by Kelly Bowen
“And your students will paint her in nothing but a robe?” The earl sounded as if he was hanging on to his patience by a thread.
Rose raised her eyes and held his. “No. They will paint her as Venus.”
Eli goggled at her. “Naked?”
“There you go again, Dawes, fretting over nudity,” Rose said. “Soon I am going to accuse you of being predictable.”
“My aunt is a lady,” Eli hissed. “She should not be subjected to such…such…”
“Veneration?”
The earl blinked.
“Your aunt does this of her own volition. She’s been one of my best models over the years.”
“But she’s not—”
“Young?” Rose bit out. “Perfect?”
Eli stared.
“Beauty can be found everywhere, should you only look. It is not a finite commodity. It changes with time and circumstance to become something new and different, but no less valuable. Your aunt is no less beautiful now than she was fifty years ago.”
“That’s not what I was going to suggest.”
“Good,” Rose said succinctly.
“But your students—”
“Also understand that beauty goes far beyond the usual clichés. It is my job to remind them of that. Often. Expand their horizons, ensure they continue to see the world and the value they may bring to it with broader views and understanding.”
“What are you saying?”
“These young women are fully aware that society most often measures them by their title and appearance, not their mind. That being different or remarkable is not something that is admired. They recognize that, while they are expected to be clever, their intelligence and wit can at no time overshadow those of their male companions.”
“That’s…”
“Disheartening? Infuriating?” Rose finished for him. “I agree.”
He was frowning fiercely.
“The young women here at Avondale have been selected from the scores of wealthy and titled students that you’ll find in Haverhall’s regular fall and winter terms in London. Chosen because they possess something far more uncommon than an enviable listing in Debrett’s.”
“What?”
“A sense of self-worth and courage to explore it. Ambition and the daring to defy expectations. A complete disregard for the conventional and the superficial. The desire to be measured by their own merit, not by the accident of their birth.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“It means that, this summer at Haverhall, we have aspiring architects, students studying various disciplines of law, an apothecary, a gunsmith, a goldsmith, a portraitist, and of course you’ve already met Rachel Swift, our sole medical student this year. Each student has a local mentor. My brother is one, but there are others willing to overlook the fact that these students wear skirts and are saddled with titles and fortunes that would otherwise keep them in pretty gilded cages.”
Eli looked nonplussed. “Cages.”
“Miss Swift is the eldest daughter to one of the wealthiest steel barons in England. The man could buy most of Mayfair should he take the notion, and he has determined that nothing less than a duke will do when she weds.”
“That’s not unreasonable. It’s how the world works.”
“You’re right. Because unreasonable would be Rachel’s desire to attend medical school. Unreasonable would be her ambition to become a physician. Unreasonable is acknowledgement of her incredible skill. Skill that I am told the people in the surrounding parishes of Dover are most grateful for. Especially when it comes to bone setting and flesh wounds. And burns, of course.”
“But how does any of this benefit her? She goes back to London or wherever she’s from, and you can’t expect me to believe that she will be allowed to continue in such a vein.” He leaned back against the wall.
“She goes back to London with the knowledge that not only is she good at what she does, she is better than most. That she possesses a valuable skill worth defending and developing. And that empowers her to make decisions. Decisions about her future and how she wishes to live it.”
“But her father—”
“Will have a difficult time forcing her to marry a duke. Unless, of course, she chooses to. Similar, I would hope, to the inability of your father to force you to marry.”
He jerked. “How did you know about that?”
“About what?”
“Never mind.”
Rose blew out a long breath, her stomach dropping strangely toward her toes. “You were to be married?”
Eli rubbed at his face with his hands.
“You never mentioned it before.”
“Because it wasn’t what I wanted. It was what my father wanted.”
“Why?”
The earl made a rude noise. “Because he thought it would give me purpose and accountability in a life which lacked both. But you’re right. He couldn’t force me to do it. And then I left London, and it no longer mattered.”
“Who was she?”
“That also doesn’t matter.”
“I rather think it does.” Rose swallowed, alarmed to discover her hands were clenched in the folds of her skirts. “Especially if she still believes you’re dead.”
“It’s just as well she believes me dead. I’m not exactly marriage material any longer.”
“That’s what you believe?”
“That’s what I know.”
Irritation swelled. “Well, I’d have to agree, then. Who would ever want to be married to a man who can’t take his head out of his ass long enough to stop feeling sorry for himself?”
Two slashes of angry color appeared over Eli’s cheeks. He pushed himself away from the wall and took three steps toward the tall window at the end of the hallway. “I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m being realistic,” he said tightly, his back to her.
“Of course you are.” She shook her head. “Did you even write to her while you were away? The woman you loved?”
Eli turned and stared at her, an unsettling expression on his face.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Rose demanded. “I’m hardly being unreasonable.”
His features abruptly rearranged themselves into a look of discontent once again. “I didn’t love her. I barely knew her.”
“She was your father’s choice for you, then?” Rose asked, wondering why she couldn’t seem to let this go and well aware she was relentlessly pushing him into a corner.
“Why else would I ever have reason to marry—” He stopped midsentence. Slowly he turned around. “You think I seduced her. Compromised her.”
“No.” Rose tipped her chin up.
“Now who’s lying?” He stepped back toward her until he was a breath away.
“Fine. But you’ve seduced half of London, Dawes. I’ve seen you do it. It’s not an unreasonable conclusion.”
“The women I seduced knew damn well I was seducing them and knew damn well exactly how the last act would play out.”
His voice had dropped, and the low timbre scraped along every nerve ending in her body. This was a man whose skills in the bedroom had been legendary. A man who had been known for gifting the most potent pleasure before he sought his own. Whatever clever retort she’d had in mind died unuttered as she imagined the scenarios that that entailed. Deliciously erotic, lewd scenes that stole her breath and her wits.
“No matter what you think of me, Miss Hayward, I have never taken advantage of a woman who hasn’t the experience and knowledge to take full advantage of me. To return the favor tenfold.”
A peculiar sensation wound through her. “Is that what you wanted from me?”
He stilled. “What?”
“Why did you kiss me, Dawes?”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “That’s not— I don’t— I should never have kissed you. It was impulsive, and I can only ask your forgiveness.”
“You regret kissing me?”
“No. Yes.” Frustration
and something darker were written across his features.
“Which one?”
He looked away from her briefly, his body visibly tense. “You’re different. You’re not…”
“Experienced? Knowledgeable enough to take full advantage of you?”
She heard the air leave his lungs at the same time she saw his expression change. His gaze went hot, his breathing more shallow than it had been a second before. “Rose.” It was a clear warning and an entreaty all at once.
“Or maybe you thought that I would be flattered by whatever crumbs of attention you cast my way?”
“No. God, no. That’s not—”
“Then perhaps you thought no one else would.” She was being reckless now, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop.
“Jesus, Rose, what man wouldn’t want to kiss you?”
“You misunderstand, Dawes. I wasn’t talking about me. I was talking about you.”
* * *
For a blinding second, Eli felt the void inside him expand, the blackness threatening to devour him whole. His chest felt as if it were on fire, and he couldn’t seem to draw a full breath.
“What did you just say?” he rasped.
Rose leaned forward, so close that he could see the tiny flecks of caramel in the dark chocolate of her irises. So close he could feel the warmth of her body and smell the richness of her scent. “I asked if you believe yourself to be unkissable. Unattractive. Unlovable.”
Her words fell like a series of blows, each one more painful than the last. He stared at her, at a complete loss for words. Who was this woman? The enchanting, affable woman he had once danced with, discussed art with, and attended opera with had been replaced with someone else entirely. Someone with unyielding strength and sharp edges. Someone who was ruthlessly hacking away at his defenses without apology and with all the elegance of a Viking warrior.
Or perhaps she hadn’t been replaced at all. Perhaps this was just another part of her he had never truly known.
“I’m not answering that,” he managed.
“Why?”
He stepped away from her, angry at his inability to answer her unyielding onslaught. He had no idea how he was supposed to answer anything.
Rose raised a slim brow and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why?” she asked again.
“Because it isn’t any of your business,” he snapped.
“You made it my business when you kissed me, Dawes,” she said, her voice cool and caressing him like silk. “I’d like to know if you were using me to salve your own insecurities or if you kissed me for another reason altogether.”
Eli felt the ground beneath him tilt, and it was an effort to remain steady. Jesus, was that what she believed? He shook his head, trying to find the right words.
Her lip curled. “That’s what I thou—”
“When I kissed you, I wasn’t thinking about anything except how beautiful you were,” he rasped fiercely. “How wild and real and fearless you were standing on that beach. And how much I wanted a taste of that.”
Rose gazed at him with that impenetrable stare of hers that betrayed nothing of what she was thinking. Finally she uncrossed her arms and stepped toward him. Her eyes traveled over his face, and for once he didn’t feel the need to turn away, at least until her eyes fell to his lips. And then he was afraid that if he didn’t turn away, put space between them, he would kiss her again.
“I’ve been seduced before, Eli Dawes,” she said, and Eli’s mouth went dry.
“What?”
“I’ve shocked you.”
He wasn’t shocked. Or maybe he was. It was hard to think because right now he was more aroused than he had ever been in his entire life. He felt as if he had just discovered himself on the wrong end of a bottle of whiskey, dazed and disoriented.
“I am not without experience and knowledge, Lord Rivers. And I will not abide a man who uses me for his own—”
Eli’s fingers brushed her lips, silencing her instantly. He caressed the sharp angle of her cheekbone, the impossibly smooth skin at her temple. His fingers delved into her glorious mass of red-blond curls, letting the softness wrap around his touch. “That kiss was never about anything other than you,” he said.
She gazed up at him, silent, and he would have given his entire fortune right then to know what she was thinking.
“Prove it.”
New anger surged through his arousal. “Not this again.”
“I’ve learned that a man should be judged on his actions and not his words. I’ll ask you to do the same thing tomorrow. And the day after that. And, if you’re still talking to me, the day after that. I would not call myself a friend if I did not.”
“What is wrong with you?” God, he wanted to shake her and kiss her all at once.
She shrugged carelessly, her eyes daring him to do his worst, just as they had done yesterday on the beach. His anger faded as fast as it had risen, replaced again by the all-consuming need to kiss her. To possess her in every sensuous, carnal way he could imagine. He needed to kiss her the way he needed air. He lowered his head, but her own fingers came up to touch his lips, stopping him.
“You won’t prove anything that way.” Her voice wobbled slightly.
“Then how?” It might have sounded desperate, but at this moment he didn’t care.
“A Man of Sorrows,” Rose said. “To replace my Venus of Urbino. A Titian for a Titian. His early Ecce Homo.”
Eli sucked in a breath. A portrait. It was what she had demanded while they stood on that beach yesterday. But he still would not do what she was asking. Could not do what she was asking. “I can’t. I’m not—”
“A man of sorrows?” Her fingers slid from his lips to trail down the ruined side of his face. He thought she sounded suddenly sad. “Then maybe you can simply become a Knight of Malta,” she suggested, her hand dropping to her side. “A man with the confidence and courage to defeat his sorrows.”
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can. You won’t.”
Eli felt his body go rigid with frustration.
“Perhaps it’s best if we forget that you ever kissed me. Pretend it never happened, before it gets too complicated.” Rose ducked her head, and his fingers slipped from the softness of her hair. “Because I will always be second-guessing your motivations.” She took a step back.
From somewhere downstairs he could hear the sounds of voices and the muted clatter of footsteps across marble. “Rose—”
“Those are the students on their way up to my class. Decide if what you want is worth your vanity, Lord Rivers.”
“This has nothing to do with my vanity,” he growled.
“No? Then enlighten me.” There was an edge to her words. A final assault on the remnants of his fort of isolation.
“This is blackmail. My privacy for…whatever the hell kind of agenda you have.”
“Don’t be melodramatic. And it isn’t my agenda in question here, but yours.”
He cursed. The voices were at the bottom of the stairs now, snippets of conversation audible as they advanced. “What you’re asking— It would be indecent.” It sounded feeble, even in his own ears. “Your students are innocent young women. They should not be exposed to—”
“Anatomy class was last week, Dawes. Taught by my doctor brother and the local midwife with plenty of diagrams, half of them drawn by Rachel Swift. Every one of the students, if she wasn’t before, is now well educated on the female body, the male body, and the bits that fit together. How they work. And all the potential consequences of that.”
Eli found himself staring again, his mind struggling to process both the information and the casualness with which it had been delivered.
“You should also know that you aren’t the only male model they’ve been asked to sketch or paint,” Rose continued, as though she were commenting on the rainfall last night. “And I hate to beat a dead horse here, but half of London has seen you without your shirt.”
“But they wer
en’t just sitting and…staring at me.”
Rose snorted and rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’m quite sure they were otherwise occupied with all the bits that fit together.”
“Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
“Ask another stupid question, and I’ll do it again.”
Bloody hell. “Rose—”
“I just need a yes or a no, Dawes. I need to tell your aunt one way or another—”
“Very well,” Eli said, before he could reconsider what he was doing. His anger, along with his arousal, neither of which had fully dissipated, was making him reckless. Rose had no idea what sort of game she was playing.
“Very well?”
“I’ll be your Ecce Homo. Your Man of Sorrows. Less the thorns, if it’s all the same to you.”
He closed the distance between them and caught her chin in his fingers. Something shifted in her expression, and her eyes once again fell to his mouth. He moved his hand and dragged his thumb over her lower lip, the sensual softness sending an aching hunger through his body and making his pulse jump erratically. Her own hand came up, her fingers wrapping around his wrist, though she made no move to pull his hand away. Instead it seemed more as if she was simply holding on.
The sounds of feet on the stairs were clear now. Within seconds the students would reach the hallway.
“When I kiss you again, Rose Hayward,” he whispered, stepping back and putting a respectable amount of distance between them, “you will never second-guess the reason why.”
Chapter 10
There was a single student left in her studio.
Lady Lucy Dunleavy, daughter to the Marquess of Livingston and, at seventeen, one of the most accomplished portraitists Rose had had the privilege of teaching, was still absorbed in her work. Rose stood quietly to the side, watching her masterful application of color turn the blankness of her canvas into something astonishing. Occasionally Lucy would ask Rose a question—more of a consultation on technique, really, than anything else—but for the most part Rose simply observed.
