Page 102 of His Duchess of Scandal
Why did that name ring such loud bells?
Hermia pushed through the fog in her mind, desperately reaching for a memory just out of reach.
And then it hit her.
Christian Dawson, the painter of Ares and Aphrodite, the very thing that had started their interaction at the party.
Hermia turned in his embrace again. “You are the notorious painter with thestarlightpieces?”
“That is me,” he confirmed. “Nobody knows, although I have told Anton Bentley, for I used the alias to attend his parties. We have that investment and protection against one another. I risk as much as he does if word gets out, so we keep one another’s secrets. But this is me, utterly me. Unabashedly me.Vulnerablyme. And, as I said over breakfast, it is not easy for me to be vulnerable.”
“It is not,” she murmured.
“Except with you.”
Her face was cupped softly, her attention drawn up to him.
“I have painted you from thought alone too many times,” he said quietly. “Just this once, my wife, will you do me the honor of sitting for a portrait? This oneshallremain between us. A private moment as husband and wife, a painter and his muse.”
He turned to the chaise lounge, as if he, despite their earlier conversation, had planned this. “There is a robe there. The door remains locked, and we will not be disturbed. Please, get comfortable.”
“What shall I do?”
“Simply be your beautiful self. I will orchestrate the rest.”
And so Hermia did.
Feeling his eyes fixed on her intently, she shed her gown, her corset following next, until she stood bare before him. She half ignored the robe, until she had the thought of draping it over herself the way he had painted her a year ago.
Sometimes teasing a body was as tantalizing as the bare skin on display. So she donned it, lowered herself onto the chaise, and positioned her arms artfully over her head.
Charles’s gaze darkened as he set himself up before the canvas, preparing his paints and brushes.
She was caught between focusing on her arousal and the intent in his eyes—the unfettered attention.
“Like this?” Her question was barely a breath.
“Like that,” he affirmed, his own voice breathy.
And then he began painting.
The only sounds in the room were of his paintbrush as he created her, stroke by stroke, and her labored breathing. Charles’s eyes flicked from the canvas to her, raking over her body so intensely that shefeltit despite the distance between them.
Her arousal grew, and as the time passed, she became unable to ignore the growing ache between her legs.
“You are squirming,” Charles noted, not looking up from the canvas for a minute.
Somehow, the divided attention only made the heat burn hotter inside her.
“How can I not when pinned beneath the attention of my husband for so long? You know the effect you have on me.”
“And you on me, Duchess,” Charles answered smoothly.
Finally, his eyes met hers, and that usual jolt went through her. Her chest heaved, and Charles’s gaze dragged over her heavy breasts. Soon, he stepped back, wiping his brushes on a stained rag.
Paint-stained hands reached for her, finally pulling open her robe. “Heavens, I cannot keep my wits about me when I see you.”
There was so much desire in his eyes, and Hermia chased it hungrily, pressing her mouth needily to his. His hands encased her waist.
