Lorraine had agreed to this portrait only to get back at him for last night's wound to her pride. She didn't need words to make her point.
The painter had been adjusting his easel for the better part of an hour, muttering under his breath about light and shadow. The room smelled faintly of turpentine and drying plaster, the scent mingling with the faint perfume clinging to Lorraine's gown.
She sat in her carved chair, posture perfect, eyes lowered in the docile fashion everyone believed natural to her. A model wife. A silent, mild creature.
Only Leroy, sitting beside her in his equally stiff, throne-like seat, could see the small betrayals.
The first yawn was subtle, hidden behind the back of her gloved hand. The second was exaggerated, slow enough for the painter's hand to falter mid-stroke.
Leroy's jaw tensed.
The third was entirely without shame—head tilted back slightly, lips parted, lashes fluttering in feigned exhaustion.
