Page 58 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
“Hell, Delia,” he whispered into the tingling skin over her spine. “What am I going to do with you?”
An odd question. Yesterday morning, it had been “Hell, Delia, when will you wake and let me have you once more?” And the morning before that had been “Delia, you damn vixen, wake, darling.” And before that, in exasperated tones, “Why the bloody hell do you feel like forever, Delia dear?” Her favorite so far. In fact, the more he cursed, the more frustration filled his voice, the more she liked it.
Kisses planted on every unclothed bit of her. And every bit of her unclothed. When his prickly cheeks scratched against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, she squirmed, unable any longer to pretend sleep.
He inched up her body, walking his fingers over her abdomen like a soldier marching across a battlefield, eyes sleepy yet full of mischief. “Awake yet?”
“I am now. But I would still be sleeping if you had an ounce of self-restraint.”
“You’ve slept plenty since coming to my bed.”
“I’ve slept barely at all.” She pretended grouchiness, put a pout in her words that teased his smile wider. It was truth. She was as sleepless as ever. But less upset about it. How could she be with this man in her bed, touching her, whispering curses to her each morning.
No gargoyle, her nighttime Theo. Wait till she told the others in London. They’d never believe it.
“What’s wrong?” He frowned up at her.
“Nothing.” A lie.
He scowled and laid his head beside hers on the pillow, gathering her tight to his chest. “Liar.”
What was wrong? His arms felt much too good to give up in, what, less than a week now? How had she formed such a habit of him in so short a time?
He kissed her ear, her neck, her shoulder, trying to tease her into cheerfulness. An odd exchange of roles, and one that did not work. She pulled from his embrace and left the bed, feeling the weight of his gaze on her as she dressed in her shift and wrapper.
“I should dress for the day,” she said. “And you as well. Meet you in the gallery with the others soon?”
He nodded, jaw hard, a rebellion jerking at the corner of his lips. He jumped out of bed, pulling the quilt with him, and before she could do more than admire the cut of his body, feel the heat, seeing it always pooled low in her belly, he had her pinned against the door, wrapped with him in the quilt, kissing her. Kissing her so softly she almost forgot the world outside of their six more days. She kissed him back as if the school did not exist, as if the townhouse would not go to someone with more money, as if no one had ever gossiped about her connection to his father, and as if Bradley were not turning guests against her.
With a sigh, she stopped the kiss and laid her cheek against his chest. His hand wound in her hair, as it always did when she wore it unbound and streaming down her back or plaited in a long rope.
“I’m nowhere near being able to rent a new location for the school. Those who offered to donate only wish to sponsor students, not buy buildings. I do not know what will happen to me when your brother sells the house.”
His arms tightened around her as he rolled them so that he rested against the door, and she rested against him. He kissed the top of her head.
She pushed out of his embrace. “I have work to do still, that much is clear. No more lost sleep in your bed, Lord Theo. I must counter Mr. Bradley’s nasty influence among the guests.”
His mouth opened like a fish. “Bradley?”
“Yes.” She tweaked his nose and slid through the door before he could catch her once more. When she gained the privacy of her own chamber and peered into the looking glass above the wash basin, her face looked bleak. No surprise. She’d not made as much progress as she’d have liked. Still, hope prevailed. There was always the competition. Theo had attended every single event in order to paint and try his hand at winning it. For her. She loved him for it.
Love?
She laughed. My, what a slip of the tongue. Er, mind? She didn’tlovehim. Of course not. Certainly not. But she didadmirehim. His commitment to his causes, of which she’d become one. But she would not delude herself. While he had talent, his drawings often seemed to be missing something. He was technically proficient, but in many ways his work seemed… flat. It did not have the emotional weight the others possessed in a single stroke of a single color across a canvas. The works he drew alone at night were better. Less technically proficient, sillier sometimes, garrulous others, ugly often, but purposefully so. Yet brimming with emotions—anger predominantly. But the ones he did not take seriously because he said they did nothing, the ones he drew for her were filled with something else—a playfulness of spirit, a generosity and optimism she’d not associated with him before. He might win if he shared those. He could not share those.
The fact remained: she could not rely on the prize money for her school, for her livelihood. Mr. Bradley’s gossiping had done damage she could not undo, no matter how she tried.
Her face glowed pale and weary, shadowed and gaunt in the looking glass. She did not look like the teasing lady Theo had drawn in the garden at the start of the house party.
She had a purpose, and Mr. Bradley would not keep her from it. That purpose set her steps straight as she found the gallery. As soon as she stepped foot into the long, windowed room, an arm slipped into the crook of hers.
“Up late?” Theo asked, bending low and wiggling his brows.
“No teasing, Theo. I’m focusing.”
“Now who’s the gargoyle? Do you need tea? Food?”
“Absolutely, I do.”
