocketing in her chest. Andrew's eyes were dark pools as he looked down at her.
"Perfect," he murmured.
She felt slightly dizzy as Andrew resumed his stance behind the easel. She hadn't quite realized how intimate it was to devote one's entire attention to another person, how rare it was to be afforded the opportunity to study someone.
While Andrew studied her, she studied him.
There was power in being watched, Ophelia realized. If she moved her hands, even minutely, Andrew's eyes darted to them. There was a change in his face. An almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, or an intake of breath.
Each glance felt like soft make-up brushes on her skin. Each swish of the paint brush, a whisper.
Ophelia sighed. She wondered what Andrew was thinking.
Probably not much of anything, really.
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Andrew was over-thinking again.
He couldn't stop staring at her green dress; it was the exact same shade of emerald as the one in Argyll Estate. Had she done that on purpose? To torture him? If so, it was working; all Andrew could think about was how it felt to rip that dress off of her. How smooth and silky her skin had felt.
He swallowed, plunging the paintbrush into the pot.
Good god.
He was in hell.
At least the painting was coming along, Andrew mused, his eyes flicking to her face. The shading, the colour, the light in her eyes — it was as if the Muses had blessed him with the power to translate thought to art, but only for the day.
