by Diana Quincy
Emilia’s pen moved quickly over the sketch pad as she shaded in the area around the subject’s groin. So much fuss was made about what men had between their legs. Her grandmother had once told her men were superior to women because they could father children, which struck Emilia as ridiculous because everyone knew you needed a female to complete the act of conceiving a child. In fact, it seemed to her that women did most of the hard work when it came to procreating; they were the ones who carried the child in their womb for months while males sat by and watched after their initial donation.
Her face heated when she thought of the act that resulted in the donation. She stared at her drawing, considering the small, undefined, flaccid shape between the subject’s thighs. Not impressive at all. Especially when compared to the rest of the man’s excellent physique—the thick, muscled thighs, contoured abdomen, and well-defined arms, not unlike what she’d seen of Sparrow’s splendid form. She stole a backward glance at him. She couldn’t help but wonder if his…member…was also similar to the drawing.
“It’s taking shape quite nicely.” Sparrow spoke from over her shoulder, the scent of his shaving soap drifting over her.
She jumped, her heart racing, embarrassed to have been musing about his private parts. “Don’t sneak up behind me like that.”
“I was hardly sneaking.”
“Move away.” She snapped the words. “I don’t care for anyone to look at my work until it’s complete.”
“You’re in a particularly managing and ornery mood today.”
She didn’t look up from her work. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“You’re far from a disappointment.” Something in his tone, a sort of wistfulness, made her look up. “You’re a vibrant, amusing, clever, passionate woman.”
She swallowed against the ache in her throat. Was that how he truly saw her? “I am?”
“You’re too good for Edmund.”
She stared at him, wondering where he was going with this line of conversation. “He’s the grandson of a duke and an accomplished diplomat. I’m four-and-twenty and if I do not wed soon, I face the very likely prospect of being permanently on the shelf.”
“I don’t believe that. Men should be lining up to court you.”
“All men but you?”
He blinked, apparently at a loss for words.
“Surely you haven’t forgotten that you yourself found me so lacking in charm that you jilted me on our wedding day.”
“That’s not at all true,” he protested.
“Oh?” she countered. “Are you saying you called off the wedding despite being madly in love with me?”
His expression turned grim. “I don’t believe in love.”
She pulled a face. “That’s absurd. Love isn’t something to believe in. It’s something that sweeps you off your feet and makes you tingle and infuses everything with wonder.” She ought to know. She’d certainly experienced that with him. Disappointment ached in her lungs at the reminder he did not return her sentiments—then or now.
He studied her. “Have you been in love, then?”
She looked away and pretended to focus on her drawing. “No.”
“And yet you choose to marry Edmund.” His voice rose. “He makes you ashamed of your magnificent hair.”
Now it was her turn to scoff. “He’s never said anything of the sort. And if he had, who could blame him? This shade is loud and unseemly.”
“No, you’re wrong,” he said fiercely. He knelt before her and fingered a tendril of her hair that had escaped her bonnet. “Your hair is your crowning glory. He should worship it and you.”
She swallowed, trying to appear unaffected by his nearness and the intoxicating masculine scent rolling off his skin. “I’ve made my choice.” But Edmund wasn’t her first choice. Her first choice had abandoned her at the altar. Anger sparked in her belly. How dare he press the issue—inadvertently toying with her feelings—when he himself had no interest in her? “And who I choose to wed is no business of yours. Not any longer,” she added sharply.
He stiffened, pushing to his feet and pacing away from her. “The truth is that you are afraid to feel.”
She snorted. “You’re hardly one to talk, Mr. I-Don’t-Believe-in-Love.”
He spun back toward her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She shot to her feet, her sketch pad tumbling to the floor. “Only that if anyone here is afraid to feel, it’s you.”
He paced toward her. “You know what I think?”
She looked skyward. “I’m certain you’re about to enlighten me whether I’m interested or not.”
“I think you make copies because you like to remove yourself from life.”
Her mouth fell open, hot indignation stirring in her breast. “What?”
“What else would you call it? Putting a layer between you and the real thing.”
Her temper flared. “It’s a learning technique, you idiot!”
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I think that’s the same reason you are marrying Old Eddie, because you know he’ll never make you feel anything here.” He pounded a fist against his chest. “You aren’t willing to take the risk and wait for a man who will appreciate you the way you deserve.”
“Oh, please.” She huffed a mirthless laugh to hide the pain welling in her chest. “Where do you expect me to find such a man? We were betrothed, for heaven’s sake, and you didn’t ever even want to kiss me.”
A beat. And then. “I wanted to kiss you the other night.”
“Actually,” she retorted, “I kissed you.”
“I wanted it.” He stared back at her with those deep blue eyes. An electric charge arced through the air between them. “I want you now.”
Physical longing panged through her. She stepped closer. “What is stopping you from taking what you want?”
His beautiful eyes widened and he cursed and came for her, as if his reservoir of self-control had finally overflowed. Then he was upon her, sweeping her into a strong, possessive hold, his mouth taking hers with a decisiveness that made her feel as though her legs were floating away. His kiss was seeking and hungry, practically begging her not to deny him. As if she had any intention of turning him away. She’d fantasized about exactly this for years.
He brushed his lips against hers, nipped the corners, his tongue pressing at the seam of her mouth, demanding entry, as though he’d been starved for this moment. She parted her lips on a sigh, intoxicated to be the target of the powerful male vigor pouring off him. He took possession of her mouth without an ounce of gentleness, letting her feel the full force of his unrestrained desire. His tongue tangled with hers, all warmth and silky pleasure, stroking, claiming, until it felt like the gallery was spinning around her.
And then, too soon, it was over. He pressed one last kiss against her lips, this one so tender it made her heart ache, and set his warm forehead against hers. Both her body and mind reeled from the riot of sensation he’d incited inside her. As much as she’d dreamt of and imagined this moment, none of it compared to the reality of being in his arms.
He was breathing deeply and she could feel his heart pounding fast and hard in his chest from where they were practically glued together, chest to chest, hip to hip. The hard length of his arousal pressed against her belly, inciting strange needy tremors in her stomach and thighs. His member did not feel anything like the one in the drawing. The Young Man’s appeared soft and insignificant, while Sparrow’s felt daunting and full of promise. He shifted so that he no longer pressed against her down there. “Well?” he said. “Does that convince you?”
She tried hard to string words together in a comprehensible way. “Was that a pity kiss?”
He laughed, a small, amused exhalation. “Did it feel like one?”
“I couldn’t say.” The words were shaky. “I’ve never been kissed before. Except at my own initiation.”
“You have now. And I assure you, pity is the last thing on my mind when you are in
my arms.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know how to respond to that because she didn’t quite take his meaning. What had he intended to convey? That he wanted her for himself? That this was a passing amusement? She didn’t dare ask. He hadn’t wanted to marry her five years ago. She would not humiliate herself again by asking directly if he’d changed his mind.
He released her. “Sophie will be along at any moment.” His voice was even. “It would not do for her to find us all tangled up with each other.”
“Do you truly believe I am a copyist because I fear drawing a live subject?” If only he knew that she’d been secretly drawing him.
He exhaled. “I don’t know what I meant. Only that you shouldn’t settle for half measures. Not in your life and certainly not in your art.”
“Then why don’t you pose for me?”
He frowned. “Me?”
“Yes, you said I should use a live subject.”
“Surely you’re jesting.” He gestured in the direction of Young Man in Repose hanging on the gallery wall in all of his unabashed nakedness. “You cannot seriously be asking me to pose like that?”
She bit back a smile. “Whyever not? You are the one who said I fear painting a real live subject.”
“It’s indecent and you know it.”
“You are hardly the conventional type.”
“When it comes to stripping down in the presence of a lady, an unmarried one at that, I most certainly am.”
“Hmmm.” She bent to pick up her sketch pad and red chalk and retook a seat on the stool they’d brought with them. Trying to steady her fingers, which shook from the aftereffects of that kiss, like the tremors after an earthquake, she resumed shading in the Young Man’s unimpressive private parts. “And you said I was afraid.”
“That is hardly the same.” She detected the note of frustration in his voice.
Just then, Sophie wandered back in, and Sparrow abruptly excused himself and didn’t return until it was time to escort them home.
—
They returned the following day, hoping to find Titus Bean keeping to his usual schedule of visiting the British Museum every Monday and Wednesday afternoon.
Escorting Emilia up the stairs, Sparrow tried not to notice how fresh and lovely she smelled, like a combination of apples and fresh flowers, or how perfectly tapered her delicate fingers appeared as they lay lightly on his arm. He didn’t know what to make of recent developments between them. They’d kissed twice; the first time had taken him by surprise, the second time he’d eagerly anticipated the act.
Kissing her had been a singular experience. His prick stirred when he recalled the spicy sweetness of her mouth. The tentative, but eager, motions of her tongue tangling with his had scalded his blood. It was beyond wrong—he had nothing to offer her—but having Emilia in his arms felt decidedly right.
However, he’d been wrong to enjoy any liberties with her when there was no hope of a future between them. She was honest and pure in her every reaction, brimming with an inner joy and enthusiasm for life that had deserted him long ago. She needed a young man who would help that special luminosity shine ever more brightly, a man who could not only appreciate her—as he did—but who could also love her unabashedly, which he was incapable of.
“Just a moment.” He drew her to a bench at the top of the stairs. “I need a word.”
“Yes?” She lowered herself on the bench, her eyes shining with interest. She wore a violet pelisse over her white day dress. It brought out the green in her eyes and flattered the incandescent quality of her skin.
“We have a bit of privacy since Sophie elected to remain in the carriage, although I confess I have no idea why she did.”
“I believe she’s sweet on your coachman.”
“Truly?”
“I cannot say for certain.” There was mischief in her expression. “But that seems the case.” She tugged on her pelisse, a snug, short jacket that defined her luscious curves with great specification. Curves that had been pressed against his aching body only yesterday in this very building.
He shook the thought from his head, determined to say what he must. “I think by now—”
At the same time, she said, “It’s warm in here.” She pulled off her spencer and set it on her lap and then gave him her full attention. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”
“Yes, as I was saying”—he cleared his throat, which suddenly felt terribly constricted—“you’ve no doubt parsed by now that I find you immensely appealing.”
A becoming flush of pink bloomed on her cheeks, but she said nothing and continued to regard him with an air of expectation.
She wasn’t making this easy. He went on. “You are a very comely young woman, and you should give yourself to a man who will appreciate you. Not a man like Eddie, who is too much of a fool to recognize your worth.”
She watched him carefully. “Do you have such a man in mind?”
He knew full well what she was really asking. “I cannot give you what you want.”
Her open expression became more guarded. “And what precisely is it that you think I want?”
“I cannot commit myself fully to any woman.” Marie had seen to that.
“You’ll have to marry to beget an heir.”
“And I will do my duty.” But he would never marry a woman who threatened his self-control the way Marie had. The way he feared Emilia might if he gave her the chance. He knew firsthand what happened when he lost control. “But I will not marry for love. It will be an arrangement that suits us both. Nothing more.”
“I have not asked anything of you.”
“No, of course not, and I do not mean to presume.” He swallowed. “I do care for you and that is why you should have a young man who will share your love of travel and your appreciation for life.”
“Do you not appreciate life?”
“No.” Emotion pierced his chest. “Not in the way you mean. And you deserve better than a jaded old reprobate like me.”
She pushed to her feet. “Yes, you are positively ancient.” Her voice sounded almost chipper. “We should really attempt to entrap Bean before he escapes.”
He grabbed her hand and wrapped his clumsy mitt around her delicate fingers. “Promise me at least, that you will consider what I have said about Worsely. You deserve so much more.”
“Yes.” Her hand slipped away. “I do.”
He rose and followed her, feeling relieved that she didn’t seem the least bit ruffled to learn he could never marry her. However, if he was to be honest with himself, he was a bit disappointed, too. Perhaps the kisses had just been experimentation on her part and nothing more. They entered a second-floor gallery to find Titus Bean perusing a selection of exquisite engravings.
“Have you decided which one to steal yet?” Emilia asked, laying her spencer on a bench in the center of the space.
“What a lovely greeting.” Bean turned at the sound of her voice, a sour expression on his little verminlike face. “Miss St. George. I wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but then I would be lying.”
“And we know how much you hate to lie,” she returned.
Bean’s sarcastic gaze landed on Sparrow. “I see you’ve brought your guard dog.”
“That’s Viscount Vale to you.” Sparrow stepped toward him. “I strongly suggest you keep a courteous tongue in that mouth unless you’d care to discover whether I attack when aggravated.”
Bean put his hands up in front of him. “Easy now, killer. I meant no disrespect to Miss St. George.”
“Never mind about that.” Emilia gave an impatient wave of her hand. “Do you know a man named Jerome Onslow?”
A flush added some color to Bean’s pasty complexion. “Why do you think I would know him?”
Emilia tilted her head. “Because he’s a lying cheat like you.”
“Now who’s being discourteous?” He ran a nervous hand over stringy, dirty-blond hair that made the weasel appear to be in perpetual need of a good scrub
bing. “What if I do know Mr. Onslow?”
“Cut rope.” Sparrow said. “We know you recommended your crooked friend to the Duke of Sunderford.”
Interest lit Bean’s droopy eyes. “And so what if I did?”
“He purchased a fake on Sunderford’s behalf and likely pocketed the coin.”
“Sound familiar?” Emilia crossed her arms. “I seem to recall a very similar occurrence at the Walden Collection.”
Bean licked his thin lips. “If you insist on making specious accusations and tarnishing my good name, I see no reason to continue this conversation.”
Emilia snorted in amusement. “Your good name.”
“Hold up,” Sparrow said. “We don’t have any interest in what you may or may not have done at the Walden Collection.”
Emilia’s eyes widened. “We don’t?”
Bean regarded him suspiciously. “You don’t?”
“No, we want to track down your friend—”
“He’s no friend,” Bean interjected. “Merely a business associate.”
“Even better. Someone stole a copy out of Miss St. George’s house and passed it off as the original to this curator you recommended to Sunderford.”
“Are you going to accuse me of those crimes in addition to the attempt on Miss St. George’s life?”
“Not at all. We want your help in getting to the bottom of this.”
“We do?” Emilia stared at him. “Are you daft? Mr. Bean is a thief in addition to being a weasel.”
Bean had the audacity to appear outraged. “I take offense to that.”
“Nonetheless,” Sparrow continued, “Mr. Bean might see his way into helping us infiltrate the metropolis’s art forgery scene.”
Now it was Bean’s turn to stare at him. “And why would I do that?”
“For a little coin.”
Avarice gleamed in the man’s eyes. “Well, of course, it would be my pleasure to help.”
Emilia looked at Sparrow. “How do you know he’s not going to rob you blind?”
Sparrow kept his hard gaze on the other man. “Mr. Bean should know I am not a man to be trifled with. If I have to hunt him to the ends of the earth, I will do so. I have done it before to make a man pay for crossing me, and I will do it again, if necessary, with Mr. Bean.”
