Portrait of a Forbidden Love--A Sexy Regency Romance

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘You’ve quite the...um...imagination.’ Artemisia gave him a wicked, teasing smile, her eyes flicking to the fall of his trousers. He was glad he’d not worn breeches tonight. Trousers were only slightly less tight, but he’d take any relief at the moment.

  ‘My “imagination” wants to step outside and take you hard against the nearest wall.’ He leaned in, stealing a kiss, his tongue licking the briny salt of the oyster from her lips. ‘You taste like freedom, Artemisia,’ he whispered at her throat. Freedom and redemption, possibility and promise. Yet he was aware that so much lay unresolved between them and aware, too, that Artemisia had agreed to nothing—nothing permanent, nothing irrevocable. Neither had he. Nothing was decided that could be binding. He found he was having too much fun tonight to want to force those decisions. They could wait for a more solemn time.

  She answered him with a kiss, long and lingering, her tongue taking its turn to taste him and he let her. This was a country party in the middle of nowhere. No one noticed, no one cared who kissed whom in the shadowy recesses of a fishery floor. No gossip column would make a scandal of this indulgence. He took the kiss from her, deepening it, his hand in the pretty twist of hair at the nape of her neck, guiding her mouth against his. Had any kiss ever been this sweet? Maybe aphrodisiacs were purely mental exercises. They’d not made love on the beach at Oare today, although their kisses had left him primed.

  He was still primed. His senses had been primed all night from the moment he’d picked her up in the coach, seeing her in the dark blue gown with its subtle indigo pattern of palm fronds and the vee of her bodice showing off the firm curve of her breasts, the simple gold locket at her neck begging a man to kiss that long, slim, elegant column and the pulse at its base. He knew how that pulse could race. He placed his hand over it. It was racing now. For him. Because of him.

  ‘Shall we go outside, Artemisia?’

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed against him.

  He led her out into the darkness, her hand gripping his tightly as they sought privacy. He steered them around a corner of the building and pulled her against him with a hard kiss, his hands on her buttocks, pressing her close as he lifted her. She moaned into his mouth, her legs wrapping about him, her skirts falling back in the effort to reveal long, slim thighs. He held her tight, balancing her against the wall with one hand as he opened his trousers with the other. ‘I did not think it was possible to be this hard,’ he breathed the erotic compliment against her neck.

  ‘Nor I. That’s very impressive, Mr Rutherford,’ she whispered with a throaty chuckle, moving against the long shaft of him with her hips, the scent of her own arousal unmistakable between them. ‘Are you going to do anything with that?’ Her eyes glittered in the dark, both of them too far gone with the need for immediate gratification to care for much foreplay.

  He thrust into her then, hard and sure, setting the pace for a fierce, fast joining that would be intense and explosive when climax came. It would come quickly, already he could feel his own body tightening, gathering in response to hers. Artemisia’s breaths came in pants, his own breathing nothing more than ragged inhalations. They were rough with one another, her teeth at his neck, his thrusts taking her hard against the brick of the wall. They would be marked by this, but they couldn’t stop. He felt her nails dig through the fabric of his coat in an effort to rake him.

  She let out a harsh breath, devouring his mouth with hers. ‘I want you naked.’

  He could not give her that tonight, not here with the public only feet away beyond that corner. Some day soon, he vowed in the passion-riddled corners of his mind, they would make love in a real bed. But right now, release would have to be enough. He took her once, twice more before release swamped them, her cries muffled against his shoulder, his own groaned against her neck.

  Damn it all, though, he couldn’t see her eyes. Were they open? He wanted them to be open, he wanted to know her pleasure was complete as it pulsed over them in hot, reckless waves that shook them both. He felt it in the tremble of her legs about him, heard it in the shakiness of her breath. Physics and the wall kept them both upright in pleasure’s immediate aftermath. Had lovemaking ever felt like this? Had it ever left him so completely drained and yet so completely fulfilled even after a heady interlude that had begun merely as a flirtation over oyster shells? He’d not expected this.

  ‘You might be the death of me, Artemisia,’ he said, his voice still shaky as he laughed. He lowered her down, disengaging her legs gently from his hips. ‘Are you all right?’ They’d become rough at the end. A part of him that was imbued with a gentleman’s ethics felt he should apologise for it—the primal part of him disagreed.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Artemisia smiled, affirmation that the roughness had been part of the intoxication. He passed her a handkerchief and turned his back, giving her a moment to put herself together. For him, it was his thoughts that needed putting together. What did this fire between them mean? He knew what she would say, that it meant nothing, but he could not believe that. He could not let that answer stand. It was a convenient means of ignoring that something did indeed lay between them.

  ‘Would you like to walk a bit?’ He wasn’t ready to surrender their intimacy to a crowd. He’d rather stay in the darkness with her a little longer.

  ‘Yes, I can’t imagine going back inside and dancing now.’ Artemisia slipped her arm through his.

  ‘Me neither.’ They walked in silence, enjoying the quiet lap of water in the distance against the shore. There was peace between them now that the fires of passion had been sated. Darius was loath to break it, but his code as a gentleman demanded it. They’d made love twice and there’d been the implication that there would be another time. In a bed, preferably, but beds came with implications of their own such as premeditation and permanence. He was starting to think Artemisia preferred wilder, more spontaneous encounters. Perhaps she felt she didn’t have to be accountable for them.

  They stopped at the edge of a sea wall, the oyster fishery behind them, the sounds of the party filtering through the darkness. He had to ask the question and there was no time like the present before things went further, before they could go further. Patterns without parameters were dangerous creatures, creating assumptions where none might exist. ‘What are we doing, Artemisia?’

  ‘Enjoying one another’s company through a bleak winter.’ Her answer was straightforward. She knew precisely what he was asking. He appreciated she’d not played coy with a flippant answer.

  His heart sank a bit at the response. It was a plausible answer. This they could do. Such an answer fitted their circumstances. It was what they could reasonably give each other. He should not expect more. While he found the answer satisfactory, it was not satisfying. ‘We are to be neutral lovers, then, and go our own way at the month’s end?’ A month with Artemisia, a month of being alive to weigh against all the years of responsibility and duty yet to come. What of her? What did this mean to her?

  She gave him a sideways glance full of challenge as she pushed an errant strand of hair out of her face, blown there by the breeze off the water. ‘What else is there, Darius?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Artemisia did not let her gaze waver. She wanted there to be no mistake. He needed to understand explicitly that she was daring him: daring him to argue the answer with her or to recognise the limitations of his fantasy. Perhaps he would respect the answer if he made it himself instead of listening to her protest. Her answer would be honest, blunt and likely unappreciated. But tonight, he didn’t want to settle for the truth behind her honesty. It was there in the set of his jaw, in the tenseness that rippled across his shoulders. He wanted none of her realism.

  He would argue against her truths because he wouldn’t like them, and she would argue against his, because his were impossible.

  What else is there?

  It would be better if he’d answer her question. Through his
own words, he would be forced to admit the limitations of the unreality he sought, limitations which did not end with his position as an art critic but extended to his family, his title, everything he’d worked for and sacrificed for. One mistake with her would undo all of that, just as one mistake with him would undo her. They would ruin each other if they allowed this interlude to get out of control, if they allowed themselves to think it could be more.

  He wrapped his arms about her and drew her to him, her back against the warmth of his chest. ‘There is exploration. I have no idea what we can be yet. I’d like to find out. I don’t want to stop at neutrality and a date on the calendar unless I decide to.’ His mouth was low at her ear. ‘If we are a one-month wonder, so be it. But what if we are more?’ he whispered his temptation. ‘Wouldn’t it be a shame to throw that away? To never know?’ He kissed the back of her neck, sending a warm, slow shiver down her spine, a reminder that she could have a month of such kisses.

  She turned in his arms, her voice infused with disbelief. ‘It can’t be more. What is the use of pretending it could be? What is the use of exploring a useless possibility? This can only be about lovemaking, Darius. It can’t be about the Academy.’ She cocked her head, seeing his disagreement in his eyes. ‘Darius, how do you think this ends?’

  ‘I’m working on that,’ He smiled, undaunted by her reaction. Then he sobered. ‘Unless this is your way of signalling your interest is not as shared as I thought it was?’

  ‘It’s not my interest that isn’t shared. It’s the optimism.’ She twined her arms about his neck. ‘Darius, there’d be more than one scandal if we associated with one another in London. Your family...’

  ‘My family, and London are miles and miles away.’ He kissed her, a slow, lingering kiss. ‘I won’t have them intruding on tonight or any other night for the duration of the month. Can we make a pact, Artemisia? Will you give me—give us—the month?’

  A month, a year, a lifetime.

  His beautiful dark eyes made her reckless. She would give him anything right now with those eyes looking down at her, his arms wrapped about her as if the very strength of him would be enough to keep the world at bay. What might she discover about him in the span of a month? What other secrets might be unearthed? Exploration indeed. But that went both ways, didn’t it?

  A burst of caution pushed its way forward. To explore him, to explore them, she would have to consent to being explored, exposed, too, and for what purpose? Even if she was interested in a ‘them’, a future was irrelevant. She had to protect herself from hurt. What if her interest did come with a deeper emotion attached to it? There would be heartbreak to navigate. There was more than one reason to be careful here, yet she wanted to throw caution to the wind, let it be carried away on the tide.

  ‘I swear to you, I won’t hurt you, Artemisia.’ Did he know what he was promising? There were so many ways to hurt a person, before, during, after an affair. The opportunity never really went away. She shouldn’t agree to it, but what she ought to do held little sway at the moment. She would be smarter this time, she knew how to protect herself. Perhaps she could afford the luxury of enjoying this man.

  ‘All right then, you have a month.’ This was what happened when one agreed to a dinner. It was never just dinner. Then she added, before he could relax in his victory, ‘But I am warning you, Darius. I have been down this road before.’ Even if he didn’t agree, she would hold herself to her own parameters. This would only be about the physical.

  ‘Duly noted.’ Darius’s mouth quirked in a wry smile as he bent to seal the agreement with a kiss. ‘This time, it will be different, vastly different, Artemisia. You’ll see.’

  * * *

  That’s what they all said, Artemisia refrained from pointing out. In the days that followed, though, she would have been proven wrong. Being with Darius was different, noticeably so, in good ways and in bad. He did not seek to dominate her time. He did not assume once they’d committed to a relationship of sorts that he would become her top priority. Nothing changed in that regard.

  There were delicious afternoons of lovemaking on the beach, but he never sought to assume such idylls would take place in her home. They would talk, they would sketch. They would share their work. He was open to suggestions about improving his work and they were open with each other about their thoughts and opinions, free to disagree with one another.

  Arguing the merits of art was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon between bouts of lovemaking with a well-educated man. She learned he liked the work of the Renaissance painters, while she preferred Vermeer and Brueghel, who had made a point of breaking with the Italian school.

  She learned little things about him, too. His favourite colour was green, his favourite food was chocolate cake. He had an enormous sweet tooth. And he was considerate. It was in every gesture he made, large or small, not only to her but to those around him: Mrs Harris, Addy. It was often subtly done. No one would ever mistake him for a pushover.

  But for all the perceived openness and increasing closeness, there was the constant nagging reminder that this was a façade, that this gradual accumulation of facts didn’t matter. They could change nothing. At the end of the month, all of this would be over, no matter how they felt about one another. But discussion of that inevitability was a taboo subject. Neither did they discuss whatever Darius’s plan was that he’d alluded to regarding the Academy. She didn’t necessarily want to know. No doubt his agile mind was working on some sort of solution to the twin dilemmas facing them. It would be her job to shoot it down, whatever it was. Soon.

  * * *

  February sped on. She could see the time passing in the accumulation of finished paintings lining the walls of her studio, a beautiful palette of protest and productivity. She saw it in the dwindling pile of sketches she’d so aggressively accumulated in December and January. There were just two left to put to canvas: the pintail duck and one other that was just for her. It would be her own farewell of sorts to this unlooked-for idyll in Seasalter.

  Mrs Harris had politely enquired earlier in the day about arrangements for the small staff they’d acquired. When should they expect to close up the house? It had forced Artemisia to give words to those details she tried hard to ignore. Two weeks, she’d told the housekeeper just this morning. Artemisia looked over the easel, studying Darius in his usual place on the worn couch, his gaze intent on something beyond the window, a squirrel perhaps. Two weeks and one day, she silently amended.

  It was a leap year. There were twenty-nine days in February and she would take them all, to her great surprise. Darius Rutherford had arrived as the enemy. He was not leaving as one, but he was leaving and she was leaving. Their real lives awaited. This life, this fiction, by necessity had to be left behind.

  Artemisia began cleaning her brushes, her work finished for the day. It had become their signal that their day could move into something less formal. She pictured in her mind Darius rising from the couch, crossing the room to her, in three, two...there it was, his kiss at her neck, his arms wrapping around her as she rinsed the brushes. ‘This is the best part of the day,’ she murmured. It was also the most dangerous. She could lose herself in him and what he offered. She could forget there was a battle she needed to fight in the world beyond Seasalter, that her career hung in the balance of what happened out there.

  ‘I think so, too.’ Darius nuzzled her neck. Perhaps he forgot about those things, too. ‘Dinner tonight at the Crown? I heard rumours they’d got a new shipment of wine.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ve become quite adept at determining which nights the smugglers’ boats are in. I try to make myself scarce.’

  ‘If you stay long enough, they might ask you to join them.’ Artemisia laughed and unbuttoned her smock. ‘Mrs Harris made you a chocolate cake. Maybe I will engage in some smuggling of my own and bring it with us. We can have it for dessert.’

  ‘Or perhaps for dinner.’ He nibbled sug
gestively at her ear. ‘Why not eat dessert first?’ Darius whispered. Why not? Life was too short, time was too precious to waste it on proprieties for their own sake.

  She turned in his arms and claimed a kiss. ‘I’ll get the cake.’

  ‘Maybe you are cake.’ Darius’s eyes glinted dangerously dark, desire evident in his gaze. ‘I think you and I understand dessert differently,’ he drawled. He claimed a kiss this time, one she felt to the depth of her toes. ‘Tonight, I will make love to you in a real bed.’ Her breath caught and her mouth went dry at the words. ‘No more sand, Artemisia, no more wind, no more fumbling with copious amounts of clothing, no more rushing. Just us, tonight, skin-to-skin. You can weigh that against eating dinner in a more linear fashion,’ he teased.

  * * *

  The images his words invoked were no joking matter. They lingered through the walk on the beach, through the beef stew and fresh bread dinner at the Crown, the bottle of rich red wine that accompanied it, and through the moist slices of cake purloined from Mrs Harris’s kitchen. It was a rather intoxicating and thorough bout of foreplay, leading her for hours. For his part, despite his counsel to eat dessert first, Darius was in no hurry, which was proving maddeningly irritating as her own desire acquired a certain fevered pitch to it.

  ‘More cake?’ Darius offered as she took her last bite, well aware that he was only halfway through his. On purpose? she wondered. ‘More wine?’

  ‘No, I’m quite full.’ Her suspicions were growing. There was a glint of laughter lurking in Darius’s eyes and it occurred to her he’d dragged this dinner out deliberately. Artemisia set aside her napkin and gathered her willpower in the hopes he wouldn’t see the lie. ‘I am in no hurry. Take your time, enjoy your cake.’ There. That should take some starch out of him. ‘We have all night.’