Page 89 of When He Was Wicked
Her eyes brightened with humor and tenderness, and desire. “I will not push you away,” she whispered.
Thank God. A quick jerk of his arms and their bodies collided, her breasts pressing against his body. Simon dipped his head and moved his mouth over hers, teasing her with brief, bruising kisses before deepening his embrace in a long, torrid kiss.
“Well,” she said, breathing hard when he lifted his head. “Are you to kiss me after every session?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes widened and she laughed. Still, Simon noted she did not object. They walked from the cottage to his stallion. He assisted her up and mounted behind her, loving the feel of her back pressed against his chest. They did not speak, and that felt perfectly fine to Simon as he nudged the horse into a canter.
Ah, Henrietta, what am I to do about these feelings I am having for you?
Henrietta was alonein the cottage, soft rain falling outside as she worked on the details of the painting. Simon was not present, and while she missed his presence, Henrietta was thankful he was not there. She was tumbling headlong into deep, impossible feelings for him. It seemed as if they had spent every moment together for the last few days. They now rode together in the mornings before coming to the cottage to work. They also sat by the river and read together, and they had even gone fishing again last night. The cook had prepared the fishes at the manor this time, and Simon had invited her to dine with him. Gran had only smiled and urged her to go, and to Henrietta, it had been a most wonderful evening.
And every chance he got, Simon kissed her.
Clenching her fingers tightly over the paintbrush, Henrietta closed her eyes for a heartbeat, lifting her fingers to her mouth. In truth, she also kissed him every chance she got. Each day they laughed and chatted, Henrietta felt a deep response in her heart.
I am falling in love with you.
The awareness of it petrified her, for she did not understand what Simon felt for her. Pushing him from her thoughts, she attended to the portrait. Henrietta included a craggy Grecian landscape over an azure sea, with the mock classical temple on the promontory. Then some tasseled brocade drapes fluttering in the breeze behind the bed where Mars lay displaying his musculature. Another white silken piece of drapery lay crumpled over his loins, and a pair of tanned and elegant legs and feet peeped out below it.
Those she had drawn from memory and was pleased that she did not have to represent what lay beneath the white cloth,although she found the image of what should be there imprinted on her memory like she had learned it by rote. Beside the bed, the urn displayed the wildflowers and greenery, although the urn had become a much more classical and sympathetic piece of pottery. The spear and a circular shield leaned against the brocade drapes, and the helmet, breastplate, sword, and sandals rested decoratively on a purple cloak.
From the bed, Simon, in his persona of Mars or Ares, God of war, stared out, displaying himself to his unseen paramour with a sensuous stare in his blue-gray eyes. The painting was nearly finished, and painfully she admitted that she did not want Vivienne to see it because Henrietta feared that it might help Simon procure her bounteous charms. The canvas unabashedly revealed his powerful shoulders and chest adorned with black curls of hair that formed a thin line from his sculptured chest, then arrowed down in a silken line over his hard, taut stomach.
Do not be silly. He is not yours.
Powered by the desperate sensations working through her heart, Henrietta worked, caught in the grip of a fever and restlessness she could not explain. Once this painting was done, Simon would vanish from her life and pursue his mistress. A raw, awful ache gripped her, and she sank deep into her mind, propelled by feelings she could not unravel.
Henrietta painted until she was exhausted, until her fingers cramped, and her eyes felt swollen. However, when she lowered the brush and peered upon the portrait she had created for Simon, she burst into tears. They were ugly and raw and hopeless. He was exquisite, and this was without a doubt her best work. And her painting revealed what she had been trying to deny—Henrietta had fallen in love with him.
She felt the warm press of the rose quartz snuggled between her breasts, and Henrietta almost wept. Taking a deep breath, she swallowed the useless sensation and allowed a plan to formin her mind. It was wicked and would only be a brief interlude, but she would feel Simon in her arms at least once before he disappeared from her life.
But never from my heart.
Henrietta swallowed, loathing that she already felt so bleak and empty.
CHAPTER NINE
Dear Simon,
Your portrait is completed. Please send the address to which you wish for it to be delivered. You may send the bank draft for my services to Jeremy Sutton in London. Thank you for the patronage.
In a matter entirely unrelated to this working relationship, I would like to see you at the cottage tomorrow evening at nine before you depart for town.
Yours,
Henrietta.
It was impossible to steady the sudden erratic beat of his heart. This was farewell. Would he ever see her again: And why did she wish to see him tomorrow? Unable to understand the restless energy surging through him, Simon left the study, bounded down the stairs and called for his horse. He would not wait until tomorrow. He would damn well go to her now, and if she was not at the cottage, he would call at her grandmother’s house. What he would say, he did not know. Simon only knew the burning desire to see Henrietta.
Simon waited impatiently until his horse was brought around, then he mounted his stallion and rode for several minutes until the cottage came into view. Night had fallen, but he could see that an oil lamp still burned inside through the small window.
He dismounted and dropped the reins, knowing his horse would only lightly graze and not wander too far. Hurrying up the small steps, he wrenched open the door without knocking, faltering when he saw Henrietta standing before his painting.
She whirled at his entrance. “Simon!”
“I got your letter.”
