Belle did not believe she could walk out of her chamber in the attire her husband had made her wear for him to paint her.
Yesterday, after their kiss in the art chamber, he’d caught sight of sothing just behind her that made his eyes narrow in displeasure, followed by a low, muttered curse. Belle had frowned and turned to see what he was looking at—and then she had sucked in a sharp breath, clasping a hand over her slackened mouth upon noticing what had caused him to stop mid-sentence with that look on his face.
The inappropriate, crude painting of her, the one that had shocked her into knocking it off the easel, now lay on the floor. Not just that, it was ruined. Her heart had sunk at the sight.
Belle hadn’t noticed it earlier because Kuhn had drawn her attention to the dark painting just a few seconds after it had fallen back—unaware that it had landed in a bowl of paint, splashing smug streaks across the canvas and ruining it.
Though Belle had been mortified by the painting when she first saw it, seeing it lying there, destroyed, had made her feel utterly awful.
He must have worked hard to make it, and no matter how inappropriate it looked, it was not in her intentions to ruin soone’s hard work. She had hurriedly apologized when he looked at her with accusing dark eyes.
"I didn’t ruin it on purpose, I swear. I was only looking at it when I knocked it back by mistake," she had quickly defended herself before he could believe she had done it intentionally—especially because of how he had painted her. And from the look he gave her, she was certain that’s exactly what he thought.
"It’s one of my favorite paintings of all, Isa," he murmured, his face unreadable as he stared down at the ruined canvas. "How clumsy of you... You’ve ruined sothing I put ti in doing."
There was no anger in his voice, only a quiet, theatrical sort of disappointnt that sohow stung more. His gaze remained fixed on the painting for a mont longer before he sighed, as though mourning a loss, and muttered, "What to do now?"
Then he looked up at her again.
Belle felt so bad she blurted, "You can paint another one—and I’ll stay for you to do it."
He raised a brow, as if weighing the sincerity of her words against the cri she had just unknowingly committed. Then he remarked blankly,
"As if that could fix what you’ve done. Do you think art is like furniture? That you break and then offer ti like it’s glue?"
Belle opened her mouth to answer, but he cut her off with a faint shake of his head, his gaze shifting once more to the ruined canvas.
"It took days to paint that expression on your face... you looked so lovely that night, I wanted to capture it sowhere—and I did. Now, how can I get that expression back?" He looked back at her with a mischievous smile pulling the side of his lips up. "But since you’re offering to stay for to paint, we’ll have to recreate everything again from the beginning. A fresh session, with a more passionate expression. What do you think?"
Belle had thought she would simply sit for him to paint—perhaps in her petticoat just like in the ruined painting, nothing more. But her husband had ntioned that he would make proper arrangents the next day for the painting.
Later that night, she had caught a glimpse of Rav and one of the male servants carrying a sofa in the direction of the art chamber. She hadn’t thought much of it at the ti, until just when she was about to retire to her chamber, Gwen appeared at her door with a folded red dress in her hands. She said it had been sent from Rohan, and Belle was to wear it for the painting.
It seed he was taking the recreation to another level.
For so reason, the thought made her both anxious and quietly thrilled. There was sothing in the anticipation, in the unspoken intimacy of it all, that stirred a restless flutter in her chest.
Now that she had worn the dress, she felt exposed, practically naked. It was revealing and entirely unlike her style. The sleeves were nothing more than delicate strings, and the low V-neckline barely covered the swell of her breasts. It clung tightly to her waist and hips, molding to her figure, and from her thigh to the hem, a long slit ran down the fabric—so that with every step, her bare leg, with no stockings to cover it, would be exposed.
And worst of all, she wore no undergarnts, sothing he had specifically ordered her not to wear beneath the dress. The thought made her turn a light shade of red.
The attire looked like sothing a harlot might wear—no, not even they were shaless enough for this.
But then, he was her husband, therefore it was all right to wear this for him. She told herself that over and over. However, she still couldn’t find the courage to walk out. She had never seen a dress like this before. It was her first ti wearing sothing so daring, and where Rohan had gotten it was a mystery she couldn’t solve.
It was simply too exposing, but this was the price she had to pay for mistakenly ruining that other painting.
Belle looked at herself in the mirror again. Her blonde hair had been gathered and tied neatly at the top of her head, with a few delicate strands falling loose, while her front bangs lay smoothly in place.
As she continued to stare at her reflection in astonishnt, she noticed that her cheeks had grown slightly fuller, looking healthily rounded in an adorable kind of way compared to how sunken they had once appeared.
Even her lips seed naturally plumper now. She had never paid attention to these changes before, mostly because she always avoided lingering on her reflection in the mirror.
People had always remarked on how she looked older than her actual age and how her skin looked dull beneath her freckles. They said she had a curveless body, but the woman looking back at her in the mirror looked nothing like that.
In fact, Belle believed she was sowhat beautiful—with rounded hips and a healthy-looking face. She could hardly believe the reflection staring back at her. Slowly, she touched her hands to the places that looked most provocative in the red dress, as if trying to make sense of how she could be the woman in the mirror.
She couldn’t help but wonder what Rohan’s reaction would be to her dressing.
She blushed at the thought of his eyes trailing along her body, of his hands touching the places the dress did not cover. Her heart swelled with anticipation—both for the painting session and whatever might happen before it began.
Taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart and the fluttering in her stomach, she reached for the robe she had set aside earlier, pulling it around herself to cover up until she made it to the painting room.
She tied the belt around the waist. Looking at herself one last ti and biting back a smile, she turned around and left the chamber, every pulse in her body throbbing with heated anticipation.
He had co to her chamber last night, but he hadn’t touched her as she had begun to drift off. She’d only opened her eyes and saw him sitting there staring at her.
Belle had smiled shyly at him, and he had gotten up from his sitting place and pressed a soft, husbandly kiss to her lips and whispered, "Good night."
She’d fallen back asleep smiling like a fool and had woken up this morning feeling so much better than she had in a while. She was feeling so happy that not even Cordelia’s subtle insults and jabs had affected her in the dining, where Rohan had sat with them. He had cut her food and set her plates and cut any bite that was too big; he would eat from the plate before putting it back in front of her.
He’d even taken his tea from her cup and put his lips right where her mouth had been drinking from. Cordelia’s glare had been hot and on her, but Belle barely saw the other woman as her eyes and heart were on her husband—who, despite not having a heart and being incapable of love like he said, had actions that were that of a lover.
When he was about to leave the dining hall, he had leaned toward her and pressed his lips to her forehead. "I will see you in the painting room, don’t keep waiting for long." He’d left then and she had made her way to her chamber to dress.
Now that she was walking down the stairs to reach the second-floor corridor, her heart was racing so fast she could hear it in her ears. She felt fuzzy and light with excitent. Too lost in her thoughts and excitent, she failed to see the movent behind her until it was too late.
A hand ca around her, and a damp handkerchief was pressed against her nose before she realized what was happening. She inhaled the sharp, acidic scent on the fabric, it stung her nostrils and made her instantly feel faint and dizzy.
Alarm bells rang in her head, but before she could so much as struggle, her limbs had gone weak, and her eyes closed against her will to stay conscious.
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