The Beautiful One by Emily Greenwood

started with those clear, sherry-brown eyes that would have suited one of those rare birds she loved so much. And her body…
    Her sharp wit had doubtless chased off any suitors who might have noticed the gem hidden beneath her careless clothes and coiffures. Just as well for him, or she wouldn’t have been such a find.
    â€œYes, a minx,” Jasper agreed. It didn’t behoove him to disagree with his new patron, though he wondered if it had been such a good idea after all, telling Henshaw Anna’s name. He was just on the verge of suggesting another model for the painting—he had a pretty farmer’s daughter in mind—when the marquess cried out exuberantly.
    â€œBy Jove, but I love a hunt.”
    â€œA hunt, my lord?”
    â€œYes, man. She’s run off, and now the chase is on.” The marquess rubbed his hands with glee as Jasper swallowed heavily.
    â€œYou want to pursue Miss Bristol?”
    â€œOf course! We can leave first thing tomorrow.”
    â€œBut…my lord…”
    The marquess’s face turned dark at his guest’s unenthusiastic tone. “You’ll help me find her, of course,” Henshaw said. “The painting’s no good to me without her.”
    He cast a shrewd look at Jasper. Henshaw was a ruddy-faced man of perhaps thirty with pale blond hair and taller than Jasper, though Jasper was burly while the marquess was softly corpulent. “I won’t pay for a half-finished painting.”
    â€œOf course not.”
    Damn .
    â€œI’ve shown The Beautiful One to all my friends, and they’re panting to know who she is. But no one’s to know her name until I reveal it—and the painting—at my house party next month. I’ve already boasted about how lifelike she’s going to look as Aphrodite. Good enough to eat, ha-ha!”
    God, what an oaf , Jasper thought. He was an artist, but he couldn’t afford to care if Henshaw had ignorant reasons for liking his work. He needed the money from the painting, and he needed the exposure Henshaw would provide, the entrée into a world of wealthy patrons.
    â€œRight,” Jasper muttered.
    â€œI want that painting finished, and I won’t be made a fool of—she has to be in it. We’ll simply find her and pay her. Everyone has a price.”
    Jasper was fairly certain that Anna Bristol did not, in fact, have a price. From what he could tell, she didn’t give a fig about things like jewels and fine furnishings.
    He burned with familiar frustration. His father had pushed him into studying medicine, but what he wanted was to create art. First, though, apparently, he was going to have to hunt down Anna Bristol, the little fool.

Six
    It was well before dawn, but Anna was awake. It was spring, after all, and at home, one of her chief pleasures in the springtime was to rise early and sit in the cottage garden as the sun rose and listen to the dawn chorus.
    There was something special about those dark morning hours when no one else was about and she could hear the thrushes and blackbirds chirp energetically as they tried to attract a mate. She liked to stay until the sun was up and watch them.
    She’d missed her spring bird-watching in the last month. At Rosewood, there had been too many people around to do such a thing, and for the seamstress to be found sitting idle in the garden would have attracted comment.
    But now she dressed quietly and tiptoed through the still-sleeping house. There was a door to the terrace outside the ballroom, and she moved through that grand, silent room and out to the freshness of the morning. The beautiful cacophony of birdsong, which had been muted inside by the heavy stone walls of the manor, greeted her as she stepped outside.
    It was chilly and still dark, and she pulled her shawl snugly around her shoulders and moved to stand near the edge of the terrace and listen. She picked out the bold notes of a wren and smiled. Wrens