He moved her this way and that, so he could toss the soiled counterpane aside and lay her on the clean sheets. Then, he stretched out beside her, turning her so that she faced him and gathering her in his arms. She buried her face in his chest, nuzzling against him with a blissful sigh. A soft smile tugged at his lips as he took that as confirmation that her first time had been everything she’d wanted.
Stroking his fingertips down her bare back, he sought the right words to say, some way to tell her it had been beyond what he’d expected. But how could he? To reveal the depth of his feelings at the moment would only complicate the matter. She had hired him to give her an experience, and he’d done that—would continue to do that until she grew bored of him as all the others had. They always looked at him with stars in their eyes after the first few tumbles. But it never failed...eventually they would find the man they wanted to marry, or one they wanted to have an affair with, or simply decide they were ready to move on with their independent lives. Then, he was no longer needed or wanted. It had never bothered him before, because he’d always known Benedict could quickly match him with another suitable woman, one who would use him for pleasure while he relied on her for money.
And it wouldn’t bother him this time, because he wouldn’t let it. He’d decided to enjoy his time with Evelyn until it ended. At that point, he had faith that the one thing he’d always wanted would finally be his. He would have work—real work—as an artist to occupy and fulfill him.
As he gathered her closer and kissed the top of her head, he discovered that there was no need for him to attempt to say anything. Evelyn had fallen fast asleep, her arm wrapped tight around him, her face still burrowed in the haven of his chest.
Chapter 8
“While London’s eligible bachelors fear the machinations of the desperate debutante, they often fail to notice the most dangerous creature of them all...the matchmaking mama.”
-The London Gossip, 19 March 1819
Evelyn observed the interior of Hugh’s studio from the doorway, her wide eyes darting to take in the haphazard mess of an artist’s refuge. Canvases in varying stages of completion stood here and there on easels. A long table against one wall held paint pots and vials of chemicals, along with cups filled with brushes, palettes stained from pigments long since washed away, and a number of other tools she could not name. A pedestal in one corner held a sculpture she assumed had been made by his hand, while several blank canvases stood propped against one wall. The scent of the potions he used in his craft lingered in the air. Various pieces of furniture sat in no particular order about the room—chairs, a chaise longue, a cushioned stool—each one awaiting a human subject.
She smiled, leaning back into the warmth of his solid form. Wrapped in his dressing gown with the hem dragging the floor, she ought to feel quite scandalous. Instead, she was practically overflowing with blissful happiness and couldn’t seem to stop grinning. There was none of the regret or shame she’d thought to feel after letting herself be compromised by Hugh, but it had all been so gloriously perfect.
She had awakened to find him sitting up in bed beside her, the charcoal in his hand moving over a page in his sketchbook. He’d been sketching her, her head rested on the pillow, a bare shoulder peeking out from under the coverlet, her hair splayed in disarray about her face. Upon realizing she had awakened, he’d asked her to remain where she lay while he finished.
After setting his book aside, he’d lain beside her, taking her into his arms and asking her how she’d felt, if she were in any pain. His consideration never ceased to touch her, warming her heart in a way she couldn’t hope to fight when she felt so content. She had confessed to a bit of soreness, but otherwise feeling just fine, more than fine, really. He’d sent for a bath to be prepared in the adjoining room, and she’d soaked away the stiffness and soreness that had set in while she’d slept. Returning to his bedchamber wrapped in the dressing gown, she found him half-dressed in a shirt and trousers with a tray laden with an early dinner. The sight and smells of the food reminded her that she’d hardly eaten a thing and was now absolutely ravenous. They’d eaten in companionable silence before Hugh had invited her to see his workspace.
His hands came down onto her shoulders, his lips pressing against the top of her head. “See? I told you...this is the only place in the house where I’m allowed to make a mess.”
She chuckled, moving out of his embrace and farther into the room so she could take a closer look at his work. Pausing before a finished painting depicting members of the beau monde promenading down Rotten Row in Hyde Park, her smile widened.
“If these paintings prove anything, it is that you ought to be able to make as much a mess as you please, especially if this is the end result. Hugh, these are beautiful.”
Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it with a soft smile and pride lifting his chin. “Thank you. A few of them need a bit more work, but I’ve been preoccupied with finishing my piece for the Exhibition.”
Gazing about her, she took in a collection of landscapes as well as a handful of portraits. “Which one is it?”
He came forward to take her hand, then led her to the large, wide canvas closest to the table holding his supplies. He stood back and gestured toward it.
“This one...I call it Virtue and Vice.”
Her mouth fell open as she took in a complete tableau depicting a masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens. She recognized it by the glow of the lanterns hanging from the trees, the serpentine paths winding under the feet of the people dancing and reveling, and the glimpses of the rotunda in one corner and a folly ruin in the other. In the foreground of the mixture of opulence and depravity, a young woman danced in the arms of a handsome man, her white attire and matching mask making her look like a veritable goddess. The pair seemed to leap off the canvas, appearing so real it almost felt as if they were truly present in this room. Even without knowing much about art and what was accepted as ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ she recognized Hugh’s unique talents. He’d created movement in a stationary piece, making her believe that if she stared long and hard enough, she might feel the breeze making the lady’s skirts billow around her legs and strands of her hair blow against the side of her neck.
“Oh...it’s breathtaking.”
He stood beside her observing the painting, hands clasped behind his back. “Thank you. It is nearly finished; just a few more finishing touches. I want to make sure it is absolutely perfect.”
Evelyn could see nothing that could be improved upon but was certain he knew what he was about. “If those stodgy old judges do not accept this into their Exhibition, they are truly mad.”
He chuckled. “I have no way of knowing what exactly they are looking for, as they offer no insight into their process for selecting the paintings. But I have high hopes for this year. Did you notice anything interesting about the lady in the painting, the goddess in the foreground?”
Her gaze fell on the primary focus of the painting, a woman who portrayed both innocence and sensuality, who had the look of both a debutante and a seductress all at once. She had not noticed it until he’d called her attention to it, but Evelyn could not help but pick up on the nuances that echoed her ensemble from the night they had met. The white, Grecian style gown, the dark hair gleaming with the detail of tiny seed pearls, the mask. And it wasn’t only her attire, it was the woman herself, one who upon closer inspection revealed herself to be Evelyn. The tilt of her nose and angle of her chin, her complexion, the shape of her lips...the goddess was her.
“Oh, Hugh,” she whispered with a tiny shake of her head. “I don’t know what to say.”
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back against his chest. “You don’t have to say anything. In truth, I’d nearly finished the painting before we met, but that night...you truly inspired me, Evie. It seems you have been ever since.”
A pleasant warmth stole over her at his words, even as the intruding thought came crashing through her mind that there was n
othing inspirational at all about her. Even though she was paying him to make her feel like the only woman in the world, there was a sincerity about him—about the things he did and said that made her truly believe he found her beautiful. Seeing that he’d immortalized her on a canvas only made her believe it more.
“You are far more talented than I realized, to have made me look so…”
“So, what?” he urged.
“So...beautiful. So unlike my true self. Though, I suppose the mask and the mystique of the scene do help to make me look like a more intriguing version of myself.”
He went still behind her, his hold on her tightening. “Now, why would you say something like that? I did no more than translate what I see onto the canvas. That woman is you, Evie, not some idealized, fantasy version of you.”
She stared at the canvas for a long moment without blinking, soaking in what she was seeing and trying to reconcile it with the woman she saw whenever she faced a looking glass.
“She looks like the sort of woman who has men clamoring for her notice,” she murmured. “Not like the kind who grows so tongue-tied around strangers she can hardly make polite conversation.”
He spun her to face him, his face fixed into an expression of pure determination and unwavering certainty. “What nonsense. That woman on the canvas is the real you, the one no one knows, because no one has bothered to see it. But I see it…I saw it that night among the ruins the first time we kissed. It was all over your face when I touched you and you came to life in my hands, bursting with light like a star.”
Her lips parted on a sigh as he cupped her cheek, his thumb caressing her chin. Even as her rational mind argued that she knew better, that she knew herself to be as unremarkable as a pebble on the ground, she couldn’t fight the thrill of him looking at her as if he held a precious diamond in his hands.
“I wish I could see myself the way you do,” she whispered, her throat constricting with the raw emotion making her eyes sting with the threat of tears. “But my experiences have made me feel the exact opposite. I’ve always felt as if people looking at me don’t really see me at all, as if they are looking through me like I am made of air.”
He lowered his head until their lips hovered inches apart, until she longed to lean in and fit her mouth to his. She held back, arrested by the intensity of his dark gaze, the unsaid things glimmering in the depths.
“You are not made of air. You are made of sweetness and light, goodness and kindness. You are made of the kinds of things people pretend to be but fall short because it isn’t genuine. I see you, Evie...if you never believe a single thing I say to you, I need you to believe that. I see you.”
Tipping her chin up, he finally kissed her, overwhelming her with the force of it. He kissed her as if desperate to drive home the truth of his words, to make her feel them as well as hear them. She melted in his embrace, clinging tight to him as he devoured her mouth, kissing her the way she’d always dreamed of, the way she’d only ever been able to experience through her writing before he’d come into her life. How could she fight the wealth of emotions exploding from deep within her and exposing themselves to the light of day? With him kissing her as if he’d never tasted anything sweeter, what else could she do but believe that his words were true?
Pulling away, he held her in place with one hand wrapped in her hair and the other at her back. “Let me show you until you believe it. Let me prove it to you.”
Her only response was a soft sigh as he dipped his head to kiss her again, his hold on her unrelenting as he began backing her across the room. She allowed herself to be swept away in the moment, no longer thinking of her own insecurities or the reservations that had held her back from having the things she wanted most in life. She let herself feel every frightening thing he stoked within her, deciding that there was nothing wrong with wanting it, or letting herself enjoy it for however long it would last. She had wanted the physical parts of this, yes. But Evelyn hadn’t realized until just now how much she’d craved the rest of it—the affection, the affirmation, the bliss of feeling cherished.
She surrendered to it all as he untied the sash of the dressing gown, his lips traveling over her chin, her neck, her shoulder. Then, he abruptly turned her until she faced an ornate, full-length mirror resting against one wall near the chaise longue he had led her to. Reaching around to take hold of her chin, he raised it until she was forced to confront the reflection. Avoiding the sight of herself looking like some unknown, wanton creature, she fixated on his image, the sight of him taking hold of the sides of the dressing gown to uncover what she hid beneath. The unadulterated desire she found upon his face as he revealed her nude body made her pulse thrum wildly in her throat, and her heart pound with excitement and anticipation.
Placing a light kiss on her shoulder, he then stared up to meet her gaze in the mirror. “God, look at you. Just look how beautiful you are.”
Evelyn stiffened when his hand fell onto her belly, her skin tingling in the wake of his touch as he trailed it up toward her breast. His other hand cupped between her legs, his fingers slipping into the seam of her mons and finding her clitoris with purpose. She sagged against him, her legs going weak as he nibbled her ear, then the side of her neck, his thumb and forefinger teasing her nipple into a stiff peak as he worked her to fever pitch, driving her back to the brink of unbridled passion and want. She had thought it impossible to ever want him more than she had before their first time, but now found her theory proved wrong. Having him once hadn’t been enough. It had only awakened her to the possibility of more, and just now she felt as if she’d die if he didn’t lay her down on the floor and take her.
Her eyelids grew heavy, but she forced herself to keep her eyes open, arrested by the sight of him behind her, his gaze intent upon their reflection as he touched her. Just like the painting, this image made her feel as if she looked at someone else, some bold and fearless woman with the power to make the man standing behind her desire her to a maddening degree.
“I love the idea of this part of you being a secret,” he whispered, smiling against her neck. “It means no one sees you like this but me. My own little goddess.”
She moaned, her hips bucking against his hand as he slid a finger into her, the heel of his palm pressing against her at the perfect angle. Just now, she didn’t care if all of London saw her this way, so long as he didn’t stop. She was so close, she could taste the heady sweetness of culmination, her mouth watering for it. He latched onto her shoulder, the light scrape of his teeth driving her over the edge. She squeezed her eyes shut, going limp in the tight hold of his arm around her waist as he stroked her to the finish, a second finger joining the first and his palm maintaining that perfect pressure against her clitoris as she splintered, her climax tearing through her with swift, pounding waves.
His fingers stilled inside her once her cries had died away into soft whimpers, his lips pressing tender kisses against the spot where his teeth had found her shoulder.
“I don’t want to worsen any pain you might be in,” he rasped, burying his face against the side of her neck. “But, Christ, I want you again. I want you so badly it hurts.”
Turning, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his, her inner channel clenching at the feel of his hard cock pressed against her.
“I’m perfectly fine,” she insisted, brushing her lips against his. “I want you again, too...please.”
Without preamble, he propelled her to the chaise, dropping down onto it and snatching his open shirt off over his head. Remembering the painting Patience had shown her and how intrigued she’d been by the way the depicted couple had chosen to position themselves, she straddled him, resting on his thighs while hurriedly working to open his trousers. He palmed her hips, urging her over him once his cock had sprung free, standing tall and proud from his groin. He guided himself to her opening, his head falling back and a groan escaping his lips at the first touch of her against him. The wetness he’d coaxed
from her with his fingers slicked the way easily and he filled her until she felt as if she’d burst, her sheath stretching to accommodate him. The slight sting of his invasion was nothing compared to the deep pangs of pleasure rippling through her as he used his hands to guide her, showing her the different ways she could pleasure them both. Bracing her hands on his chest, she tested the rhythm, sliding up and down his shaft, undulating her hips and grinding into him in a way that sent lightning strikes of pleasure deep into her womb.
Hugh stared up at her as if enraptured, his hips raising to meet each of her movements in a perfect counterpoint. He never tore his gaze away, keeping his eyes locked with hers as he tightened his hold on her, guiding her rhythm harder and faster. She fought to keep her eyes open, not wanting to shy away from the intensity of his gaze which seemed to peer not through her, but into her, into the depths of her soul.
Collapsing on top of him, she gave herself over to another climax, this one stealing the strength from her limbs and the breath from her lungs as her insides erupted into a torrent of release. She gasped for air and clung to him, unable to do anything more than ride out the ripples and waves of her ending as he went on stroking inside her, his hips bucking and his legs shaking as he drew closer to his own end. Seconds later, he lifted her off his cock and took it into his fist, groaning and trembling as he spent, the warm liquid of his seed spreading over his lower belly.
After using his discarded shirt to clean himself, Hugh pulled his trousers up over his hips before pulling Evelyn to lie down on top of him, using his dressing gown to cover her nudity. Nestled in the warm cocoon of the robe and his arms around her, she began drifting off again, her ear attuned to the sound of his breathing. While she drifted in the place between sleep and wakefulness, a sudden thought occurred to her, snatching her back toward consciousness. Sneaking a glance up at Hugh, she found him sleeping, eyes closed, lips parted, one arm draped across her back. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the sight he made, beautiful and unguarded in sleep.
Portrait of a Lady: The Gentleman Courtesans Book 1 Page 16
