Page 11 of A Duke in Disguise
“It’ll be all right, you know.”
She looked up to see Ash leaning in the doorway. He was in loose trousers and rolled-up shirtsleeves. He must have taken a break from work. “No, I don’t know that. And neither do you. Here, sit down and help me eat this cheese. I took enough for the entire neighborhood.”
“What I should have said is that in a week you’ll know whether he’s emerged unscathed from this event, at least.” He sat in the chair beside hers and helped himself to a corner of her bread and some of the cheese. “A week from now he’ll be back and you’ll know what you’re facing. Meanwhile, I read the rest of that manuscript.”
Verity nearly choked on her bread. She had been expecting another week to pass before having to speak with Ash about the book. It had been only three days since she had given him the manuscript. At the moment she was sulky and raw, and didn’t have any defenses up. “Oh? How did you find it?”
“What I find is that you read me a most misleading passage.”
“I found it quite tasteful,” she said, not looking at him. Doubtless he had that knowing half smile. She wasn’t equal to Ash’s half smile at the moment.
“And so it is. Tastefully lewd, if that isn’t an oxymoron.”
“I feel certain it isn’t. I suppose you’d rather have nothing to do with it. No worries.” She tried to sound bright and unbothered. It probably would be best for her to hire another illustrator. One who didn’t roll his sleeves up in such a wanton manner, for example. How she was meant to get anything done in such close proximity to forearms, she did not know.
“You suppose wrong. But I do have to warn you that I’m in no way competent to draw some of the acts described in that book, and I can’t imagine where I’d find models willing to oblige me.” Her cheeks heated with the thought, and it was only partly due to embarrassment. “But I did a rough sketch of the kind of illustration I have in mind.” He reached into his pocket and presented her with a sheet of paper.
She steeled herself. It was attraction, nothing more. Utterly natural. Like hay fever. A minor inconvenience. Verity had long known she was susceptible to both men and women, but men usually comported themselves in such a way that quickly extinguished whatever lustful inclinations she had been harboring. There seemed little chance of Ash making things convenient for her by behaving boorishly.
She pushed her spectacles to the bridge of her nose and beheld a sketch of a man and a woman in flowing medieval robes. He was exaggeratedly sinuous and faintly mischievous; her jaw was clenched and her bare feet planted firmly on the floor, but her body canted towards the man opposite her. This, she gathered, was Perkin and Catherine. The way Ash had drawn the lady’s gown, it appeared to be made of cobweb lace, clinging to the curves of her body and all but revealing the flesh beneath. But the focus of the drawing wasn’t the woman’s body; it was her hand, reaching towards the hip of her new husband.
She must have been silent for too long, because Ash cleared his throat and murmured, “Remember, it’s only an idea.”
“Ash, I’ve worked with you for years. I know your process. But this is very good,” she said. “It’s lovely. You know it’s lovely. The way she’s leaning towards him, and he’s beckoning her with that single finger—it’s a seduction, but you’re barely showing it. And the, ah, bodice is... good.” Her eyes were drawn to a ripe curve of breast, barely obscured by gossamer-fine fabric.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” He took a piece of bread from the plate she still held on her lap.
She was very conscious that she was sitting so close to him that they could share a single plate, discussing private matters. “First I want to show you something.” She reached beneath her chair to one of the many stacks of books that littered the room and pulled out a volume. After paging through it, she handed him the book opened to the illustration she wanted him to see. It was an image of a bare-chested woman in flagrante delicto with a man.
“Good God,” Ash sputtered. “You might warn a fellow.”
“Pfft. No doubt you’ve seen it already. It sold quite well a few years back, I understand.”
“Indeed, I have seen it. I’m a bit shocked that you have, though. When in heaven’s name did you start keeping dirty books in your study?”
“I started keeping dirty books in my study about ten minutes after I decided to publish dirty books. Don’t think I was unaware that we carried them in the shop. Laying my hands on them was only a matter of shouting ‘Oi, Nate, send up the dirty books you keep behind the counter for special customers’ as I’m sure you know.”
“Hmmph.” He studied the print. “Is this the style you hope to emulate?” he asked in measured tones.
“No, you muttonhead. It’s exactly what I don’t want you to do. I hate everything about it. Look at them.” She jabbed a finger at the illustration. “She’s completely naked, and the only part of him we see is his... member.” She rolled her eyes at her inability to come up with a better word. “And what good does that do anybody?”
“Ah, it appears to be doing the lady some marked good.”
“No, Ash, no it does not. Look at her face. I wouldn’t tolerate that vacant simper at my dinner table, much less my bedroom. Is that the expression of a woman in the throes of passion, I ask you? No, it is not. It’s the face you make when you’re cornered by someone you don’t want to talk to, so you smile and hope he goes away. One feels sorry for the artist’s bedmates.”
“Does one?” he asked faintly.
“She’s just bouncing up and down on that thing, and giving such a god-awful smile. Ash, I need you to draw some women who don’t mind being fucked, please.”
Ash made a strangled noise and when she looked at his face she saw that he was blushing. The tips of his ears were pink, which surely she shouldn’t find quite so delightful.
“Even better if they actually enjoy it,” she added. “I will say, this is a benefit of sapphism. It’s all very straightforward. I wonder if men who seek the company of other men find matters similarly efficient and unmysterious.” Her thoughts were slightly muzzy and she wondered if she had misjudged the amount of brandy she had added to her tea.
“I don’t think most men have much difficulty in satisfying their passions with a bedmate of any gender.”
“That,” she declared, pointing at him with a crust of bread, “is an excellent point. One feels terrible for women who go to bed with men. Truly awful.”
“I seem to recall you feeling otherwise a few years back when Johnny Meecham came calling.”
