by Bryn Donovan
“From King Arthur?” He gave her a keen look. “I loved those stories when I was growing up.”
“Did you indeed? I would always read them, too.” The image of Will as a boy, lost in tales of magic and chivalry, charmed her.
“Why are all your colors so bright?” he asked. “All of our paintings seem to be sort of...brown.”
“Most painters mix their paint with a lot of bitumen. It’s almost like tar. But my friends and I—and all the pre-Raphaelites, as they sometimes call us—prefer to use purer pigments.”
“Why does anyone dull down their colors, I wonder?”
“I believe they think it’s more refined and tasteful.”
“Mmm. I bet they do.” He flipped to another canvas. “You don’t paint as many men as women?”
“No.” Genevieve stood again. “It is harder to find men to pose.”
“Even if they don’t take their clothes off?”
Genevieve laughed. “Men never pose nude for women. Never. It puts us at a bit of a disadvantage.”
“I see.” Will stood as well. “So your friend was not making an indecent proposal to me?”
“No, nothing like that.” Genevieve grew irritated, thinking of Ida Keating circling Will Creighton like a hungry hawk. “And I don’t know what she was talking about. You would not be at all suitable as St. John.”
“Thank you very much.”
“It’s not an insult,” she said. “I just think you’d be better for other subjects.”
“Is that so? What would you paint me as?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps a heroic subject. Heracles, battling the hydra.”
“Heracles?” He smiled just enough to show a dimple. “I like that idea.”
She couldn’t help smiling back. “Of course, he’d only be wearing some sandals and carrying a shield. If you modeled for that, your friends and family would all die of mortification.”
“They would.” Will’s smile faded; he looked more reflective. “You know, you are lucky to get to do what you want. No one expects you to behave any particular way.”
“Oh, yes. Respectable gentlemen have it ever so much harder.”
Will gave an exasperated sigh. “You know I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Yes, I do know that.” She remembered that she hadn’t cleaned off her brushes yet—if the paint on them dried, they’d be ruined. She dipped a rag in turpentine and wiped off the bristles. “It is just that you don’t know what it’s like, for people like me. I don’t quite fit in anywhere.”
“I might know better than you think.”
“You? You fit in perfectly.”
“Not since I got back from the war, I don’t.”
She considered this. He had said that he’d been over there for almost two years. “I suppose I can imagine that. If you’ve been through hell, and no one else around you has...actually, I guess no one can imagine it. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Will gave a mirthless chuckle. “You are constantly amazing me.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one else understands that it might be strange to be back. Everyone talking about the things they’ve always talked about, doing all the things they’ve always done...”
“And meanwhile, you know about all those things that are happening over there,” she finished for him.
“I didn’t mean to start talking about that,” he said abruptly. “It’s not something a woman wants to hear about.”
“You talk to your gentleman friends about it, then?”
“I don’t need to talk to anyone about it. All I need to do is forget about it.” Genevieve supposed he might be correct.
“And you do an excellent job of making me forget,” he said. “I was thinking we should resume our lessons where we left off the other day.”
She felt a flutter of anger—and anticipation. “We agreed to Tuesday nights, I believe.”
“Come, Miss Bell. You will admit that I didn’t know, at the time, exactly what I was agreeing to.” His gaze raked over her. “Surely you have already made plans for the next lesson. You are not merely improvising as you go along, I hope.”
Genevieve feared again that he suspected her pretence as the knowledgeable courtesan. And she had already made plans.
And now that she stood this close to him, she wanted desperately to kiss him again.
Genevieve walked across the studio to close the door and lock it.
“As you wish, Mr. Creighton,” she said. “I was thinking you could use a little more practice in the art of kissing.”
His look darkened; half-irritated, half-amused. “Oh, yes?”
“Yes.” She sat down on the worn velvet sofa where the model posed earlier. “So we may kiss and touch wherever we like...but no clothing is to be removed.” She gave him a warning look as she said the last words.
His face took on a knowing expression. Genevieve could imagine him thinking: “We’ll play by your rules a little longer. But we both know that I can have you at any time.”
“Very well,” was all he said.
He sat down next to her, took her by the shoulders and kissed her mouth.
She kissed back. His lips were commanding, insistent, coaxing her mouth to part under his.
So good. She felt relief as she sank deep into the sensation. He put a strong arm around her, supporting her and drawing her nearer. Pulled against his chest, Genevieve found she longed to feel her skin against his. Then she remembered that was exactly what she’d forbidden.
As if in compensation, his fingers, warm and slightly rough, stroked at the delicate skin of her décolletage. Her back arched. He’d know how much she liked that, she realized.
He broke off their melting kiss to lower his head and trail kisses from throat to collarbone and yet lower. Genevieve took in a sharp breath as his open mouth grazed the top of her breast, just above the bodice.
Another ravenous kiss on the side of her neck brought a soft cry from her lips. The sensation sparked her desire, and every part of her being flooded with heat.
Now he kissed her mouth again, but with no vestige of gentlemanly restraint. He forced her mouth farther open, almost crushing her against him, assailing her with his tongue. Deeper, more insistent, until she thought she should protest his roughness.
She didn’t. Returning his passion, she dared to explore his mouth, his indefinable taste. She felt his body harden in response.
Her arms reached around to hold him as though he were the champion of her heart. Given their arrangement, they were meant to have a simple, straightforward physical connection, but she felt a deeper link, as though their souls reached out for one another.
Genevieve had never kissed a man quite like this.
As they kissed, his hands stroked down the sides of her body. She’d talked so much about savoring, and he now seemed to take the time to appreciate the way her body curved in at the waist, then flared out to generous hips. His hands reached to curve around her derriere.
She stiffened for a moment. Surely this went too far? But no...he was still within the bounds she herself set. She relaxed again.
Her fingers threaded through his hair and touched his face, lightly, and she thought she felt him shiver. He nipped at, then sucked on, her bottom lip before he kissed her full on the mouth again.
Will’s hands cupped and stroked her bottom in caresses deep enough to be felt through her skirts. An involuntary purr rose up in the back of her throat.
Genevieve leaned closer to him now as they kissed. She was barely aware of the way her breasts pressed against his chest, of the fact that she’d curled up her legs beneath her, so that she knelt on the settee cushion. When he pulled his head back a little, she leaned farther in, rising up as she did so.
Will’s arm went around her waist in a firm grip, so that she couldn’t sit back again. His good hand moved from her derriere, and he reached lower, molding the heavy damask fabric against the mound of her womanhood.
She stiffened again.
“Am I breaking any rules?” he asked softly. His whole palm pressed against her, and he moved it in slow, languorous circles. His fingers reached far enough to tease her at her most sensitive place. A soft cry came from her lips.
Genevieve hadn’t expected this lesson to go so far, but it was in his nature to take the lead. And it didn’t seem in her power to resist him. A sweet, unbearable ache held her in thrall. As his hand continued to pleasure her, he kissed her again and again.
Would she act quite so imperious after this? She doubted it. She knew Will felt her humid heat through the skirts. She whimpered in sweet urgency as his hand moved away from her. But when it delved under the back of her skirts, she froze.
“What is it?” he murmured in mock-innocence, even as his hand skated its way to the juncture of her thighs. “I’m not removing any clothing.”
She opened her mouth to protest. But as his hand encompassed the whole of her sex through the thin barrier of her drawers, all she could do was gasp. He began to kiss her again, as if to prevent any further objections.
If indeed she’d make any. Her body appeared more than willing, the delicate linen damp with her juices. He stroked his fingers across moist fabric and they slipped through the slit in the drawers.
Genevieve moaned softly as he petted her slick fur. His left arm held her in a blatantly sexual position. She kneeled next to where he sat, her back arched, skirts bunched up to the waist, hips lifted high to receive his attentions. All the while, he continued kissing her.
He eased two fingers into her hot sheath, and began a slow rhythm, an imitation of other pleasures. He added a third finger and she felt herself clench around him, almost drawing him farther in. She couldn’t even feel ashamed as she realized his hand was moist in her wetness.
“Will,” she said, against his mouth, the first time she used his first name.
“What, darling?” He ceased his movements. “Am I not kissing properly?”
“Will, please,” she begged. He meant to drive her mad. “I—don’t stop...”
He smiled, a darker pleasure filling his gaze at the sound of her imploring. He picked up the rhythm again.
His thumb centered on her very core, persuading her desire toward its fulfillment. Her body tensed and trembled in need. His lips brushed the tops of her breasts again.
“Oh...” She moaned, feeling suspended in mid-air as though she might fall. She clung tighter to him. In the next moment, she cried out. A wild release crashed through her and her entire body shuddered.
“Oh, my God,” she half-sobbed. More tremors racked her body as she convulsed around his hand.
Genevieve didn’t know what happened to her. Despite her earlier strictures, she’d fallen under his power now. She could deny him nothing. She drew back to stare at him, dazed and a little frightened.
He grinned. “How did I do?” Triumph glinted in his eyes. He seemed to exult in the response he’d milked from her, her body’s extravagant reaction that she didn’t understand.
She realized he wasn’t taking things any farther. He mastered himself—she didn’t. He enjoyed the fact that he had this power over her.
She struggled to get control of herself.
“Quite well,” she said. Contrary to her best efforts, her voice quavered.
“Quite well indeed,” she added in a firmer tone. She pulled down her rumpled skirts and sat down on the seat again, smoothing her hands through her hair.
She looked away, but felt his heated stare on her. Without a doubt, she knew this was the last time that he’d participate without receiving his own satisfaction.
“Well, I have a very inspiring teacher.” When Genevieve dared to look at him again, he was smiling.
She quipped, “Perhaps it’s just that you are a particularly talented student.”
“More talented than that artist of yours, then, would you say?”
Shock went through her. How did he know about Adam?
And what a question to ask. Comparing Adam to Will was like comparing a thrown-off spark to a bonfire.
But he wasn’t asking about Adam, she realized in the next moment. He meant Cage, thinking that they’d been lovers. The very idea of that sickened her.
She shook her head in amazement. “I would have to say that you are.”
After they had said good-night, and she closed the door behind him, Genevieve stood still as stone until she heard the carriage clatter away.
Oh, my Lord. She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks, as if that might cool them. But her hands were hot, too. As she contemplated what just passed, shame rose in her like a tide.
What had she done?
And more to the point, what had he done to her?
The experience was wonderful. Or perhaps horrible.
She’d practically crawled into his lap, with about as much dignity as a cat in heat with its tail up. And what to make of that sweet burst inside her?
Good Lord, why had she screamed?
Perhaps she’d been wrong in thinking that he’d be back. Perhaps he thought her a madwoman now. Her cheeks burned with the shame of it. And her heart ached, too. She wanted to see him again.
She ran both hands through her hair. If only she knew someone to ask about such matters. She briefly considered interrogating Flory, but discarded the idea as too humiliating for both of them.
Then she remembered. That book.
Ida’s book, which Ruth passed on to Genevieve. “It’s perfectly scandalous,” Ruth said.
Well, it was worth a quick look.
****
Two hours later, Genevieve sat in her studio. Even though Flory hadn’t yet returned, Genevieve locked the door. She still pored over this wicked little book.
Apparently, the sort of fit she’d experienced wasn’t strange after all. That came as some relief, even as reading about such a shocking matter made her grow agitated.
Genevieve flipped back a page and read the passage again. Very well...but still she wasn’t sure if it was normal to scream.
The novel concerned a woman who behaved like a terrible Jezebel. Indeed, she never seemed to spend any time with her clothes on. But what startled Genevieve the most was the dizzying number of ways the lascivious female joined with her myriad partners.
Up until that day, Genevieve had been certain that there was one way a man had relations with a woman. She lay on her back on the bed; he clambered on top. A simple matter, really.
But no, this hussy was endlessly inventive. She would climb on top of him. Or she and her lover would carry on as though they were beasts of the field. Or...
Genevieve slammed the book shut, and also shut her eyes. Her bosom rose and fell rapidly. She couldn’t possibly read this.
For a few moments, she sat, and then opened the book again.
One passage in particular caught her interest. She read it twice just to make sure she understood.
One would never get pregnant from that. Genevieve knew that much. But it seemed like such a strange and unnatural thing to do.
And yet...
Chapter Seven
“There he is!” Mr. Tudbury boomed out, slapping Will on the shoulder. “So pleased that you could make it!”
“I am sorry to be late,” Will said.
He’d nearly forgotten Mr. Tudbury’s invitation. Lately, thoughts of his so-called “lessons” with Genevieve kept his mind preoccupied. He revisited every last detail of their tantalizing, frustrating encounters.
“You’re not so late,” Mr. Tudbury assured him. “Do come and say hello.”
In the drawing room, Mrs. Tudbury and her daughter Daisy seemed to have been interrupted from intense conversation. They froze as Will entered the room.
Their discomfort was so obvious that Will opened his mouth to make some excuse to step outside again, in order to let them finish their discussion.
“Look who’s here!” Mr. Tudbury thundered out.
Twin forced smiles appeared on
both women’s faces.
“Good evening, Mrs. Tudbury, Miss Tudbury,” Will said. “It’s so good to see you both again.”
“And it is so very good to see you,” Mrs. Tudbury replied. “We are all so proud of you, Will. Aren’t we proud of him, Daisy?”
“Of course,” Daisy said through her poised false smile.
The Tudbury’s butler appeared at the door. “Well, Garrick, is dinner ready?” Mr. Tudbury asked him.
“Yes, sir.”
As they proceeded into the dining room, Will thought again of how eager Mr. Tudbury seemed to get Will and Daisy together—all very flattering.
And now that he stood closer to her, he realized she was quite pretty. At least as pretty as her older sister Violet, with the same blue eyes and flaxen hair. But he observed her beauty in a detached way. Strange that he felt no particular response to it.
“I hope you have been well, Miss Tudbury?” he asked her as they entered the dining room.
“I have been quite well,” she replied. “In fact…” She raised her voice a little, with a glance to her parents in front of her. “…these past couple of months, I have never been happier.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Will said. She clearly talked more to Mr. and Mrs. Tudbury than to him, but he didn’t know what to make of it.
The dining room table was laid out handsomely for dinner. Tall silver compotes stood guard at each end, one piled high with a pyramid of dried apricots, the other with a similar arrangement of almonds. The broad dish in the center overflowed with white hothouse chrysanthemums and ferns.
“What a lovely arrangement,” Will said as he sat down, although he didn’t care about flowers.
“Is it not?” Mrs. Tudbury beamed. “Daisy arranged them herself! She has always been quite artistic.”
Artistic. Will thought again of Genevieve’s pictures. How surprising to learn that she was a painter—and a talented, dedicated one. It seemed strange that someone with her gifts would become a mistress in the first place.
Maybe she just needed the money. That idea disturbed him. He found it more comfortable to think of her as a wanton woman. But he supposed she was that, too, with her avant-garde friends, and naked women running about in her house.
