What A Lord Wants

by Harrington, Anna

  Today, she was back in stays and breeches only because he would have been painting her left arm, with no need of the sheet, had the sun been shining.

  She looked at the softly swirling lines on the page that resembled currents in a stream. “What are you drawing?”

  “A fruit bowl.”

  She arched a brow. “Perhaps you should rethink any plans you might have of becoming an artist, as well.”

  He laughed. Then, with his concentration seeming not to leave the page, he confessed quietly, “My family certainly thought so.”

  “Impossible. You’re famous and brilliant. You’re—” As she waved her hand to indicate the studio and all it represented of his masterful reputation as an artist, she froze, suddenly remembering his other reputation.

  “Vincenzo,” he finished wryly for her. “And all that name represents.”

  “Yes.” Although now that she’d come to know the man so well, she was beginning to doubt the rumors that swirled around him. “But surely, they’re proud of you.”

  “They never wanted me to be an artist in the first place. Oh, dabbling in oils would have been a fine enough hobby, as far as they were concerned, but they had no idea when I moved to Italy that I’d dedicated my life to it,” he continued. “I can’t imagine what they would think of me now.”

  “They don’t know?”

  “My brother and sister-in-law died two and a half years ago, my father ten years before that.” He said that so casually that her heart skipped with surprise. “And before that, I hid most of my work from them. They had no idea how much it meant to me. How much it still means.”

  Grief for him swelled inside her. His art was his life. How awful it must have been for him to have to hide who he truly was.

  She placed her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need.” His muscle tensed beneath her fingers, but he didn’t shrug her hand away. “Had they known, it would have only caused even more problems between us. They certainly wouldn’t have tolerated my lifestyle. They would have expected me to give it up, and I would have refused.”

  “But it’s not true, is it? You’re nothing like the man the rumors claim you are.”

  “I used to be. And worse.” He glanced at her, in that way he had of studying her when he was sketching her. Odd that. Because he wasn’t sketching her. As far as Eve could tell, he was drawing ocean waves. “Aren’t you afraid to be alone with a man of my notoriety?”

  “You’re not the only one with a tainted reputation,” she murmured, turning her attention to the page…and to whatever it was that he was drawing.

  “Which is why we’re so perfect together.” He smudged the lines with his thumb. His voice turned somber, and he didn’t lift his gaze to look at her. “We’re reaching the end of what I can paint of you from beneath a sheet, you know that.”

  Deflated, she sat back, letting her hand fall away. She’d managed to delay it, yet it was inevitable. Soon, she would have to stop coming to the studio, and he would replace her.

  “We won’t be able to avoid complete nudity then.” Thank goodness he didn’t look up at her as he said that. “Or at least, uncovering the most intimate parts of you in turn.”

  She bit her bottom lip. She knew how much this painting meant to him, and she’d been racking her brain trying to come up with ways for him to finish it without her…or at least, without all of her. “I’ve been thinking about that, actually.”

  Then he did look at her, surprised, before turning back to the drawing. “Oh?”

  “We could hire someone for those parts.”

  “I have hired someone.”

  “Someone else. You know…like a decoy.”

  His hand stilled on the paper, all of him freezing for a beat as her words hit him. Then a slow smile curled at his lips. “So we’re duck hunting, are we?”

  She crossed her arms and arched a brow. “I’d set the hounds on you right now.”

  He laughed, then shook his head. “Hiring another model wouldn’t work. It would be like putting the head of a china doll on the body of a wooden soldier. The parts are all there, but trust me,” he half-purred as he raked a languid gaze over her, “it’s not at all the same.”

  “Why do you even need me for those parts?” she countered in a whisper, unable to speak any louder. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to look away from his eyes as they stared into hers. “I mean, surely you’ve seen enough women…without clothes…” She nervously cleared her throat, unable to read his thoughts in his gaze. “You don’t need my specific parts. You could paint from memory, I should think.”

  He held up the sketchbook, showing her the drawing. “Your hair.”

  She stared at it, and what she’d thought were trickles of water turned into waves before her eyes. Then into waves of hair, but only a few wavy curls, drawn in such minutia that it covered most of the page. So detailed that she never would have been able to figure it out on her own, but now she saw it as plain as day.

  “Your hair, Eve.” He set the book down and reached slowly for one of her curls, rubbing it between his finger and thumb. “As unique as every other part of you, all of it coming together to form a complete and beautiful whole. If I didn’t paint all of you, the painting would feel disjointed. Wrong. The person gazing at it might never be able to put words to why it feels off, but it will.”

  Despite the fresh guilt that swam inside her, she knew he was wrong. While he couldn’t finish it with her, he would finish it eventually. He was Vincenzo, after all, and despite what he was telling her, he possessed the skill and talent to do just that. And it would be brilliant.

  But he would be finishing it without her.

  As if sensing her disappointment, he combed his fingers reassuringly through her hair. No simple touch now, but a lingering caress that spiraled a feminine yearning inside her.

  “This painting is the most important work of my career. It deserves to be whole.” He murmured, his hand cupping her cheek, “It deserves you.”

  She wasn’t certain when she knew that he was going to kiss her, whether it was at the flicker in his dark eyes as his gaze fell longingly to her mouth or when he held her face in the protection of his palm. Whether it was the raspy hum of his deep voice or when his warm breath tickled against her lips. But she knew he would, just as she inexplicably knew he would taste of linseed oil and pigment, of spice and wine…of freedom.

  His mouth moved gently against hers yet with an insistence that made her tremble. As if he were kissing her to prove to himself that she was warm and alive, that she was real and not just a figure on his canvas. To touch the woman his eyes had studied for so many weeks.

  “Eve,” he murmured against the corner of her mouth as he brushed his lips back and forth over hers. Not a kiss of burning desire, but one of tender cajoling. He was seeking the woman inside her through his kiss, and Eve felt herself awaken beneath it, even as she felt him tremble when his hands rose up to cup her face between them and hold her still as the kiss deepened.

  A yearning sigh escaped her, the only permission he needed. He traced the tip of his tongue over the seam of her lips, entreating her to capitulate.

  When she opened to him, her sigh became a low moan as he slipped inside to claim all of the kiss. A tingle spread slowly through her and made her lightheaded as his tongue circled hers. Then he took her bottom lip between his and sucked.

  She gasped at the unfamiliar kiss.

  But he stroked his knuckles over her cheek to reassure her, then caressed down her neck. He paused only to rest his thumb on the hollow at the base of her throat and feel her racing pulse before brushing his fingers back and forth across the ridge of her collarbone. As if he didn’t dare stray lower to her breasts, despite the way her nipples puckered into aching points beneath the corset in longing to be touched.

  She’d been kissed before by young men in stolen moments at soirees and especially by Burton Williams when he’d courted her. But those kisses had been nothing lik
e this. Never with such skill, never with such assurance that she would enjoy it as much as he did. None of the fumbling that Burton had done, as if he didn’t know where to put his hands or his lips.

  But Dom certainly knew, and he had her yearning for more. More kisses, more touches—

  More everything.

  When she shyly took his lip between hers, to suck at it the way he’d done to hers, a low groan sounded from the back of his throat. His restraint snapped. He shoved his hands deep into her hair and pulled her against him, stealing her breath away as his mouth took firm possession of hers.

  Eve’s heart soared. This kiss was all she’d imagined it would be…her softness against his hardness, the heat of his body surrounding hers and warming her all the way through. She felt feminine and alive, and as beautiful as he claimed she was.

  To make a man like Domenico want to kiss her and caress her—the heady sensation overwhelmed her, and she melted bonelessly in his arms.

  He shifted on the chaise to bring her onto his lap. Perched across his thighs in her breeches, she scandalously straddled him. All of her trembled as she opened her eyes and gazed down into his face. The look of desire she saw there pierced her so fiercely that she shuddered beneath the heat of it.

  She didn’t know what to do, what he wanted from her…but the urge to kiss him again was irresistible. So she leaned down, her long hair falling around his face as she once more took his bottom lip between hers and sucked. But this time, not at all tentatively.

  His hands tightened on her hips, but otherwise he sat perfectly still and let her explore him. He let her mouth tease at his and her tongue lick deep inside. Let her fingers caress over the strong lines of his face, along his jaw and outer curl of his ear, then down his scandalously bare neck to the collar of his workman’s shirt. And lower still.

  She hesitated at the buttons of his waistcoat, not knowing how much more she should explore. Or where the line lay that she simply didn’t dare cross.

  But he reached up to undo the buttons for her. Then he took her hand and shoved it inside his shirt, to press it there to the warmth of his bare chest.

  “When you were pretending to sketch me, you were looking at me,” he said in a husky drawl. “Don’t look now—touch. Touch everywhere you want.”

  Her eyes fixed on his, never straying even when her fingertips curled into his chest, even when his breath grew ragged. She slowly moved her hand over him…warm skin over hard muscle, a dusting of coarse hair, and all of it punctuated by his pounding heartbeat beneath that raced with hers.

  When her fingertip grazed his flat nipple, he sucked in a mouthful of air between clenched teeth. An aching thrill sped through her that made her do it again.

  Urged on by the headiness of his reaction, she pulled his clothes open to bear him to her as far as his shirt allowed. Her hand grazed over his bare neck, his collarbone, the irresistible hollow between…She placed her mouth there, and his pulse fluttered deliciously against her lips.

  But it wasn’t enough. She wanted more.

  Unable to resist, she closed her eyes. And licked.

  She barely had time to register the masculine taste of him on her tongue before his lips were on hers again, giving her fervent, open-mouthed kisses. A low moan—it took her several seconds before she realized that the sound had come from her own lips.

  He broke the kiss and slid his mouth across her cheek to her ear. “Dear God, you’re beautiful.”

  “So are you,” she breathed, running her hands through his hair. The thick dark curls were just as silky as she’d always imagined. Now that she had permission to touch them, she couldn’t make herself stop.

  His low laugh rumbled into her as his mouth claimed her throat, sucking and nipping in turns at the tender flesh. “But you’re also warm and sweet.”

  A wide smile crossed her face as she placed a kiss to his temple. “So are you.”

  “And deliciously soft.”

  Her turn to laugh then, because nothing about him was soft. But before she could find a reply, his hands swept up her sides to cup her breasts.

  Her breath hitched, then eased out in a long sigh of pleasure as he caressed her through the stiff stays.

  Oh, Burton Williams had never done this! That the first man to touch her like this was Dom filled her with joy.

  She arched into him, to press herself fully into his palms. The heat of his hands seeped through the soft material and warmed her, and her breasts grew heavy as the sensation of feminine awakening rushed through her. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to bear herself to him and those miraculous hands, to that seeking mouth that even now kissed lightly over the tops of her breasts, and to the tension she felt coiling inside him. The same tension that had begun to twist inside her own belly. And lower.

  She placed his hand on the front tie of her corset, giving permission for him to undress her.

  Instead, he stilled.

  She sat back, far enough to cast a confused stare down at him as she remained straddled over his thighs. His eyes flickered with something dark and dangerous that she couldn’t quite place but that sent an adventurous thrill through her unlike any she’d ever known.

  She whispered, “Dom?”

  He didn’t move, just stared at his hand as it rested between her breasts, his fingers on the tie.

  “It’s all right,” she breathed out, so softly that there was barely any sound. “You can…if you’d like.”

  A groan of frustration rose from the back of his throat. Squeezing his eyes shut, he grabbed her by the shoulders and held her still. Eve couldn’t tell if he wanted to let her go, or pull her toward him so that he could kiss her again.

  “I can’t,” he rasped out. “I should never have let it go this far.”

  She trembled, wanting nothing more than to lower herself against his chest and become lost in his arms. “Because of the painting?”

  A curt nod, as if her very presence pained him.

  “But you want me nude.”

  A laugh tore from him, and he muttered, “You have no idea how much.”

  Oh, she had a pretty good idea. Even now she felt the proof of it pressing against her inner thigh.

  He smoothed her hair back over her shoulders, then cupped her face. When he brought her head down to him, she held her breath in anticipation of another heated, open-mouthed kiss, only for a pang of disappointment to strike hollowly in her chest when he placed his lips chastely on her forehead.

  The notorious artist whose kisses and touches she desired had suddenly turned into a gentleman. But she wanted her rakehell back.

  “A painter can look all he wants,” he murmured against her temple. “But I have no right to touch, no matter how much I want to. That would ruin everything.”

  Her disappointment melted into a burning ache. “You want…to touch me?”

  He laughed darkly, then pulled her into his arms to hold her pressed against him for only a fleeting second. His hand shoved deep into her hair to keep her head close enough that he could murmur into her ear. “Wrong lesson, Eve.”

  Then he set her away, putting her off his lap and onto her bare feet in front of him.

  Not moving as he sat sprawled on the longue, he silently returned her gaze and let her look at how deliciously disheveled he was, with his opened waistcoat and shirt revealing his chest, his hair mussed from her fingers, and his manhood shamelessly bulging against his trousers.

  A feminine craving stirred unbidden between her legs. It took all the resolve she could muster not to crawl back on top of him.

  Outside, the bell of the parish church broke through the gray day and slowly tolled the hour. Four, five…

  Her hand flew to her mouth, which was still hot and wet from his kisses. Tonight’s ball. Heavens, she’d completely forgotten!

  “Oh no—I’m late!”

  Panicked, her fear of Mariah’s wrath greater than her desire to keep kissing him—for now—she raced behind the screen and yanked on her d
ress, not taking the time to properly button it before pulling on her coat. Her hair tangled, and her shaking fingers weren’t helping to straighten it.

  Neither was Dom as he called out to her, alarmed at her behavior.

  “I’m late,” she repeated, jumping on one foot out from behind the screen as she slipped on her shoes.

  Mariah was going to kill her! Then breathe life into her and kill her again if her sister discovered where she’d been and what she’d been doing during the past few weeks.

  She rushed past him toward the door, her hands fumbling as she buttoned up her coat, all the way to her neck to hide her unkempt clothes beneath.

  “Eve?” He followed after her, concern thick in his voice.

  “I should have been home an hour ago.”

  That was the only explanation she could give, and all she had time for. Except—

  She halted in the middle of the wicket, half-in and half-out, to look back at him. Her breath came fast, and the warm blood that coursed through her gave her courage.

  “When we’re done with the painting, when I’m no longer your model,” she rushed out breathlessly, “I want you to kiss me again.” Say yes, oh dear God, please say yes! “Will you?”

  He hesitated in somber indecision. Then he rasped out, as if agreeing cost him a great deal, “When you’re no longer connected to my art.”

  With delight pulsing through her, she was gone, running down the alley as fast as she could.

  Chapter 8

  An hour later, Dom stared at the half-finished painting of Eve. He could still taste the sweet flavor of her on his lips.

  Good God. What insanity had overcome him to make him kiss her like that?

  Worse, he hadn’t wanted to stop. He’d wanted that small taste of her that he’d gained from her kisses, so he’d let himself have it. But he’d also wanted everything else that she’d so unashamedly offered. It had taken all his restraint not to do exactly as she asked, untie the corset, and peel it away.