Page 86 of Seductive Reprise
She froze, then looked to his eyes, terrified of what she might find. But his expression was soft and warm.
“What—” she choked, but he cut her off.
“She isn’t simply Florence Clewer. Or even Lady Clewer, wife to Sir David Clewer.” He paused, and a slight smirk teased at one corner of his lips. “She herself is Lady Florence Clewer.”
Blast it, she ought to have asked Ruth for some help with titles and such; Rose hadn’t a clue what he was getting at.
“Becauseshe,” Yusef went on, “is the daughter of a duke.”
“Oh,” Rose breathed, dropping her gaze to the ornate rug she kneeled upon. It boasted a pattern of diamonds done in gold and red, and she reached out to trace it.
“The Duke of Marbury.”
Again she froze, her finger halting at the point of a gold diamond. “Oh.” Then, when she realized every implication of his words: “Oh.” A memory came to mind, of the finely turned-out young girl with sandy hair, sneering at Joseph—Yusef—from across the drawing room at Icknield Court.
“I instructed her to write to you.”
Her chest was suddenly in a vise, tightened beyond the point where she could comfortably breathe.
“I’ve commissioned the portrait. It’s a gift for my father, depicting his progeny.”
Rose frowned. Her mind swirled with emotion, confusion. Even as she’d been missing him, he had been manipulating her, luring her here when she’d asked him to stay away. Part of her—probably the largest part—burned with anger, but she somehow could only manage to respond to the least of the issues before them. “But she said…” she stammered, recalling the words in Lady Clewer’s—rather, Lady Florence’s—letter. A portrait of herand her sister, she’d requested. Rose looked again at Yusef. “Without you in it?”
“Precisely.” Something glinted in his eyes, and he stood up, crossing the room to the bed. He watched her for a moment in silence, then began removing his coat with such maddening elegance, only to toss it aside without looking, as if he didn’t care whether it landed on the floor or not. Frustratingly it didn’t, settling unscathed upon one of the armchairs.
She rose from the floor, her righteous anger now finding its footing. She felt trapped, her wrists bound by a velvet cord of insults and misdirections.
She hadn’t earned this commission with her skill or renown—he’d ordered it, and duped her into accepting it. Thereby causing her to stumble unwittingly into a lion’s den of duke’s daughters, when she’d meant to make this merely her study sketch—not her final work—for navigating high society. This after she’d agreed to take her rightful place as the Earl of Ipsley’s bastard, as Yusef had wanted, yet he continued to shun his own father while benefiting from his title. She clenched her hands into fists.
She loved him, and had welcomed him back in her heart. She would bend to fit into his life and his world. But he couldn’t deign to pull back from his ingrained need for dominance, for superiority?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
He’d already shed hisnecktie when she finally managed to speak.
“How dare you,” she seethed, storming over toward him.
“Ah, wonderful,” he said, unclipping his cufflinks. The little snakes with emerald eyes, which she hadn’t seen him wear in months. He walked back to deposit them on a long, narrow table between the armchairs. “Here we finally are, at the crux of the matter. I’d been worried you might flee again.” He shrugged out of his shirt, casually tossing it atop his coat. Now clad in only his trousers and vest, which clung most distractingly to his torso, he ran a desultory hand through his hair.
And with that, she knew she would make him hear her, even as her emotions were a turmoil.
When he came to her, she waited, breathing heavily. What use was it to run away, both from what she so urgently wanted, and what needed to be said?
Yusef reached out and hooked one finger into the high collar of her blouse. He pulled her toward him.
“Well?” he murmured, eyes on hers as he began to casually unbutton her garment.
The ache between her legs was too much. She needed him. Humiliation washed over her, both hot and cold.
“But,” she whispered, her voice sounding hoarse, “it’s your sister’s house.” It was a pathetic excuse, Rose knew, for she didn’t care as long as the door was locked. But the Earl of Ipsley’s daughter should care. Yusef’swifeshould care.
“She’s—” She paused to gasp as his fingers grazed her baredécolletage, pushing the blouse back, exposing the thin chemise that barely concealed her. “She’scommissioningme,” she protested even as she twisted about, working the sleeves over her wrists until the blasted thing was off.
His hands caught her shoulders, pulling her back against him, so close that his lips grazed against her ear.
“I told you, sweetness,” he purred, and Rose shivered. “ThatI’vecommissioned the portrait. So really,” he slid his hands down her arms, “you’re here at my pleasure.” He caressed the back of one arm, and she felt incapable of protest, or of anything, really. Once more she was a wanton creature, concerned only with her own pleasure.
“Now,” Yusef said, business-like, “hold your lovely hair aside so I may kiss your neck while I inform you of what else I’ve commissioned.”
