Page 6 of My Fake Mistress
‘Nothing dramatic. Just cholera. I cared for them as best I could, but I couldn’t save them.’ While her words were pragmatic, a sadness permeated her tone. His heart thumped with the pain of shared knowledge, and the constant repetition of memories that spun as relentless as a waterwheel, where he replayed what he could have done differently, or what might have changed things. She snapped a little container open, breaking the stillness and resuming her brisk officiousness. ‘They’re gone. Them, and my uncle. I can’t do anything about them. But I can save these.’
She took up a clean bowl and tapped the contents of the container into it. A light powder, off white and coarse, formed a soft pyramid in the base.
‘What’s that?’ He nodded at the dish.
‘A conservator never reveals their secrets,’ she said with a mocking smile. He hadn’t meant to look disappointed but perhaps she saw it on his face. With her little finger, she gestured to a strip along the edge of the gilt frame. ‘It will remove the grime that a sponge won’t shift, where the dust has become damp and set. I’ll be gentle. I have very steady hands.’
Ever so tenderly, she rubbed the powder over the grime with the tip of her index finger, then dabbed it clean with a sponge. If the transformation before had been amazing, this was stunning. When she sat back and gestured with a slight flourish, he lifted the painting from the easel to inspect it closer, the details again igniting his memory, but instead of sparking anguish, they found only peace.
‘I’ll pay you,’ he said as she packed her things. ‘It’s taken you all day.’
She shook her head. ‘Consider it an exchange for allowing me to be your fake mistress. Here, I’ll put it back in storage.’ She reached both hands towards the painting but he pulled it close.
‘I think I’d like to hang it. In my room.’
She clasped her hands before her, and her cheeks pinked. As she beamed with thinly veiled pride, he caught sight of that adorable slight gap between her teeth. With the canvas still between them, he leant close, pecked her cheek, then stole a breath of her. She was clementines and cleanliness—no doubt the lingering scent of one of the secret concoctions she used. Her magic potion.
‘Be careful.’ She pulled back with a laugh, and placing her hands over his, straightened the frame. Her fingertips had wrinkled from her work, and their raw texture sent a thrilling shiver through him. She shot a look at the door. ‘To maintain the ruse, should we leave together? Or separate?’
He wanted to saytogether.Together, and fuck the party, come to my rooms.
‘Separate will likely be best. To avoid gossip, and if Carlson is about, to court it. You should go first.’
At the door, she paused, and turned back. ‘It’s a little bit exciting, isn’t it? A clandestine affair? Even a fake one.’ And before he could reply, she slipped out of his sight.
Julian held the painting before him as he navigated the shortest path between the attic and his rooms. He tried to keep a pace somewhere between brisk and casual, hoping to avoid drawing anyone’s attention. He held his prize possibly too low, too awkwardly, but it was the only way to cover his impossibly painful erection. As Blythe had said those delectable words,a clandestine affair, he had felt a delicate tingle, like the night before in the garden. By the time he had reached the bottom of the attic stairs, he was completely hard, and his slow breaths and thoughts of cold water were powerless against the endless stream of images flashing through his mind. Every single artwork from that list pounded—Venus, her hand resting on her naked thigh, or Danae, tempting, eyes beckoning, breasts bare. And there were other more sordid images he had only been able to see by private arrangement, where the use of his name and a few notes slipped into a curator’s palm had given him access to closed collections. But in every flash, it was Blythe lounging back, watching him, stretched and naked with her tempting, playful smile.
The coolness of his rooms rushed over him. He swung the door shut, it’s slam echoing into the stillness. He propped the painting onto the closest chair, loosened his cravat, unbuttoned his coat, then worked his trousers open before taking himself in hand. His cock, already purple, thick and hard, would not settle for anything but release. He stroked feverishly, and the most epically primal pleasure radiated through him.
As he stared at the most mundane of landscapes, all he saw was her delicate fingers dabbing at the canvas. As he rubbed faster, tighter, his palm slipping along his shaft, over his knob, then back, he saw the firm line of Blythe’s lips pursed in concentration. And as he squinted his eyes closed and propelled himself towards climax, all he could see was her: thighs spread, eyes lustful, wanting him, taking him, calling his name.
‘Blythe,’ he mumbled, grunting and squeezing, his free hand fisting his coat. A light, brief burst of euphoria formed, then a staggered smattering of bliss coursed in him, whimpering before it roared in consumption. His seed shot onto the carpet, then oozed between his fingers. He groaned loud, his throaty expulsion echoing in the quiet room.
As his breath settled, and his cock began to soften, Julian tucked himself away. He found a cloth to dab at the floor. At his washbasin, he poured a small bowl of cool water from the ewer and cleaned his hands. It had been years since he’d done that, since he’d even felt the urge.
Heavens, it had felt good.
Chapter Three
Blythe’sbreathbunchedinher chest as the red ball sailed across the cornflower blue sky. Men ran, their arms outstretched and shirtsleeves pulling back from their wrists, but Julian out legged them all. He reached, his muscles straining against the white shirt linen, and even from the sidelines, the thwack into his palm was audible.
‘Well done, Ashford,’ someone cheered.
‘Better luck next time,’ Julian called to the retreating batsman. He bent and adjusted his boot, before standing and stretching his arms over his head and twisting slightly. As his body elongated, his shirt tail untucked slightly, and Blythe fancied she spied a sliver of pale skin between his hem and waistband. And not a strip of flaccid belly, either, like when her uncle over indulged at Christmas and his shirt buttons spread, but an indecent patch of skin, just below his hip, showing a delicate indentation of firm muscle… Her tongue tingled. He looked up, and from her shaded position across the expanse of lawn, she imagined he held her gaze, and she felt the caress of his sapphire eyes, and the warmth of a smile that could light a room.
‘Blythe!’ Yvette’s fingers snapped an inch from her nose. ‘I must have said your name five times. Are you well?’
‘Quite well.’ Blythe blinked fast, then forced composure as she turned to her friend, seated beside her on a picnic blanket. Yvette’s white lace parasol twirled in a lazy circle, flecking shards of sunlight over her buttercup yellow dress as she pushed her wide-brimmed hat back from her forehead and regarded Blythe with a bemused grin.
‘So,’ Yvette said as she bumped against Blythe’s arm. ‘Who is he?’
‘What? Who is who?’ she said in a rush, stumbling her words.
‘You haven’t taken your eyes off the field all afternoon.’ A light tease edged Yvette’s tone.
Blythe waved her hand lazily toward the match. ‘I’m simply enjoying the game.’
‘You? Enjoying cricket?’ Yvette raised an eyebrow.
