Page 204 of The Ladies Least Likely
“You’re too intimidating in full dress,” she answered. “I want you indishabille. So the ladies can imagine you in bed.” She leaned back and regarded him thoughtfully. “Oh, good. Keep that look, that sleepy, satisfied look. It gives me the shivers.”
“It does?” he called, but she turned and reassumed possession of her stool, sketchbook, and crayon, and fell to sketching busily, her hand moving so quickly that he wondered what would emerge. He endeavored to keep the look she wanted, an easy feat as it merely required watching her, the way she bit her lip and her brows drew together when a line was giving her trouble, the way her sleeve flared when she made large strokes, the way one ringlet of hair inched toward the cleft between her breasts.
“I want to see,” he said when she’d burned through several sheets of paper and finally gave a long, satisfied sigh.
She rolled her shoulders and flexed her wrists. “I want your permission to sell them first. Are you going to require a share of the profits?”
“You can keep any profits there are. I want to see.” He rose and moved toward her, happy to stand. He couldn’t tell how long he’d been sitting, but long enough for the muscles in his manipulated, surgically altered leg to become painfully stiff. Helimped toward her as she spread the sketches she’d done out on her worktable.
“Your word first!” She turned, holding her arms out playfully as if she meant to prevent him from seeing, and he couldn’t stop himself. He stepped close and slipped his arms beneath hers, showing her the barricade was useless.
They both froze. His body was a mere inch from hers, and there was a good deal less fabric between them than there had been the night before. Her eyelashes fluttered, and her chest lifted as she drew in a breath. Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth. Slowly, slowly he bent his head, giving her plenty of time to cry foul or push him away.
She didn’t push him away. She slipped a hand around the back of his neck and brought his head towards her, matching his lips firmly to hers, and they fell into last night’s kiss as though they’d never left off.
It was better this time. Last night they’d explored and discovered, cautious and experimental. This time her tongue twined about his without hesitation. Her mouth moved with his in perfect rhythm, yielding, tormenting. Her body arced against his, pressing greedily. He slid one hand into her hair, holding her head for his plundering kiss, and slid the other down her back to her bottom. She wasn’t wearing any sort of padding and his hand shaped her supple roundness, nudging and lifting her hips into his. She moaned and her head fell back as his mouth roved to the dip at the corner of her lips, down her jaw, and across her silken neck.
His arousal intensified, and he froze with his lips on her collarbone. He was going to spend right here in his breeches if he didn’t stop. Excitable and overeager, just like the courtesan had said. He didn’t want Harriette to see his ineptitude.
“What was I going to give my word about?” he whispered against her skin.
She gave a low, throaty hum as he stepped back and she untangled herself. Her eyes heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, she didn’t look the least embarrassed about indulging in passion. She’d fit herself against his groin without shame, as if she wanted the same thing he did.
She wanted him.
“You could marry me, Rhette.” The words held a quiet ferocity. He couldn’t believe his own daring, voicing the thing he suddenly wanted more than anything. “Bear my children. It would save me a great deal of trouble,” he added, appealing to her practical side.
She met this plea with a short bark of laughter and turned to the sketches on her worktable. He thought he caught a flash of some other emotion in her eyes—triumph or remorse, he couldn’t tell—before she turned away.
“You need a countess you can be proud of, Ren. Someone worthy of you. I would only bring you gossip and shame, and besides, I already told you. I’m not the domestic sort.”
Cautiously he settled his hands about her waist, stroking his thumbs along her sides. She wasn’t wearing a corset. “Then be with me otherwise,” he said hoarsely. He’d take whatever she would give him. Scraps and crumbs. Stolen moments in shadow. Pride was the last thing on his mind.
“An affair?” She stilled as he nosed among the curls at the side of her neck. She quivered. He hated how she said the word so casually, as if she were accustomed to affairs. “Worse shame and gossip.”
But she tilted her head so he might kiss her neck, and he slid his hands upward to her lovely breasts. He could scarcely comprehend where his assurance came from. He’d never been so bold with a woman. But there was nothing of awkwardness when he was with Harriette. Her form clasped in his arms was the most right and natural thing in the world.
“Do you care about gossip?” he whispered against her earlobe.
“You ought to.” She moved aside the lock of hair tickling his nose. “You’re the one to be married.”
He nudged his erection against that voluptuously soft bottom and she pressed back into him, accepting. He rolled his hips against her, and she groaned. Pleasure surged, and he stilled before he embarrassed himself, then stepped back and let his hands fall away. She leaned on the table, steadying herself as he withdrew.
“Tell me when I can see you again.”
“You can come here tomorrow and wear the suit you wore last night. I was thinking to begin with a study in gouache, but it happens I found the perfect pigment to capture that suit, and your eyes. It’s called Prussian blue.” She sounded completely calm, but the tips of her ears were bright pink.
She didn’t want him otherwise, but she felt desire. He savored that for a moment. Joy threatened to burst his chest. He set all other concerns aside, the self-doubting inner voice, his unpromising history.
“I want to see you for passion. Not work.”
She turned back to face him, bracing her hands on the table and smiling easily. “Painting is my passion.”
“I’m thinking of pleasure we both can enjoy.” Nowwherehad this seductive side come from? The Italian courtesan wouldn’t believe this was the same man she’d tried so hopelessly to tutor.
That enchanting pucker emerged at the corners of her lips. “Have you been to the Marylebone Pleasure Gardens? They’re my favorite. They often feature female singers, and there is a female chef. I’m very fond of her tarts.”
There would be lanes and paths for walking, where everyone could observe his staggering gait. There would be strangers to greet, sure to catch him out with a stammer. There would befemale caterwauling of the kind he could not stomach, and he could already guess the tarts were overly sweet.
