Page 90 of Ironvine

Her finger traced the gold rim, and a slight irregularity brushed her flesh. Indeed on the side, there was a tiny button-like piece that scraped her fingertip. She pressed on it, and a small sound erupted. The mirror released, springing forward, revealing an additional interior. “Oh my…”

A miniature painting of a naked couple. The man bore his bare staff like a sword. It was large and upright. He hovered over the naked woman, who was lying on a bed, her legs splayed wide open in anticipation of him, her pink quim plainly visible.

The lady’s feet were not bare. She wore the most extraordinary pink shoes with heels. Georgie let out a laugh. The same pink as her quim, in fact. The lady’s one hand stroked the man’s upright member, her pleased gaze boldly fixed on it. The man gripped one of her shoulders, steadying himself. Readying himself to enter her.

Georgina emptied the snuff from the bowl onto her desk. Engraved there were words. French words:“A Vous Seule.”

Her heart tripped in her chest. “Yours alone,” Georgina whispered. Surely, this had been a gift from a lover. She studied the miniature once more. The male figure had blond hair like Hugh, tall. Was it him? It had to be. The female bore a slight resemblance to the Duchess, but one couldn’t be sure.

She had to keep these safe.

Her gaze shot to the elaborately carved Italianate trunk in the room.Perfect.Unlatching it, she carefully stowed Hugh’s two caskets at the very bottom, arranging the cloths, odd vases, and bowls that were already stowed in there.

A knock at the door.

She bolted upright and unlocked the door. A servant held Hugh’s portrait in his gloved hands. “My lady?”

And right then, a plan formed in her head. A very fine plan.

ChapterThirty-Nine

Charles

He’d pickedher pink roses today.

He liked this, doing something nice for her. He’d always been good at gifts with ladies, tokens of his “appreciation” and “adoration.” Jewellery, small pots of perfume, all specially chosen, all expensive, all meaningless. But these flowers from his own gardens that he’d chosen for her and picked himself were different.

They weren’t shiny expensive objects meant to elicit gasps and awe and a surge of lustful enthusiasm and gratitude. No, these flowers were a simple thing. No money was involved, and the gesture was not a secret but out in the open, given and accepted freely. Acceptable. Appropriate between a husband and wife.

And yet it was so much more thrilling for him this simple thing in the light of day rather than the sly, shadowy gestures, the planned ploy out to prompt a certain result he desired. This was simply to bring her joy.

He knew she was downstairs in her morning room right now. He went to her dressing area, placing the small bouquet on her vanity. One of her sketchbooks lay there. He had yet to see a full collection of her drawings, and he was very curious.

He opened the book. His lips parted as he turned the pages. Sketch after sketch.

Of him.

Him sleeping. Naked. Studies of his arms, his back, his chest. Even one of his buttocks. Another of his entire naked form, cock at attention, his arm flung over his face. Others where she would sketch the same limb and shoulder over and over until she got it right.

His wife had been sketching him without his knowledge. She had studied him in his sleep, translated what she saw, what she felt onto paper. She kept searching for more. His pulse charged, his balls tightened. Yes, it was bloody exciting, a thrill in a wholly different way than anything he’d ever experienced before.

He went back to the beginning of the book and took in each drawing more carefully. Just as Justine had told him, Georgina was extraordinarily talented. She had a gift.

Taking the sketchbook, he went downstairs to her morning room. The door was closed, so he knocked and entered. But she was not there. Not at her desk taking care of correspondence as she’d told him she did every morning before breakfast.

He quit the room and called out for the housekeeper. “Where is your mistress? Has she gone for a walk in the gardens?”

“No, sir.”

“Out riding?”

“No, my lord. Her ladyship is in the conservatory.”

“Ah.” He tracked to the back of the house and entered the glass-enclosed space, past the rows of orange trees and orchids. He followed the sounds of shuffling and murmuring and some sort of swiping of papers, more muttering and sighing.

He found her on the floor crouched over a large paper, sketching. Her hair had fallen from its tie, fingers blackened with charcoal. Pencils were strewn at her side. She licked at her lip as she drew, her features focused with intent.

“Here you are.”

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