Page 11 of Falling Into Bed with a Duke
Since she knew who he was, she had to run about in his posh circle, which meant that in all likelihood she was an aristocrat. Possibly married. Insufficient light prevented him from determining if there was a fading indention on her finger from the recent removal of a wedding band. Not that it mattered. Her presence indicated that she was either unhappy or curious or bored. Women came here for all sorts of reasons. Men for only one: They wanted a willing partner who was unlikely to be infected with the French disease. Men paid a membership; ladies didnot.
With a slight tilting of his head, he indicated the sofa. “Please.”
He watched the delicate muscles of her throat work as she swallowed before gliding over to the sofa and tucking herself into a corner. Every movement was poised and elegant. Her deportment had not been left to chance. She’d been trained. Definitely nobility.
Settling into the opposite corner, he extended the glass, grateful when she took it. He stretched his arm over the back of the sofa. An unfurling of his fingers would have him touching her skin, and he was tempted to do exactly that, but he feared his boldness would make her more skittish, and his desire for the photograph came first. She didn’t flinch or retreat, but her eyes were alert, watchful. He liked that she wasn’t afraid, but neither was she stupid.
“I’m not one to hurt women,” he felt compelled to say.
“I should hope not. My father would kill you. Extremely painfully and very slowly.”
No husband then, or perhaps a bastard who didn’t care. He arched a brow. “You would confess to being here?”
She lifted a pale, delicate shoulder. “I could suffer through his disappointment much more easily than I could suffer through not gaining retribution for being wronged.” A corner of her mouth hitched up. “On the other hand, I might just kill you myself.” She gave a quick nod. “Probably would. I’d find immense satisfaction in it, come to think of it.”
She took a sip of the scotch, a glittering in her dark eyes as though the notion of doing him in pleased her, and for a moment he almost forgot about the photograph, as desire stronger than any he’d felt in a good long while pierced him. He almost asked her to remove the damned mask, to reveal herself. To tell him why she’d chosen to come here tonight. Instead, he honored the purpose of this place to hold secrets sacred.
“You certainly don’t seem to lack confidence,” he mused.
“No, I’ve never been accused of that.”
But he heard in her voice that she had been accused of something, been found lacking in some regard. He almost followed that trail of inquiry, but this place was not a confessional, and he wasn’t here to lighten anyone else’s burdens. Merely his own. To that end, he swallowed a good portion of his scotch, welcomed its fire, allowed it to work its heat through his chest. “There is beauty in the human form,” he said quietly.
Her gaze came to rest on him, and he thought there was beauty in the eyes as well. He cursed the mask that shadowed hers. Brown perhaps. But intelligent. He’d like to see them in the sunlight. He’d like to see them smoldering when she was lost in a vortex of passion, when her body was reaching for the peak, when it flung her off it. “Yet we hide it beneath layers of clothing as though it’s something of which we should be ashamed.”
“Our bodies are personal, private.”
“I won’t take that from you. All I want is your legs.”
As though he were a schoolboy in need of having his knuckles rapped with a ruler, she narrowed her eyes. “A lady’s ankles are not to be shown.”
“And yet at this very moment you’re barefoot.”
“I was told it’s the way it’s done here. Yet you’re not.”
“Would you like for me to be, to even things up a bit?” Before she could respond, he tugged off his boots and stockings, stretched out his legs. “As for your ankles, it’s silly for Society to believe that a little showing of the leg is going to turn a man into an uncontrollable savage, unable to tame his baser instincts.” He leaned toward her, grateful when she didn’t recoil. But then something told him that she wasn’t one to retreat. “The body should be celebrated. Every line, every dip, every curve. Everything comes together so perfectly. It’s a marvel really. I take great pleasure in the beauty of it. There are nude statues considered great works of art. Nude paintings that people can appreciate, that very nearly bring them to their knees because they are so remarkable. Photography can be just as artistic, just as enthralling when done properly. I don’t know who you are. No one will ever know that you posed for me. No one will ever see the resulting image, except for me. It’s for my private collection. You won’t remove the silk. I’ll simply slip it up a bit past your knees. I’ll work with the shadow and the light. Then you’ll be captured in art.”
“That’s not really why I came here.”
“You came here for sex.”
She opened her mouth, closed it. Sighed. “Well, yes, to be perfectly blunt about it.”
“You shall have that as well. A photograph before, perhaps one after if you’re up for it. One in silk, one in sheets. We’ll be telling a story.”
She shook her head. “It seems wrong.”
Not to him. He got up, went to the fire, and stared into the writhing flames. How could he explain to her what it was like to constantly dream of mangled bodies? After twenty years, there were still nights when he awoke in a cold sweat, nights when he heard the screaming winds racing over the moors and imagined that they were his parents’ cries. He hadn’t slept through the night since he was eight years old. He thought if he could just replace the ghastly images of severed and contorted limbs with beautiful perfection, that eventually the nightmares would lessen. Perhaps they would even go away entirely. “What is wrong with appreciating the beauty of a shapely leg, a well-turned ankle, the arch of a foot, the curl of small toes?”
He wouldn’t photograph anything that would make a woman feel awkward or taken advantage of. He just wanted peace.
“I’m sorry, but I’m simply not prepared to be on display in that manner—for eternity.”
He heard the absolute conviction in her voice and was torn between admiring her for standing by her convictions and cursing her for her stubbornness. Turning, he took a step toward her and held out his hand. “All right, then, if you’re not comfortable being photographed, let’s get on with what you came here for. I’ll make do with that.”
Without taking his hand, she stood swiftly and he could fairly see the anger shimmering off her. Why the devil did he find it so damned attractive? Women never expressed displeasure with him, no matter how badly he behaved.
“Make do?” she asked tartly. “I’d always heard you were a charmer. Now I have to wonder what other rumors regarding you are false.”
