Page 44 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
It had been almost a week since she had last seen Sebastian, other than in brief passing. He seemed to be getting closer and closer to her father, often spending time at their home but without paying her due attention. The deeper their relationship became, the more she wanted to pull away from him. Her grandmother had advised her to trust him, but she wasn’t sure she could.
Besides, he seemed uninterested in her now, his entire focus on Edward Sinclair. At first, she had tried to speak with him, her eyes following him. But he was intent on ignoring her, or perhaps he had just forgotten about her, about the connection they had shared.
And the intimacy.
It hurt, but it also proved to her just what sort of man Sebastian Ravenswood really was. She repeatedly told herself that she wanted nothing more to do with him. He was just like her father, and she felt nothing for him, but deep down, even she didn’t believe that. She thought of him often, remembering the feel of his fingertips as they ran across her collarbone, gripped her breasts, and teased her thighs. She cleared her throat.
“Yes, I remember him quite well, thank you very much,” she replied as coldly as she could manage.
“He approached me last week and asked if you could paint a sensuous painting of him at his home this evening.”
“I beg your pardon?” Arabella asked, shocked by her father’s words.
It was not the request itself but who had requested it. She had painted many sensuous scenes for his friends—that did not matter to her. But even after all that had happened, she had thought—hoped—that Sebastian was different. She had thought he wasgood.
“I told him you’d do it, of course.”
“I …” Arabella faltered, not knowing how to reply. “Have you known about this the entire week, and you are only telling me now?”
Her father raised a warning eyebrow at her. “Do I have some sort of duty to report to you, daughter of mine? Pack up your paints and prepare yourself. The carriage is picking you up at seven o’clock sharp.”
Panic washed over her. She knew she couldn’t be in Sebastian’s presence, not without going weak with desire and giving in to her most basic cravings. And she wouldn’t allow that man to do it to her. Not again.
“But … will I at least have a chaperone?” she asked.
Her father laughed, throwing his head back. “Good Lord, Arabella. That would hardly be appropriate, would it? I’m sure Ravenswood doesn’t want the world and his dog witnessing the scene! Besides, you’ve never had a chaperone before. What makes this one any different?”
“I don’t suppose it is,” she said, squirming in her chair.
Edward approached her, and he gently stroked her cheek. “My dear girl. It’s so sweet how you are always so concerned about propriety. But worry not. I know Ravenswood like no other. We’ve spent an awful lot of time together in the last few weeks, and he’s become the son I never had.”
“Oh.”
“Get ready. You don’t have much time.”
As her father marched away, Arabella fell back into her chair. She couldn’t quite believe it. A son! It was worse than she could possibly have imagined, and now he wanted a sensual painting, just like the other brutes in the Lord’s Society.
***
“Good evening, My Lady,” Sebastian said as she was shown into the room where she would paint him.
“Your Grace,” she replied, her lips tight and her tone cold. She pushed past him, and as the footman set up the easel, she began arranging her paints.
She could sense him looking at her, surprised perhaps by her coolness, but she didn’t allow herself to look back at him. She wouldn’t be his plaything. She wouldn’t let him have victory over the single person who was off-limits in the society.
“So,” he began, running his finger across the sideboard. “How do these things usually work?”
“You pose; I paint.”
She pursed her lips together, still refusing to raise her head. But she could see him from the corner of her eye, how his body flowed through the room as if he were floating. She didn’t think he could look even more handsome, and yet here he was. He had tied his dark hair with a ribbon at the nape of his neck, and his chin was free of stubble. His eyes, so deeply green, seemed to shine even more than usual, and he wore his usual confident smile. He raised his eyebrows at her.
“That simple,” he replied.
He moved to the chair in the middle of the room and settled himself on it. He paused, watching her intently. She became acutely aware of every inch of her body, her flesh reacting to the mere touch of her gown upon her legs, the tiniest hairs on her neck sticking up. Still, she said nothing, though she could feel her resolve wavering.
No! Do not give into his false charm!
“I trust you are well, Arabella?” he said, his voice rich and luxurious, his gaze still steadily upon her face, her body.
