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money.”
    He lightly touched my back, urging me forward.
    â€œYou’ll get used to it. It’s the linseed oil and cleaner for the brushes,” he said over my shoulder. “You certainly smell far better.”
    â€œMr. Rodin.” A giggle escaped my lips. He eased around me, his chest brushing my side. I held my breath, unnerved at my body’s reaction to him.
    â€œCome in.”
    He waved me into the room and I stood a moment, letting my eyes adjust from the dark hallway to the fused afternoon light in the spacious room. It appeared as though a wall had been removed to create a massive combination studio and study. One end of theroom was cluttered with easels, props and a lounge chair draped with beautiful gowns. It looked more like the backstage area of a theater than an artist’s haven. At the other end sat a writing desk and another set of shelves holding collectible exotic items and more books. There was an ornate, black marble front fireplace flanked by a grouping of overstuffed chairs. Directly opposite the fireplace, Mr. Rodin had opened the French doors leading to the balcony. Papers pinned to canvasses fluttered in the summer breeze.
    â€œFeel free to look around,” Mr. Rodin said as he puttered around the room.
    An errant sketch tumbled past me and kissed my toe. I reached down to pick it up at the same time as Mr. Rodin. Our fingers met briefly and my heart faltered. I let go of the paper, not wanting him to see the flush of my cheeks.
    â€œHave you painted before, Miss Bridgeton?” He held the paper loose in his hand, his eyes steady on me.
    I suppose his question was not out of the ordinary. Most well-bred women in London included painting, poetry and music in their list of abilities. “I’ve only written a little poetry. Dreadfully novice, I’m afraid.” My eyes drifted to the sketch in his hand. Done in charcoal, it was the picture of a nearly nude woman reclined on a chaise. A drape thrown haphazardly over her legs. I looked away, scanning the pictures stacked against the wall, and wondered if I would be asked to pose nude.
    Without comment, he placed the sketch on a stack of others on the desk, weighing them down with a thick book.
    â€œWho do you read?” he asked, watching me as I inspected the stacks of paintings leaning along the wall. In one group alone, there were as many as a dozen paintings with various backgrounds, but the same woman’s face. “I read most anything, Mr. Rodin. But I have a particular fondness for Dickens.”
    He chuckled. “A fine fellow, Charles.” He glanced at the floor. “A bit zealous, but he means well.”
    â€œYou know him?” I asked, wide-eyed.
    He shrugged. “We had him over to dine one evening. He has some definite ideas on social reform.”
    I searched his face wondering whether or not to believe him. I’d begun to think that perhaps Mr. Rodin had not been embellishing on his brother’s notoriety. “Did your brother paint these?” I asked. Mr. Rodin walked up beside me. “They all look like the same woman.”
    â€œYes, these are the same woman. Thomas can be a bit possessive once he chooses a subject.”
    There was an underlying tone in his voice, though I could not pinpoint it exactly. Sadness? Frustration? His breath tickled the back of my neck. The woman in the paintings was undeniably beautiful. How could I compare to such beauty? “Do you think he will find me suitable?” I touched the collar of my blouse nervously.
    I became aware in an instant of my ardent feelings for Mr. Rodin. While it was one thing to dream in the privacy of my room, it was quite another to deal with my desire while standing in a room alone, next to him. He had kept his word, remaining the perfect host, the consummate gentleman, and the realization of what I had agreed to illuminated my thoughts. I had hoped for, perhaps secretly wished, this would happen,