Page 39 of Portrait of a Lady
“I don’t want to worsen any pain you might be in,” he rasped, burying his face against the side of her neck. “But, Christ, I want you again. I want you so badly it hurts.”
Turning, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his, her inner channel clenching at the feel of his hard cock pressed against her.
“I’m perfectly fine,” she insisted, brushing her lips against his. “I want you again, too...please.”
Without preamble, he propelled her to the chaise, dropping down onto it and snatching his open shirt off over his head. Remembering the painting Patience had shown her and how intrigued she’d been by the way the depicted couple had chosen to position themselves, she straddled him, resting on his thighs while hurriedly working to open his trousers. He palmed her hips, urging her over him once his cock had sprung free, standing tall and proud from his groin. He guided himself to her opening, his head falling back and a groan escaping his lips at the first touch of her against him. The wetness he’d coaxed from her with his fingers slicked the way easily and he filled her until she felt as if she’d burst, her sheath stretching to accommodate him. The slight sting of his invasion was nothing compared to the deep pangs of pleasure rippling through her as he used his hands to guide her, showing her the different ways she could pleasure them both. Bracing her hands on his chest, she tested the rhythm, sliding up and down his shaft, undulating her hips and grinding into him in a way that sent lightning strikes of pleasure deep into her womb.
Hugh stared up at her as if enraptured, his hips raising to meet each of her movements in a perfect counterpoint. He never tore his gaze away, keeping his eyes locked with hers as he tightened his hold on her, guiding her rhythm harder and faster. She fought to keep her eyes open, not wanting to shy away from the intensity of his gaze which seemed to peer not through her, but into her, into the depths of her soul.
Collapsing on top of him, she gave herself over to another climax, this one stealing the strength from her limbs and the breath from her lungs as her insides erupted into a torrent of release. She gasped for air and clung to him, unable to do anything more than ride out the ripples and waves of her ending as he went on stroking inside her, his hips bucking and his legs shaking as he drew closer to his own end. Seconds later, he lifted her off his cock and took it into his fist, groaning and trembling as he spent, the warm liquid of his seed spreading over his lower belly.
After using his discarded shirt to clean himself, Hugh pulled his trousers up over his hips before pulling Evelyn to lie down on top of him, using his dressing gown to cover her nudity. Nestled in the warm cocoon of the robe and his arms around her, she began drifting off again, her ear attuned to the sound of his breathing. While she drifted in the place between sleep and wakefulness, a sudden thought occurred to her, snatching her back toward consciousness. Sneaking a glance up at Hugh, she found him sleeping, eyes closed, lips parted, one arm draped across her back. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the sight he made, beautiful and unguarded in sleep.
A deep twinge from the vicinity of her chest made her eyes prickle and her throat ache, the realization growing and swelling until it overtook her mind with an unavoidable truth.
She had fallen in love with her courtesan, a man she’d hardly known a few weeks ago, whom she had paid to act as her companion and lover. A man who was only doing any of this because she kept him secure in his home and in this studio where he engaged in his true passion—painting and working toward a future as a portraitist. Her heart sank, even as she clung tighter to him. Their time was not over yet, and perhaps her feelings wouldn’t seem so real or raw outside this moment. With the scent of sex, the warmth of him wrapped around her, and the dull ache between her legs reminding her that he’d just been inside of her, it was easy to think herself in love with him. She tried to convince herself it was normal for a woman to feel this way after being deflowered, and it was no wonder young girls were urged to maintain their innocence until they were married. She tried to convince herself she was merely infatuated with a man who’d spoken so sweetly to her and given her that first elusive taste of passion. It would pass, it would fade, and she would forget she’d ever felt this way.
Yet, the longer she lay there trying to make herself believe all these things, the more Evelyn realized she knew better. For better or worse, whether he returned the sentiment or not, and no matter how short their time together might be, she loved Hugh.
The next morning,Evelyn had just finished her morning toilette when Patience informed her that two visitors had come to call. Her pulse fluttered with excitement, as her first thought conjured Hugh’s face in her mind. She had been loath to part with him after having spent the night in his bed, but Hugh had his instruction at the Royal Academy to attend and she could not very well remain in his home while he was not there—no matter how much she might want to. Evelyn could have spent her entire day lying in a bed that smelled like him, wrapped up in a dressing gown that had touched his skin, and generally soaking in every crevice and corner of the place he called home. She wanted to spend hours in his studio staring at his canvases and poring over the pages in his sketchbook. She wanted to gaze uponVirtue and Viceuntil she recognized herself as the woman in the painting, the person Hugh saw whenever he looked at her. She wanted to believe it meant that perhaps he was coming to love her as she loved him.
She had told herself she definitelymustreturn home before she lost hold of her senses completely. Letting herself think any of those things would only lead to heartbreak in the end. She knew this, even as she clung to him for one last kiss before letting him hand her down from his phaeton and walk her to her front door. She knew this, even as she’d lingered in the doorway watching him depart with the light of dawn kissing the air with a warm glow.
She knew it even now, as she allowed herself to grow excited over seeing him again so soon, only to remember that he must be attending his lectures at Somerset House by now. It was far too early in the day for him to visit, and they had already arranged to meet that evening.
“Who could be calling at this hour?” she murmured to herself as she descended the stairs.
She had very few friends, and the ones she did have would never pay a social call so early in the morning. The voices of two women came at her through the half-open door of the morning room, but it wasn’t until she’d already stepped into the space that she realized she ought to have recognized them.
She stumbled in her surprise, reaching out to steady herself on the sideboard, her eyes going wide and her mouth falling open. “Beatrice? Mother?”
Her mother and eldest sister glanced up from the folded newspaper they were poring over together, two pairs of dark-brown eyes identical to Evelyn's fell on her. Mrs. Matilda Coburn had passed on her sable locks and matching eyes to all three of her daughters, though hers was now shot through with silver strands. Matilda appraised her with a critical eye—as she always did—though she made no mention of Evelyn’s morning gown, which was an entire Season out of fashion.
“Why do you look so surprised to see us, Evie?” she huffed with a roll of her eyes. “Did you not receive my note yesterday?”
Evelyn’s gaze darted to her writing desk, where an unopened envelope rested. This was where Joseph always placed her correspondence, where she was sure to find it when it was time to resume work on her novel. However, upon returning home she had gone straight up to her bedchamber.
“Of course,” she lied, hoping her mother would not notice the unopened missive on her desk. “I apologize, I was out late last night and have only just awakened.”
“Out late,” Beatrice mused, pursing her lips. “With Mr. Radcliffe?”
Her heart lodged itself in her throat as Beatrice’s cool dark eyes settled on her, probing and far too assessing. Beatrice had always been the smartest of the Coburn daughters, and never let the others forget it. Typical of elder sisters, she thought it her duty to meddle in the lives of her siblings, often offering her advice whether it was wanted or not. She’d been the first to experience a Season, the first to wed, the first to bear children, and naturally thought herself the most knowledgeable on these subjects. Because their middle sister, Sybil, had also wedded and begun to breed, Evelyn had been left as the sole recipient of Beatrice’s meddlesome ways.
Did her sister know that Evelyn and Hugh were having an affair? Worse, did she know that the basis of that affair was built upon the exchange of funds and a contract that made him her courtesan?
She clenched her sweating hands around her skirts and feigned ignorance. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Their mother thrust the wrinkled newspaper in Evelyn’s direction with a smirk. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out that the son of anearlhas been courting you? You wicked girl! To keep such a thing from your mama.”
Evelyn steadied her shaking hand and perused the copy ofThe London Gossip,a gossip rag that thetonhad become obsessed with as of late. It contained the choicest bits of fodder each week, from the most mundane details of who had worn a hideous ensemble to a certain soiree, to the shocking account of which debutante had been caught with her skirts up in the garden during a ball. She frowned as she came to the section detailing a sighting of Hugh at the opera.
This writer attended the Theatre Royal this Thursday past, with my eyes to the rented boxes ruled byle bon tonas one does...and was quite disappointed to see that the box of one, The Hon. Mr. S was not occupied by the man himself. Meanwhile, all people of Quality—myself included—have waited with baited breath for the inevitable confrontation between The Hon. Mr. S and his father, Viscount S. With the Season soon coming to a close, such does not seem as likely as I once believed, but one can still hope.
But all was not lost! As it happens, Mr. S loaned his box for the night to a group of friends, which included a merchant of dubious background and blackamoor heritage, and that most notorious gambler, The Hon. Mr. B. Most notable among the occupants of this box was The Hon. Mr. R...the fourth, excommunicated son of a certain earl. This writer reported some time ago the family estrangement caused by the attendance of The Hon Mr. R at the Royal Academy of the Arts, one that does not appear to be on the verge of ending. With my own eyes, I witnessed a chance meeting between the artist and his eldest brother outside the theatre, during which the latter gave the former the cut direct with such brutal accuracy I was left stinging just from having witnessed it.
Also of note was The Hon. Mr R’s companion, Miss C, a spinster of several Seasons past who still finds herself unattached, though recently became the recipient of quite an inheritance. Perhaps wedding bells shall ring from the ramparts of St. George’s by Season’s end...at which time, this author wonders whether the earl and his family will put in an appearance? I shall surely report the outcome!
Evelyn’s shoulders sagged in relief as she realized hardly anything had been revealed at all—at least, nothing that could prove very incriminating. Nothing that had anything to do with the Gentleman Courtesans, or the nature of her relationship with Hugh.
