Page 19 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

A rough thread of amusement entered his tone. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she said, laying a fine stroke where light met shadow. “Though I am certain there is another man beneath the one you choose to show here.”

“You can deduce all that from painting me?”

“Art reveals what a subject labors to conceal; it is a peek into the soul,” she answered softly. “I want more.”

He said nothing. The silence felt like a hand laid lightly at the back of her neck, warm and attentive. The steady stroke of his hand continued, measured and merciless. She lost all sense of modesty, of fright, of anything except the rightness of the line. She shifted closer, not to him but to the truth of him on the canvas, catching the insolence in the tilt of his head, the intent in his eyes, the heat low in his belly that she could almost feel across the air.

Time thinned until the first study took shape. Light and shadow held him, irreverent and wicked, a man made for sin and practiced in bestowing it. She paused at last to breathe and to look, really look, at what her hand had done.

A knock sounded. She rubbed the nape of her neck. The earl set himself to rights; in a few moments, all his sharp sensuality was concealed, and he appeared again the well-dressed gentleman.

“Come in.”

Rebecca entered, her gaze flicking between them. “It has been over three hours.”

Startled, Darcy glanced at the mantel clock. Nearly two in the morning. Good heavens. She had been so thoroughly absorbed in bringing him to life upon the canvas that she had lost all sense of time. Her attention returned to the earl, and almost against her will, dipped to the front of his trousers. His…cock was no longer hard.

Had it been difficult to sustain his arousal for so many hours while she painted him? Was that why, from time to time, he had stroked himself, coaxing his body back to readiness whenever it began to flag? There was something almost astonishing in the discipline required to submit himself to such prolonged arousal merely so she might capture him upon canvas.

Rebecca crossed to the easel, looked, and drew in a breath. “Good heavens,” Rebecca breathed. “This is extraordinary. I have never seen anything so vivid or so carnal.”

The earl came to stand beside her and considered the canvas. Most of his face lay in shadow; what the eye found was the sinful creature she had seen in him, rendered without apology.

“How talented you are, Red,” he said softly, as if tasting something rare.

“Does that mean I am hired?”

“You are hired,” Madam Rebecca said, clearly delighted.

Darcy cleared her throat gently. “Will this be counted among the eight commissioned pieces?”

Rebecca’s smile deepened. “No, my dear. Tonight was merely your introduction.”

“Then this study belongs to me,” Darcy said softly. “Should either Madam Rebecca or my lord wish to acquire it, I shall consider an offer.”

Rebecca laughed, the sound rich with amusement. “Oh, I do like you.”

Darcy felt the instant Lord Raine decided she had met whatever measure he had set. The idle amusement in his gaze sharpened into something like genuine interest, and the notion that such a man might find her captivating was, quite inexplicably, terrifying.

CHAPTER 8

Heat rushed into Darcy’s face, and her heart gave a treacherous flutter the instant her gaze collided with the Earl of Raine’s. Her sisters skipped ahead along the path in Hyde Park, wholly enchanted by the sweep of green, the glitter of carriages, and the elegant parade of ladies and gentlemen in their finery. Darcy prayed he would canter past. He had not called since settling them in Russell Square four days ago.

She had not returned to Aphrodite either, though a letter had arrived from Madam Rebecca with a neat contract and the promise that a discreet attendant would always remain nearby while she painted. The sum of one hundred pounds had also been enclosed, for the earl had purchased the study she made of him. Darcy had slipped the sum into her valise, taken it out three separate times to count, and each time replaced it with a throb of disbelief.

One hundred pounds was a fortune, and it made everything all the more real. She would use her talent to secure a future for herself and her sisters. She could do it, and more than that, she would. She tore her gaze from the earl, forcing herself to look away and not dwell on the sharp jolt in her chest the moment her eyes found him. Because the earl had shown no intention of associating with them publicly, Darcy had expected him to pass them by. Her heart pinched, but she reminded herself not to expect anything of him. He had already shown great kindness by providing them a roof; he was not obliged to offer his company or to bolster their standing within society.

To her shock, the earl drew his stallion to a measured halt at the edge of the promenade, the stallion tossing its head before settling beneath the light pressure of his hand. With the unstudied grace of a man entirely at home in a saddle, he swung down. A groom in discreet livery hurried forward to take the reins; the earl’s gloved hand brushed the animal’s neck in a brief, soothing stroke. He looked impossibly correct in a dark riding coat, buff breeches, and gleaming Hessians, the pale light finding the blue in his eyes and turning it keen.

Darcy dropped into a curtsy. He lowered his head in return, the barest inclination.

Around them, the promenade shifted. A lady in dove-gray paused to glance back; a pair of young bucks slowed their strut to whisper and grin. Gossip and speculation traveled quickly in London.

“Mrs. Whitley,” he said. “Good afternoon.”

“My lord.” Darcy’s voice was steady, though her pulse was not, and her face heated.