The Portrait by Megan Chance

through his mind, and he smiled derisively, wondering when things had degenerated so far that he needed a swig of cognac to attempt a kiss.
    Not just any kiss, he reminded himself. A kiss calculated to frighten. A kiss for a woman for whom he felt nothing but anger and resentment, for whom he felt not the slightest attraction. And how best to go about it? He couldn't just go up to her and grab her. No, best to do it subtly, to approach things carefully, as if he were attempting to seduce one of the rich daughters who came to him to have their portraits painted, one of the silly, vapid creatures who simpered and preened
    within sight of their starched chaperones but watched him with knowing, too-wise eyes. They were easy to win over; he'd had enough of them to know. He knew how they changed the moment the chaperone's back was turned, how they talked of grand passion and rebellion when all they really wanted was wooing and romance and fops who professed their love with every breath.
    But Imogene Carter was not like them, and his intentions were not the same. He didn't want consummation. He didn't want pleasure. He spent the rest of the lesson turning ideas over in his mind, wondering over the best way to approach her. He paced the room wondering. He criticized his students' work, offered suggestions, but by the time the class was over, he couldn't remember who had done well and who hadn't, who was the best at blending colors, who had drawn Clarisse with proportion and grace. He couldn't remember what Miss Carter had drawn at all.
    He was aware that they were all watching him with wary eyes, and he almost felt their questions hovering as he moved from easel to easel. What will he say? Why hasn't he yelled at her, at me? What made him so damned angry earlier? So many questions, though they should be accustomed to his erratic behavior by now. It surprised him that they weren't, made him feel faintly ashamed, and that only increased his preoccupation—so much so that Jonas barely said a word when the lesson ended. He only waited while they all gathered up their things.
    All except Miss Carter. She watched them leave, and Jonas saw the way she worked over her drawing with barely suppressed energy. Nervousness, he thought, feeling a stab of satisfaction that only grew when he saw a reluctant McBride walk out the door.
    Clarisse stepped from behind the changing screen, buttoning her bodice. She turned to Jonas with a smile. "You want me to stay, darlin'?" she asked.
    Jonas shook his head. "Go on," he said. "I'll see you later."
    Clarisse's brow furrowed. She looked at Miss Carter, then back to him. "But—"
    "Go on."
    Her mouth tightened, a perfect little rosebud of red- stained pink, and resentfully she moved toward the door. But not before she brushed by him, not before her hand grazed the front of his trousers, her fingers tracing him through the cloth. It seemed she was not so upset about last night after all.
    He waited until she disappeared through the door, until the heavy oak slammed shut behind her, before he turned to Miss Carter.
    He said nothing. He let the silence stretch between them until it seemed nearly unbearable, and then he moved toward her, stopping just behind her, barely a hairsbreadth away. He felt the heat of her shoulders at his thighs. He glanced down at the easel in front of her, taking in the shaky lines she'd drawn, the tentative, minimal shadowing, the outline of Clarisse's body without detail—the swelling of breast without a nipple, with nothing but two-dimensional heaviness.
    There was no talent in the drawing; or rather, there was some skill, but it was mediocre, passionless, technique without magic, like a mildly pleasing story without emotion or depth. She would never be a great painter; the most she could hope for was to become a decent portraitist—or perhaps even one of those traveling artists who went from town to town drawing prize pigs for awestruck farmers. But a great painter? Ah no,