Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5

by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns

  "Is that so?” Robert Augustine, the seventh Duke of Caerleon, leaned back in the chair behind his desk. Tall, aristocratically good-looking with thick chestnut hair, austere features, and crystalline gray eyes, he was dressed informally for the interview in polished boots, fitted dark breeches, and a pristine white shirt open at the neck. A crystal decanter of brandy sat at his elbow, and as he asked the question, he moved to refill his glass. “Enlighten me as to this stipulation, though I doubt it will affect my decision. I wish for you and none other to paint my wife's portrait. Quite frankly, you are the best, and that is what I require."

  The statement would have sounded arrogant except Nathaniel could tell it wasn't intended that way. The duke had more money than Croesus, or so rumor had it, and it was more a declaration of fact. He could afford the very best and didn't apologize for it.

  "It would be my pleasure to paint Madame de la Duchesse's portrait, your Grace,” he said with careful intonation. “It is my honor to have been asked. However, please be aware I want to do two paintings. One, the formal one you wish to commission and a second of my choosing, to be displayed at my discretion."

  Caerleon paused in the act of lifting his glass to his mouth. “A second painting?"

  "A nude."

  The duke took a measured sip of brandy and set aside his drink. The expression on his handsome face was difficult to read. “Let me understand you, St. Claire. You wish to have my wife pose for you naked?"

  "Yes. Exactly,” Nathaniel said in a bland voice.

  The fire crackled in the ensuing silence. At a guess, it was not often the formidably self-possessed aristocrat was without words, but he did appear to not know what to say. Nathaniel hadn't expected enthusiastic, instant agreement, so he sat quietly and took a drink from his own glass.

  This was very important to him. An opportunity to advance his reputation that might only arise once in his lifetime.

  Finally, Caerleon gave him a brittle, wry smile. “I take it if I do not agree to this rather outrageous request you will outright refuse to paint the formal portrait. Artistic blackmail, as it were?"

  The duke didn't look infuriated or shocked, which was a good start. Relieved and hopeful, for he hadn't been certain he wouldn't be tossed out on the street on his ear, Nathaniel leaned forward a little in earnest persuasion.

  "Your wife, Your Grace, is one of the most beautiful women in England. I did not think much about this, even after receiving your invitation for an interview, until I met her the other evening at Herr Mozart's opera, Le Figaro. I do not expect you to fully understand this, but as an artist, I know immediately when a subject is exceptional. The Duchess has more than beauty. There is an essence there I need to capture, and if I can do it properly, I believe it could be my finest work."

  "I am impressed by your passion, naturally, but not certain I want the world ogling my wife's bare body."

  That was the crux of the matter, and though not married, Nathaniel had enough empathy to understand the issue of male possession. “. Most of us have good imaginations, Your Grace. Do you honestly think no one pictures her without her clothing now? In the current fashions, the size of her bosom is not a secret, nor the narrowness of her waist—"

  "Yes, yes, I get your point.” The interruption was without rancor and Caerleon frowned. “Believe me, convincing me is not the most difficult part of all this, St. Claire. Even if I agree, which I have mixed feelings about, you will still have to somehow get Vanessa to consent. I won't say she is shy precisely, but certainly modest, almost to a fault. We have only been married two months, and if you can understand this, her sensibilities are still somewhat on the virginal side."

  Nathaniel did understand. In fact, it was perfect. That was exactly what he wanted—no, needed—to capture. The underlying sensuality starting to awaken, the woman emerging from the innocent girl, passion as an essential part of life, the very thing that created every human being on the planet...

  The more he thought about it, the more he had to paint this picture. He took a breath and asked the unforgivably personal question he needed answered. “Does she enjoy sex, Your Grace?"

  Robert Augustine narrowed his gray eyes. Long, graceful fingers stilled on the side of his brandy snifter. “I beg your pardon?"

  Nathaniel could lose very little by being blunt, and it was one of his most significant failings anyway. He smiled and lifted his brows. “Does she like to fuck?"

  It was clear the duke struggled for a moment with the urge to react in a less than civilized manner. But good breeding apparently asserted itself for after a moment, he said curtly, “May I ask why you would ever inquire over such a personal matter?"

  "What I wish to capture is her extraordinary allure, and that innocent uncertainty is part of it. I felt it in just one brief introduction. Surely you, who share her bed, know what I mean. You are handsome, rich, titled. Of the myriad women who would no doubt fall happily at your feet, you chose her. From what I understand, she is only from a modest background and did not bring even a dowry to the match."

  "I did not realize artists listen to random ton gossip."

  "We are on the fringe of society, but we do hear things, especially about important patrons. It would help me greatly if you would answer my question."

  Abruptly, the duke shoved himself to his feet and wandered over to the window. He took a drink from his once again almost empty glass and murmured, “She is still very timid, but I would say she probably enjoys it under her reticent reservations."

  In other words, her esteemed husband wasn't sure. Nathaniel wondered if the lovely duchess herself knew if she liked marital relations. “What if I told you that posing for me would loosen her inhibitions?"

  * * * *

  It was humiliating to a certain extent to discuss his marriage with someone who, though he might be a celebrated artist of some renown, was still a stranger, not to mention a bourgeoisie with very little social polish who worked for a living.

  But, quite frankly, Robert knew he and Vanessa were at a bit of an impasse in the bedroom. She wasn't frigid in the traditional sense of the word, she was simply so nervous and anxious she wouldn't please him that lovemaking was an exercise in frustration for them both. It had never occurred to him he would not be able to arouse his own wife, and he had been dismayed to realize that no matter what he tried, he simply could not get her to relax.

  And that, he thought sardonically, is what happens when a man becomes besotted with the innocent, unworldly daughter of a Methodist clergyman.

  He stared at the droplets running down the rain-streaked window with abstract attention. “What makes you think the duchess has inhibitions?"

  "I read people, Your Grace. Otherwise I cannot transfer their ... well ... souls onto the canvas, as it were.” St. Claire jumped up and paced across the room, his thin face alight. Not yet thirty at a guess, with a slim, boyish build and expressive hands that were in constant motion as he talked, he showed his half-Italian heritage in the shock of dark hair, only carelessly combed, bronzed skin, and dark, compelling eyes. Half the well-bred ladies in London's haute ton imagined themselves in love with the romantic young artist, and all of them wished he would deign to paint them. St. Claire, Robert had been informed, was extremely selective.

  Yet he wanted to paint Vanessa in the nude.

  Good God, how could he possibly agree?

  Robert turned, watching the other man restlessly roam across his study. “Mr. St. Claire, I am sure you understand my reservations. The mere idea of her posing unclothed is difficult, but you say you also want to keep the work and display it at your discretion."

  "That is not negotiable, I'm afraid.” The young artist shook his head.

  "Everything is negotiable, for a price.” Robert spoke with cynical conviction and decided a third glass of brandy was an excellent idea. He moved back to his desk.

  St. Claire snapped his fingers, a small smile on his mouth. “Diable! I beg to disagree. In your world, I suppose it is. B
ut not in mine. I exist for art, not for possessions. That is the reason I must own this painting I am destined to create. It should not be locked away, for only you to see, which I feel is what you would do with it. Can you understand?"

  Amber liquid splashed into his glass in a generous measure. Robert elevated his brows in reproof. “In theory, yes. In reality, if the news got out that a nude of the Duchess of Caerleon was on exhibition, I assure you all of London would rush to see it."

  "Precisely. As her husband, surely you would want her beauty on display."

  Like bloody hell.

  "You are misguided about the extent of my generosity."

  "What if I promised you she would be warm and willing in your arms each night?” St. Claire looked disturbingly sincere, picking up his glass and dashing the last of the contents into his mouth. “Would you not vote it worth the cost of sharing her with the world?"

  "How the devil can you be so assured of that?” His pride be damned, Robert found he was curious.

  "I know women. I study them and not just their bodies. As you may have noticed, I do no male portraits.” The young man shrugged. “Your lovely wife might be self-conscious now, but take my word, Your Grace, after I finish the work, she will be infinitely more comfortable not only with nudity, but with her sexuality."

  If it were true, he might actually take the chance. Robert smiled, just a humorless twitch of his mouth. “You still have to convince her, and believe me, that will not be an easy task. She insists even now the light be doused before we go to bed and she retains her nightdress like it is a holy shroud."

  Why the hell he'd just admitted that was a mystery and it was disconcerting to see St. Claire did not look surprised. In fact, he seemed delighted. “I knew it. I could sense her inner war, an intriguing sensuality against a prudish sense of propriety. Nature against discipline, which is fascinating, I'm sure you agree. She is afraid of her inclinations and even more afraid of you."

  His jaw tightened at the presumptuous assessment. “My wife has no reason on earth to be afraid of me."

  "On the contrary, she has every reason to be afraid she disappoints you in bed because I suspect strongly it is the truth."

  "All this from a brief introduction at the opera the other night?"

  "And our interview just now, yes.” The dark-haired young man nodded, a quicksilver smile flashing.

  Robert stared, nonplussed but swayed. He'd certainly had no luck in changing the situation, but unfortunately, St. Claire was all too correct about his conclusions. He finally gave a curt nod. “Fine, let me have someone fetch the duchess, St. Claire. I agree to your terms and if you can convince her, you will have my admiration."

  "I can convince her."

  The assurance in the other man's voice made him pause. “How can you be sure? You do not know her. She is a proper lady in every way, and I promise you the notion of taking off her clothes in front of a stranger will make her vastly uncomfortable, if not outright horrified."

  "With your permission, let me ask."

  "Be my guest, I am sure.” Robert crossed to open the door and summon a footman.

  After all, if St. Claire was correct, not only would his wife have a formal portrait done by one of the most brilliant emerging artists in Europe, but his personal life might improve significantly.

  A few minutes later the duchess entered the room, a slender vision in a pale muslin gown, her signature blond hair drawn into a discreet chignon at her nape. Vanessa was exceptionally beautiful with enormous dark blue eyes, delicately shaped feminine features, and a truly spectacular figure that was a study in contrast between her firm, full breasts, petite waist, and long slim legs. He'd met her quite by accident when his older cousin, the Marquess of Brookwood, had a country weekend party and she had been invited because she was a school friend of the marquess’ daughter.

  Not yet nineteen, his bride-to-be had been more than stunning. A few short weeks later they were engaged, and in less than four months, married. He had no regrets, but, as an experienced man dealing with a very inexperienced young woman, no idea exactly what to do either. Rushing her into an intimacy that made her uncomfortable seemed churlish, but as things were it was not perfect. The more careful he was not to frighten her, the worse it all became.

  It was ironic to think he himself hadn't seen her naked, yet they had been married for eight weeks. Maybe St. Claire's infamous picture would finally rectify that situation. At least he could look at it.

  He said with dry inflection, “Darling, you remember Mr. St. Claire, I'm sure. He wants to ask you something."

  Chapter Two

  "There is no time like the present. Disrobe."

  Vanessa Augustine glanced up and felt a convulsive swallow constrict her throat. This madness was all of her own doing, for she could have refused. Robert had made it perfectly clear it was her choice whether or not to pose for the infamous—and undeniably talented—St. Claire, but there had been something about his expression that told her this was some kind of test.

  Having failed him so miserably so far in their marriage, maybe this was the way to redeem herself. God knew she owed it to him to try. If, as the passionate young artist promised, the process would make her more comfortable with the marital act, she certainly could use the help. However, at this moment of truth, she wasn't sure she could go through with it.

  St. Claire stood by his easel, brush in hand, his dark downy brows lifted. As usual he wore a paint-stained smock, his hair was an unruly halo, and there was an ocher streak on one lean cheek. She had gotten used to his careless appearance during the sittings for her ducal portrait, and truthfully, despite the disorderly mess of his studio and his sometimes outré behavior, she found she liked him. Since her sudden elevation to noble status when she married Robert, he was the one person who did not treat her with any special deference. He was only nominally polite in fact, and it was a bit refreshing. All the formality could be stifling.

  Maybe that was the trouble. She felt stifled, intimidated, and generally as if her handsome, confident, and aristocratic husband thought he married the wrong woman.

  "Madam, stop clutching that robe like a gothic heroine if you please. Take it off and lie down on the chaise. I will pose you in a moment. For now I still need to mix some paints, so you may just relax.” St. Claire did begin to fiddle with several jars, paying no attention to whether or not she obeyed.

  She'd come this far. This was a point of honor, in fact, a chance to prove to Robert she wasn't a complete prude, even if every time he touched her she seemed to freeze up.

  With a final glance around the untidy loft, as if she suspected someone else might be lurking in the jumble of discarded cloths, old canvases, half-empty tea cups, and abandoned wine bottles, Vanessa took a deep, shuddering breath and shed her robe. It slid from her shoulders to a pile at her feet and she stood there a moment, in patent disbelief she did such an outrageous thing. Hands at her sides, she felt an eddy of cool air brush her bared skin and shivered.

  "It is warmer over here,” Nathaniel said in an abstract voice, not bothering to look up. “Come lie down. The divan is near the fire."

  The disregard for her nakedness helped a little, but still her cheeks stung with heat and she knew she blushed furiously. The object he referred to was a small, surprisingly elegant pale blue chaise, obviously newer than anything else in St. Claire's studio. Self-conscious did not even begin to describe how she felt as Vanessa walked over and quickly lay down. There was an old stained apron on the floor nearby and she barely resisted the urge to pick it up and drape it over her exposed body.

  St. Claire finally glanced up, flicked his gaze over her in a quick, dispassionate perusal, and nodded. “Flawless, as I imagined. It is a pity you wear clothes at all, Your Grace. Now, please, on your back. I want your breasts in relief, knees bent and your legs spread apart as if in invitation. Lift your arms above your head, as that will enhance the supplicant nature of your position."

  What?

>   To say she had expected at least somewhat of a modest pose was an understatement. Her hand strategically placed between her thighs to cover her most private place, maybe her long hair veiling her breasts.

  Vanessa stared at him and didn't move. “I ... I cannot pose like that, Mr. St. Claire. I can't believe I am here in front of you naked in the first place. But ... but..."

  "How many times have assured you I wish to be called Nathaniel?” He looked unfazed and more than a little amused. “And I believe I told you this was going to be a daring painting, one I think will test the limits of my talent. I think I am going to call it Woman Incarnate."

  "Whatever you call it, I cannot pose that way."

  "Why not?"

  The simple question made her blink, not sure how to answer. She finally stammered, “Be ... because it isn't ladylike in the least."

  "My dear Duchess, this picture is a about a fantasy and no man wants a lady in bed. Moreover, what woman wants to be one?” He rubbed his jaw, smearing more paint, his stained fingers restless in the mannerism she'd come to know during the two weeks of her formal sitting. His dark eyes glimmered with an excitement that had nothing to do with the proximity of her nude body. “This particular image is going to be symbolic of the sensual side of every female. In the most traditional position for intercourse, legs open, her body ready for sexual gratification, eyes closed, her unbound hair flowing around her, waiting for her lover. It will be perfection and you are the model I have been waiting for, believe me. Your sensuality is like a celebration of womanhood. I promise you, the world will applaud."

  The description made her feel a flicker of panic. Sensual she was decidedly not. If that's what St. Claire wanted to display to the world, he'd chosen the wrong woman. He could ask Robert and she was certain her handsome husband would instantly agree she lacked that quality to a dismal degree.

  "Mr ... er ... Nathaniel, please, you do not understand. I am uncomfortable not only with being here, but even with the topic. There are literally dozens of lovely ton beauties who would die to pose for you in any way, even the graphic one you propose. Please, I think I should go now."