She was going to take advantage of him, shameless, wanton advantage. The knowledge was wicked, scary, and exhilarating—like the notion that she’d remove to Paris, with or without her family’s blessing. “I will make a bargain with you, Mr. Harrison. You give me eight hours of your time sitting, and I’ll assist you with the children for as long as it takes to complete their portrait.”

His reply was immediate. “I already owe you an hour, and I don’t see how you’ll collect an entire day of my time without drawing the notice of our host and hostess. This time of year, there’s hardly eight hours of proper light on a good day.”

“I’ll work with you by candlelight, and you will instruct me.” She reached over and stopped his finger as it circled the rim of the cup, this way then that way. “You will be brutally honest with me, and you will not spare my feelings. You will criticize every flaw, every mistake, every bad judgment you see in my work. Those are my terms, or we have no bargain.”

She kept her hand over his, as if she’d trap him with a single touch.

Though he didn’t pull away. “You cannot go to Paris, so you seek to bring Paris to you here.”

She did—the part of Paris that had to do with improving her art, though the part about living her own life, indulging her own passions, and escaping her family would have to wait. She said nothing to him about all of that, because he could refuse her even what she’d asked for.

Mr. Harrison turned his hand up and laced his fingers with hers. “My lady, you have a bargain. Now, what else can you tell me about the children?”

The holidays had an inexorable quality, the way a blight on the crops took over the countryside or a plague transformed a city into a morass of mourning. Holiday offerings crept onto menus, an innocuous initial step, like a few old men falling ill. Servants busied themselves swagging the eaves with greens, and even that wasn’t something a man need take notice of when his occupation kept him indoors during daylight hours.

Then, like an advancing illness, wreaths appeared on windows, cloved oranges were hung in public rooms, and table trees appeared in family parlors. Those of Germanic inclinations, which was to say a substantial portion of the aristocracy, might even have larger Christmas trees.

“The house is looking quite festive,” Elijah said as he escorted Lady Genevieve to his makeshift studio.

She glanced about, no doubt taking in the red and green ribbons wrapped around the oak banister and the tapestry of Father Christmas hung over the main staircase like a heraldic banner.

“Sophie and her baron have fond memories of Christmas. My parents are of the same ilk, and Louisa and Joseph are falling into the same camp. Surely your family has some Christmas traditions?”

“They indulge in much silliness.” Or they had, ten years ago. A change of subject was in order. “Am I to understand that you enjoy your sister’s hospitality because Their Graces are still in Town?”

“Nobody states it quite so plainly, but every time my parents leave Morelands, I am invited somewhere on a cheerful pretext. I am to assist Sophie with her baking. I was to keep Louisa and Joseph’s daughters company because they’d be simply too much for Aunt Gladys. Earlier this fall, Westhaven’s wife, Anna, needed my artistic flair to help her redecorate their nursery for the new baby.”

Elijah’s spirits inched upward. “This makes you furious, being shuffled about.”

She paused at the intersection of the main upper corridors and closed her eyes. “One can’t be angry at people who are trying their best to love one, but my artistic flair?” She was quietly, beautifully incensed.

“They do acknowledge your talent.”

“They denigrate it in the same breath. Hold still, Mr. Harrison.”

He was so bemused with her ire, he didn’t understand what she was about until she’d gone up on her toes and slid a hand to his nape. Her other hand rested on his chest, and a whiff of jasmine came to him on the thought: She’s going to kiss me.

And I’m going to let her.

Soft, soft lips pressed not against his cheek—Lady Genevieve was no coward—but to his mouth. The kiss was chaste—no tongues, no expressing the groan that lodged in his chest, no plunging his hands into her hair and desperately clutching her to him. And yet, he could taste anger on her and a frustration that wasn’t entirely artistic.

When she might have eased away, he settled his arms around her and brushed his mouth over hers. Kisses could be about anger, but they could be about so much more too: joy, pleasure, comfort… lust.

He dropped his arms. “Happy Christmas, Lady Genevieve.”

She smiled up at him, her anger nowhere to be seen. “My father says the traditions should be upheld where they don’t interfere with good sense, and you said mistletoe was a harmless tradition.”

He glanced up. “In this house, it appears to be a much-respected harmless tradition. Would you like me to sit to you while we’re waiting for the children?”

Because for the first time in years of sketching, painting, drawing, and otherwise rendering artistic images, it occurred to Elijah that the sitter was in an excellent position to study the artist.

“No, thank you.”

“No? But I owe you hours, my lady.” Eight long, lovely hours when he might study her chin, the curve of her shoulders, the way light shifted in her green eyes.

She stopped outside the door of his studio. “By candlelight, that was my condition. All of Antoine’s classes were by daylight.”

What was she about, and did he want to stop her?

“Some days were gloomy. You’ve sketched by candlelight, haven’t you? I’m sure you’ve had other subjects oblige you in this regard.”

She passed through the door, and Elijah was pleased to see somebody had started the fire. A tea tray sat near the hearth, the teapot swaddled in thick white toweling. Morning light, fresh and bright, came streaming in the windows.

Lady Genevieve turned in a slow circle. “We will need to make some adjustments, Mr. Harrison.”

Please God she wanted to hang some mistletoe in his studio. Elijah watched the sunbeams dance along the gold of her hair and realized he’d just had his first holiday-minded impulse in ten years.

“In what regard must we make adjustments, and you never answered my question.” She was forever dodging his questions.

She crossed her arms. “What question?”

“Have you sketched by candlelight?” And what would she look like, sketching by candlelight?

“I’ve sketched my dear sisters, though they aren’t particularly obliging about holding a pose. I’ve painted enough still lifes to cover every surface in Carlton House.” She aimed a glare at the hearth. “I’ve sketched Timothy in every position imaginable from every possible angle.”

Dislike for this Timothy fellow rose up, ranking nearly equal with dislike for holiday folderol—most holiday folderol. “Who is Timothy?”

Her glower shifted, taking on a hint of despair. “My blasted cat.”

He might have laughed, out of relief, but the image of her relegated to depending on the patience of a mute beast was not amusing. “Try something for me, Genevieve.”

“We need to find some toys,” she said as if she hadn’t heard him. “The boys will be here directly, and if we don’t entertain them, they’ll entertain themselves.”

Dreadful thought. “This won’t take but a moment. I want you to curse.”

Not only were her arms crossed, but she’d drawn herself up, aligned herself with some invisible, invincible posture board such as Helen of Troy might have relied upon to get all those ships launched in a single day. “I beg your pardon?”

“Curse. Call him your blasted, damned cat.”

Her brows knitted, making her look like one of Kesmore’s daughters. “I love Timothy.”