The Master & the Muses (24 page)

There were moments when I was allowed to see a different side to him. One such time occurred on a brisk September evening when I discovered there was more substance to Thomas than he allowed most people to see.

I was clearing the dishes from the table after a party, once again astounded how quickly the studio cleared when everyone was tired and ready for bed. William helped me carry a few plates into the kitchen.

“The meal was delicious, Grace. Thank you. As always, I am not sure that you receive enough credit for these sumptuous delights you create for us.”

Embarrassed by his comment, I waved him off and took the stack of dishes in his hands. “I enjoy the company. It's good to see men with such healthy appetites.”

He grinned, so much like his brother, and then leaned forward and gave my cheek a peck. “Good night, Gracie.”

“Good night,” I replied, staring at the door. I heard him say good-night to his brother, as I lifted my hand to my cheek. No one had called me Gracie since I was a child. It was odd that I should think of that after all these years and yet an overwhelming longing for family swept over me and I swallowed a lump in my throat. I shook my head to clear it, wiping my hands as I stepped through the butler's pantry to the studio to make sure the table was clear. Thomas was standing a few feet away at his writing desk, bottle in hand, pouring himself a glass of wine.

“Ah, Grace, you're still here. This is a fine port. Will you join me?”

I'd been watching him all evening. His demeanor didn't quite match the jubilance of the others. “No, thank you. Don't you think you've had enough for one evening?” I asked lightly, fully expecting him to ignore me. I picked up some plates that had been left behind.

“Leave those and come here. I need to talk,” he said.

The tone in his voice led me to believe that he'd had more to drink tonight than what I could keep track of. “Just a moment, I don't want to leave the scraps. The insects will have a celebration of their own.” I smiled. He was behaving strangely and I realized I should have probably left with the others, or asked William to help me get him to bed. I dipped the dishes quickly into the suds, whisked the plates clean and dried them, setting them on the sideboard.

“Grace!” Thomas bellowed.

I dried my hands and slapped the towel over a chair as I
emerged from the kitchen. “Thomas, it is late. You needn't bellow, I told you I was coming.”

“You are not my wife, woman, you are my muse.”

“Your muse I may be, but I am not your slave to be ordered about.”

He narrowed his gaze on me, looking very much a roguish pirate in the threadbare coat he insisted on wearing. I made a note to see about adding a patch on his left elbow the first chance I could get him out of it.

“I'm in the mood to sketch.” He slammed his glass on the desk, and the wine sloshed over the rim, spreading over the lovely dark wood.

Frustrated by his carelessness, I grabbed one of his paint cloths and wiped up the liquid before it could mar the wood. Thomas, oblivious to my endeavors, was preoccupied, searching for his sketching papers and charcoal. I had dealt with my share of drunken sots in my day and drunk, this man was. But why? He was not prone to overindulging in much of anything except flattering his own ego. “Perhaps it should wait until the light of day?” I suggested, mopping up his mess.

He shook his head. “No,
now.
That's what I pay you for, isn't it?”

“You are precariously close to insulting me, Thomas. I've a mind to leave you here and see if you fall off that balcony.”

He laughed aloud. I loved the sound, even besotted as he was. Damn, it would be so much the better if he were an ugly drunk. He'd never before put me in a position of compromise, although there had been a time or two I wished he had. That thought prompted my next words. “I should go.”

“Oh, Grace, don't be like that.” He walked toward me, his arms outstretched, and caught me by my shoulders. “Are you afraid I might persuade you to do something you don't wish to do?”

I pinned him with a look. “I wouldn't try anything,” I warned him with a raised eyebrow.

His dimple, an admitted weakness of mine, appeared on his handsome face. “Yet in your eyes I see you cannot resist me.”

“Are you in the mood to sketch or flirt, Mr. Rodin? Which is it that you pay me for again?” I held his gaze, hoping he could not see what a tangle he had made of my insides.

“Hmm,” he muttered, eyeing me. “Perhaps sketching might be safer.”

“Where do you want me?” I asked, as he picked up his drawing papers.

“Oh, good God, woman, watch that tongue of yours, for I surely have thought of it more than once this evening.”

“You've thought of my tongue?” I asked as I walked to the corner where he kept the props. “In what respect, Thomas?” I tossed back with a grin.

I heard a growl from behind. I stood and turned around to face him. His eyes had been pinned to my backside. “You've had too much to drink,” I stated flatly. “I'm taking you to bed.”

He tossed the papers into the air. “That's precisely where I've been trying to get you for the past few moments, my muse! How delightful that you would simply offer.”

I cast my eyes heavenward. “Come on, Cassanova.” I tucked my arm around his waist and guided him into the hall. Once I had him settled, I decided I would stay in the guest room. I made a mental note to lock the door.

“You are so good to me, Grace,” he said, swaying slightly when I let go of him to light the kerosene lamp by his bed. His hands rested on my shoulders, caressing gently. “Thomas,” I said quietly. His lips found the back of my neck and I fought the urge to like it. His fingers ran up the curve of my throat, his mouth following.

“I could be your lover, Grace. If only you would allow it,” he whispered, touching the tip of his tongue to the sweet spot below my ear. Only one or two men on this earth knew of that spot and it was because I'd told them. Thomas gravitated to it as if I wore a sign. I was barely aware of his hands gliding over my bodice, undoing the buttons of my gown. His fingers slid beneath the fabric, stroking the swollen flesh above my corset.

“Thomas, you shouldn't….” I said halfheartedly.

“But, my muse, you seem to be enjoying my attention.” His breath fanned over my cheek. “There, I can feel your heart beating hard against my palm.”

His fingers spread, taking a taut nipple between his fingertips and gently rolling it into a tight bud. He turned me into his embrace and I did not protest, at least not aloud, when he lifted my chin and kissed me with slow tenderness.

“Yes, my muse, let me please you,” he whispered, leaving soft kisses on my face. “Let me worship your exquisite loveliness.” His hands continued their quest to open the fastenings of my corset. He offered kisses more potent than opium and I gave myself over to his magic, lured blindly and willingly so, realizing that come the morning, he would likely not remember much of what happened. I told myself this was not why I was here and made a silent promise to put a stop to this nonsense. After
one
more kiss.

“Grace, you must tell me, as I do not force myself on any woman.”

He ran his fingers down the exposed front of my throat, rolling back what part of the corset he'd managed to unhook.

I was lost in his rapturous kiss.
Was that the last one? Yes, it must be…

“If you only knew what I wanted to do to you,” he said softly, rubbing his cheek against my temple.

His hands glided down the curve of my back, grabbing my bottom beneath my skirts, caressing it as he pressed his manhood against me. I swallowed, knowing exactly what he wanted, it was in the getting to that end that intrigued me.

“I want to lay you down on this bed and, with painfully slow precision, remove each piece of your clothing. I want to kiss you from the top of your head to each of your delicate toes, devoting copious amounts of time and attention to the interesting parts along the way.”

“You'd be my lover, Thomas?” I said, tipping my head to allow his mouth on my shoulder. “You'd do whatever I asked?”

“Oh, yes, your most devoted slave, designed, created only for your pleasure.” He sighed, his mouth leaving searing kisses on my heated flesh.

“Would you love me deeply?” My breath caught.

“Oh, yes, I would, so deep that you would beg for more.”

“And would you give me more?” I asked, beginning to realize that he was lost in this drunken rapture. I could have been anyone, perhaps
anything
at this point.

“Yes, oh, my muse, again and again, deeper still.”

“My dear lover, before I offer my body to your utter and complete worship, there is one last thing I need to know.”

The fiery kiss that came next nearly made me forget that I was about to put an end to this sensual charade.

“Let me be your oracle, my love. I freely offer you my body for your pleasure,” he stated, his hands groping with greater freedom. “I offer you my maypole to celebrate the rite of spring,” he murmured, the strong scent of port wafting over my face.

Maypole?
I held back a smile. “It's September, you drunken sot. Just answer me this one question, and our bliss will have no boundaries.” I held his chin between my fingers. His glazed-over eyes, as beautiful in his drunken state as they were when he was sober, glittered with pure lust. “Will you remember any of this by morning?”

He blinked, looking dumbfounded, as I suspected he might be.

“I don't understand.” He leaned forward to kiss me. I pressed my hand to his mouth. This was much harder for me to end than I thought it would be.

“Go to bed, Thomas. I'll see you in the morning.”

He held my arm as I skirted around him.

“Grace, think about what you're doing.”

I paused at the door, putting my clothes aright. “I am, Thomas. I am. Good night.” I pulled the door shut, ignoring the pleading look on his face.

I LAY AWAKE UNTIL THE FIRST FINGERS OF DAWN
snuck through the curtains of the guest-room window. I could not quell the memory of how close I came to surrendering to Thomas's seduction. It would have been so easy to succumb. I should have known better, of course. A man like Thomas Rodin, an unabashed romantic when completely sober, would be twice as alluring when his roguish side was unleashed by wine. He was a complex man, and I suppose in some ways that was the reason I found him so intriguing.

I crawled from my bed while the rest of the house was quiet, bathed and washed my hair under the kitchen pump. Taking a cup of hot tea into the studio, I started a fire to ward off the autumn chill and sat down on the rug in front of its warmth to dry my hair. Combing through my tresses was a time-consuming chore, but braiding it at just the right dampness in order achieve the deep waves was well worth the effort for the delight it brought to Thomas's face when I posed for him.

A weary male sigh captured my attention and I turned to the entrance of the studio where stood a bedraggled and bleary-eyed Thomas Rodin.

“Is it entirely possible, do you think, for hair follicles to feel pain?” he asked, wincing as he held the heel of his hand to his forehead.

I smiled, the awkwardness of last night quickly forgotten. “Let me get you something I think will help.” I brought him a finger of whiskey and a cup of tea. “The whiskey first.” He eyed me uncertainly.

“You're sure of this?”

“Trust me, go on,” I prodded.

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, swallowing the whiskey in one gulp. He handed me the glass and took a long swallow of tea, squeezing his eyes tight. I could almost feel how it would be burning just about now. I winced, watching his face contort.

He drew in a sharp breath, opening his mouth in a loud groan as the liquor infused his system. “This is supposed to help?”

I shrugged. “I've not had to try it personally, but the owner of the pub I worked at swore by it.”

“Was he a drinking man?” Thomas squinted up at me with one eye. An unshed tear was poised in his lower lid.

I considered his question. “I never saw him touch a drop, but I'm sure he's mended a few like you.”

He threw me a dubious look and shook his head. “Well, if you missed your chance to kill me last night for my behavior, you've gotten a good start on it this morning.”

“Do you remember much of last night?” I asked, resuming my spot in front of the fire. He came up and stood behind me.

“Enough, Grace,” he stated calmly. “Am I forgiven?”

I nodded, glancing at him over my shoulder. He smiled and sat down beside me, watching as I braided my hair.

“Can you teach me how you do that?”

I grinned. The man was a treasure chest of surprises. “You want to learn to braid hair?”

“I'd like to learn to braid
your
hair.”

I was speechless. No man had ever made such a request. “Truly?”

“By heavens, your hair is utterly decadent, Grace. I love to touch it, or hadn't you noticed?”

I chose not to answer his question, instead shifting my body so I could show him how to braid the three strands together. “Over and under, under and over.” It took him a couple of frustrated tries, but eventually he had mastered the task. “Now, you just begin up here, at the back of my neck, and work your way down.”

He chuckled. “You've no idea how delightfully tempting that sounds, do you?”

“And you've no idea, Thomas, what an absolute rogue you are,” I countered with a smile. His expression was intense as he carefully wove the strands together. My body was acutely aware of his fingers, each gentle tug reminding me of those hands on my skin the night before.

We sat in amiable silence for a time with him braiding my hair. Though I'd shared my body with many men, I'd never experienced the intimacy I felt at that moment. It was personal, and the comfort of it invited me to ask him about his family, something I had wondered about for some time.

“Do you have sisters, Thomas?”

He was silent.

“Why did you leave me last night?” he responded, changing the subject altogether.

The question came unexpectedly and yet at the same time I'd been hoping he would ask. “Because I make it a rule not to bed drunken sots.”

“Never?” he asked, disbelief in his tone.

He might as well have plunged a dagger between my shoulder blades. “I've kept to it thus far, Thomas.”

He continued to braid my hair as I stared silently into the fire. I wondered if the thought had crossed his mind, as it had mine, about what might have happened had he not been drunk.

“Tell me how you came to choose the profession you're in?” he asked quietly.

I chuckled. “You make it sound as though I had a choice. Does all of life appear perfect behind those rose-colored glasses you wear?”

“A hazard of being an incurable romantic, I suppose,” he answered.

I smiled at that. “I'm quite certain that the profession I'm in is rarely, if ever,
chosen.
It's a matter of it choosing you.”

“Can you explain, Grace? I do want to understand.”

While I couldn't comprehend why it was of interest to him, I stared into the fire, searching for the right words. “I suppose the concept might be puzzling to a man. You see, Thomas, there are many different types of women walking the streets—most not by choice. Some of them do it for survival, some to find an escape from a dreary marriage, some to be able to put food in their children's mouths. Very few are out there looking for companionship.”

“I didn't realize.”

He smoothed his hand over the back of my head. I closed my eyes and pushed away the urge to turn and offer him a kiss. Had he been anyone else, the moment would have felt awkward, but it didn't.

“I assumed that most were unfortunates,” he said. “Which were you, then? Did you…have you ever had…children?” he asked cautiously.

I picked at a piece of thread on my nightdress. “I cannot have children.”

“Grace, what happened to you?”

I pressed my lips together, reprimanding myself mentally for being too open with him too soon. “It was a long time ago.”

“Do you wish to talk about it?”

His hands curled gently on my shoulders, urging me to face him. I did not see pity in his eyes, as I had expected; rather I saw anger, protective and viral. “I think it best left in the past where it belongs.”

“I wish I could have saved you from the pain that puts that guarded look in your eye,” he said, his gaze intent on mine.

I stared at him, moistening my lips. “No one could have saved me, Thomas. No more than you or anyone could save the countless other girls taken from their families.”

“Christ, Grace, I had no idea. Did you ever try to find them—your parents?”

I shook my head. “No, I'd already changed too much. They wouldn't have wanted me. Not the way I'd become. I was no longer their innocent daughter. I felt it was better to spare them of having to live with their pain every time they looked at me.”

“I knew a woman like you once. She was remarkable, strong and beautiful.”

“Did she pose for you, as well?” I asked, watching him stare off into the memories of his past.

“Her name was Cozette. She was both a model and student, yet looking back, I wonder if I was not
her
student.”

“Is that the woman in your earlier sketches?” I asked him.

He nodded, his attention swerving back to me. He scooted so that he could lean his back against one of the reading chairs. “Come, sit here.” He held out his arms to me.

“I do not need your pity, Thomas,” I replied.

“And you shall not receive it. Think of it as an embrace between friends—
good
friends.”

I tucked myself between his legs and snuggled into his warm embrace. Closing my eyes, I felt safe and secure for the first time in ages. He leaned his cheek on the top of my head and we stayed that way for a while, content in the silence, until Thomas spoke.

“What might have happened last night, Grace, had I not been drunk?”

He ran his hand softly down my braid until his fingers touched my shoulder. I wore nothing beneath my bedclothes, although the loose gown covered me entirely.

“I like you, Thomas,” I said, fearing I was letting myself get too close, that I was setting myself up for heartache.

His quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest.

“I cannot imagine what a woman like you sees in a chap like me.”

I turned my face to his, meeting his soft smile. “Surely you jest? Please don't poke fun at me, Thomas. I couldn't bear it.”

“Grace,” he said, brushing my cheek with his fingers. “There was no jest in my words. With all you've been through, the horrors you've survived, my character pales in comparison.”

My heart stilled as a wave of scenarios—the hopes and dreams of a normal life—rushed like a ghost carriage through my mind.

“Dear Grace,” he said quietly.

He leaned down, hesitating a moment, his eyes searching mine. I could barely conceive of what was happening. Was it possible he felt the same as I did? I wanted him to kiss me—I'd thought of little else all night—but this was dawn and he was sober. I felt more vulnerable.

“I want to kiss you,” he said softly. “With your permission, and with far fewer libations in my system.” He smiled, tipping my chin to align my mouth with his.

“Thomas?” I said, lost in his beautiful poetic gaze.

“Yes?” His breath fanned warm over my cheek.

My body ached for his touch. “I want you to kiss me.”

It was the most reverent and chaste kiss I'd ever received, and by far the most potent. I was divinely aware of his hand sliding down my arm, his palm gently covering my breast. Many a man had touched me, but none of them had made me feel as beautiful as I did at that moment.

Through my gown, he brushed the pliant tip of my breast, causing it to pucker. My lips parted in a sigh as his tongue delved deeper, mating with mine. Before I realized it, I was on my back, with Thomas kneeling above me, shrugging his shirt over his head.

“Why me, Grace?” he asked, leaning down into my waiting arms.

Slowly, he fused his mouth to mine as if it were a sumptuous feast to be savored. “Must there be a reason, Thomas?”

He left warm, wet kisses down my throat, nibbling his way to the base of my neck, building a fierce need inside me.

“What about William?” I asked quietly, as I smoothed my hands over the firm width of his muscular shoulders.

Thomas leaned back and looked at me, braced on his elbows.

“Are you and William…?”

“No, I meant only, what if…well, this is not very private.”

“Ah.” His eyes lit with the realization. “It takes a cannon to waken my brother, especially after a celebration.”

“Then we've no need to be concerned that we might be interrupted?” I asked, tucking an errant curl behind his ear.

“None at all.” His expression softened. “But I want this only if you do, Grace.”

“Thomas—” I brushed my hand over his unshaven jaw “—I have imagined this at least a dozen times since last night.”

“I am a man most desperately lost to you, Grace. Surely, you must know it.”

His eyes raked over me, devouring me, causing my desire to grow all the more. I shifted my gown over my hips, revealing myself to him.

“Sweet heaven,” he whispered.

He curled his fingers around my knee, leaving a trail of tender kisses along my inner thigh. A gasp spilled from my throat and I tangled my fingers in his hair as he lavished my cunny, his tongue as masterful as his artistic stroke.

My body floated, swept away by the utter bliss of his loving touch. “Thomas,” I sighed. My heart pounded, fierce with the intensity of my arousal. My mind reeled with this new array of emotions spinning out of control. Sex, for me, wasn't about emotions and so, in that, I felt nearly virginal in my feelings.

He gently kissed my bent knee as he freed himself with his other hand.

“Grace, I burn to bury myself inside you.”

His admission seared my heart, fueling the fire inside me. Using my legs as a brace, he teased my opening with his swollen cock. He pushed slowly into my slick heat, stretching me, filling me partway, before he withdrew and plunged again, deeper this
time. I surrendered to the ecstasy of his cock moving with determined control, summoning immense pleasure from my body with each precise lunge. My hands fisted into the fabric of my gown as I held his gaze, staring down at me, his eyes glittering with passion. The frenzy of his thrusts increased, drawing me to a dizzying precipice. I flung my arms over my face, lost in exquisite oblivion as an explosive climax tore through my body.

“Grace,” he sighed, gripping my legs hard against his shoulders as he drove into me twice more, shooting his hot seed, before easing his body from mine. “You didn't answer my question,” he said breathlessly, carefully pulling my gown into place as he repositioned his trousers.

“What question?” I asked, blinded by the aftershock of our morning tryst. He drew me into his embrace and we held each other as we stared into the fire.

“You're trembling,” he said, rubbing his hand up and down my arm.

“Am I?” I said, forcing my mind not to get caught up in an emotional entanglement that I might later regret.

“I asked, what is it that you like about me, Grace? There are so few people, I think, who really like me. Granted, they accept my leadership—”

“And bullheaded stubbornness,” I teased quietly. He kissed the top of my head and chuckled. Still, I wasn't sure how to answer. I'd never been asked that question. It was never about what I thought, what I wanted. My life had always been about providing pleasure to others. The fact that he cared enough to ask brought a lump to my throat and yet I felt the need to guard my heart against his poetic charm. “I would have to say that you see me for who I am, Thomas. Not what I am.” I looked up at him, feeling more exposed than I'd ever felt before. Though my knowledge of men was vast, Thomas was the exception. I did not know how he would treat my honesty, but I did not blind myself to the risk I took in being so up-front.