Beyond Seduction (26 page)

"I miss it," Sebastian said, his voice suddenly hoarse. "I miss when we all were equal."

The confession moved Nic to the burning brink of tears. Sebastian could be a sly, deceitful bastard but, by God, he could also strip the truth to its hardest bone.

"We are equal," he said just as roughly. "There's more to measuring a man than the opinion of

the world."

His friend laughed through his nose. Recovered from the moment of sentiment, his eyes held their old, self-deprecating glint. "Just say you'll think about
Venice
. You and I haven't drunk ourselves stupid in ages."

"I'll think about it," Nic promised.

To his surprise, he knew he would.

*  *  *

Nic had gone out - to visit his tailor.  He said—leaving Merry free to sneak into his studio. He'd never forbidden her to come alone, but that wasn't why she had waited. She couldn't stand for anyone else to witness her first view of the painting. Not Farnham. Not Mrs. Choate. Certainly not Nic. So great was

her anxiety she'd evaded all his invitations to look at it with him. Hadn't peeked at the thing in weeks.

Just in case.

He said he never lied. Not in words and not in paint. He would show her as he saw her.

She wasn't sure she could bear it if she were ugly.

Mouth dry, her gaze slid to the curving bank of windows. The sky was pale but clear, and the

bedraggled pines dripped with the recent thaw. Spring was coming, though she wouldn't be here to

see it. How melancholy that knowledge was. How it weighted her heart like lumps of stone. She'd

been here six weeks. Six amazing weeks that felt like one.

Merry shook off her sadness. She hadn't come here to brood or to procrastinate. The sun was shining through the windows, warming the scent of drying paint, lighting the tall pine easel that stood like a gallows in the glare. That easel held her portrait. Unframed. Uncovered. Less than an arm's length on

any side. A small thing, really, to inspire such fear.

The word made her square her shoulders. Her skirt swept the dusty floor as she strode past Nic's

armless Venus, past the half-used roll of canvas and the jumble of period props. She closed her eyes

and pressed her lips together. Then she stepped around the painting.

Her breath caught in her throat, a gasp of shocked surprise.

His sketches had not prepared her. The picture was gorgeous. So bright, so vivid, the color struck her

like a blow. She had a childish urge to lick it, as if it were a dripping fruit. The picture glowed, and she glowed in it.

She glowed.

Godiva was her. Down to the dint on her nose and the kink of her horrid hair. Those were her knobby knees. Her wiry arms. Her naughty, laughing eyes. Apart from the omission of her freckles, he hadn't flattered her in the least.

Despite which, no mirror had ever made her look so radiant.

"My," she breathed, her hand to her throat, her eyes filling even as she broke into a laugh. For the rest

of her life she'd remember this moment.

She was beautiful. The way he saw her, she was.

This was a gift she'd never expected to receive. Better than her purple dress. Better than the sensual indulgence he'd poured over her these past few days. Better even than her first ride on a pony.

Most of all, though, this was a gift that demanded one in return.

Eleven

The sun was still high when Nic returned from shopping. He'd meant to seek Mary out, but hadn't expected to find her in his bedroom.

"I want to thank you," she said.

Since she sat on her heels in the middle of his mattress, wearing nothing but his favorite brown

dressing gown, Nic had a sneaking suspicion what form her gratitude would take.

Smiling, he tossed all but the smallest of his parcels onto a chair. If she felt the need to thank him, his work of the past few days must be bearing fruit. His body tightened pleasur-ably, though he pretended

to be confused. "Thank me?"

She nodded, her expression conveying both diffidence and determination. "For the painting. I looked

at it this morning. It's very beautiful. No one has ever made me see myself that way."

"Ah." He lowered himself between the bed's two central posts—the doorway, as it were, to his magic cabinet. Thanks for his artistic skill he had not anticipated. He drew one finger up her paisley silk-clad thigh, then hooked it beneath the hastily knotted belt. Mary rewarded him with a squirm. In a mood to tease, he tugged at the tie but did not pull it free. "What if I think you're the one who should be thanked?"

"You've been thanking me. Ever since you finished."

Amusement slid through his chest like warm spiced wine. "I'm glad you noticed. But these past few

days haven't been a thank-you. They've been a bribe."

"A bribe?" Her breath hitched as he mouthed her neck. He followed up the advantage by sliding his hand inside the robe to cup her breast. Her body jerked an instant before her nipple stiffened against his palm.

"My lovemaking is meant as an incentive, to make you want to stay."

"Because you're not done with me yet."

The words possessed a nagging familiarity. He pulled back from nuzzling her collarbone and peered into her face. "What do you mean?"

"The first night, when you"—her color heightened— "when you took me against the door to keep me from leaving, you said you weren't done with me."

His body heated at the memory, but he forced himself to match her serious tone. He drew his hand from the melting softness of her breast. "I never lied to you, Mary. I told you this would end."

"I know." Her red-gold lashes fanned down to veil her eyes, but she did not seem upset. She smoothed his robe more neatly down her thighs. For one irrational moment, the calmness with which she greeted

his reminder vexed him. Most of the women he'd known had tried their best to hold him. Her gaze

lifted again, steady and inscrutable. "I merely wondered: since you say you're not done with me, what

is it you want that you haven't gotten? That's what I'd like to give you tonight. As my thanks."

"Your thanks," he repeated.

"For making me look so beautiful in the painting."

"I painted you as I saw you."

"I know." The grin that lit her face made his ribs feel strangely bruised. "That's why it's wonderful."

"Well," he said. For the life of him, he couldn't account for the extent to which she'd discomposed him. He glanced down at the paper-wrapped package he'd carried to the bed, the piece de resistance of his campaign to change her mind. "I suppose this means you don't want your present."

"A present! For me?" She erased any doubts he might have had by snatching the bundle from his hand. The paper tore beneath eager fingers as she uncovered the object wrapped inside. "Oh," she said,

holding it up to catch the light. The bottle was round and fat, the glass cobalt blue with a branch of almond flowers molded on its belly. "It's so pretty."

"It's oil," he said, pleased by her delight.

Her nose wrinkled in confusion. "Oil?"

"Not for cooking, Duchess. For massage."

"Oh," she said, then again, with a lascivious rise and dip. "Ohhh. For massage. I'm sure I can put this

to good use."

"I'm going to use it on you," he clarified, reaching to take it back.

Eyes dancing with mischief, she hugged the bottle to her breast. "No, no, no. You gave this to me.

That means I can do with it as I please and what I please is to please you."

Lust poured like hot, thick treacle through his veins. His trousers, normally well fitted, drew tight with

the hard, tenting jab of his erection. He'd thought of oiling her, of smoothing his hands along each inch

of satiny, freckled skin. He'd dreamed of it as he perused the apothecary's shelves, imagining how

she'd sigh, growing heavy inside his clothes.

That arousal was a spark compared to the bonfire he felt now. He was hot all over, his skin fevered,

his pulse drumming hard between his legs. A sense of alarm accompanied the heat. He could not recall wanting anyone this badly—certainly not so far into an affair.

Mary, naturally, took note of his condition. Her nipples pushed against the dressing gown, a response

that fanned his need.

She eyed his prodigious bulge with a humor he wished he shared. "I see you like the idea of being oiled. Of course"— she put her head to die side, almost resting it on her shoulder—"you'll have to instruct me. So I know precisely what you like."

"Precisely?" he rasped.

"Precisely," she confirmed, then caught her upper lip in her lower teeth. No gesture could have conveyed her nervousness better, or her resolve to overcome it. A delicious pang speared upward through his cock, making the tip feel as if it were being pinched.

"I'll tell you what I wish," he said, a whisper as soft as it was rough.

"Would you—" She swallowed and began again. "Would you show me?"

His eyebrows rose before he could stop them. She wanted him to show her?

"I liked when you did that before," she said, the words falling over each other in embarrassment. "That night when I couldn't get my fire lit and you ... touched yourself. I liked that and I thought maybe you wouldn't mind doing it again. You know, without your clothes on."

The smile he was fighting pressed his lips together. "You liked that."

She nodded earnestly. "I thought it was exciting."

He had to lower his head or give himself away. "I don't know, Mary. I'd have to be very relaxed to do something like that in front of you."

"Oh, I can manage relaxing you." She waved her hand in dismissal. "No harder than rubbing down a horse—or, er, so I've heard."

His laugh came out a snort. He felt like a horse, a randy, mare-sniffing stud who'd been locked in his

stall for days. He rose from the bed and faced her. "Shall I undress then?"

"Oh, yes." She shifted around on her knees to get a better view. "That would be very helpful."

His eyes crinkled. "How flattering you are."

"Nothing of the sort! Only a nun wouldn't want to watch."

But she was flattering. His grin broadened as he disrobed. He could not have had a more attentive audience, or one more appreciative. Without hesitation, he offered her his enjoyment of his own body,

his love of being watched. He knew she shared that love, no matter how reluctant she was to admit it. Tonight, for her, he would hold nothing back. Her eyes were like saucers when he touched himself through his clothes, squeezing the weight between his legs as he'd done for her once before. That he knew she liked, for she squirmed from side to side and clenched her hands atop her thighs. Watching her watch him was almost too arousing. He had to cut his fondling short for fear of slipping over the edge.

When he peeled his shirt slowly over his head, she blinked to clear her vision. Thumbing his nipples into prominence set her jaw agape. And she actually gasped when he pushed his trousers down his legs.

"Look at you." She spread her hands as if drawing attention to a wonder. "Who could tire of such a show?"