Page 26 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

She lowered her hand, acutely aware of the heat rising in her cheeks, though she fought to master it. “Fortunately,” she replied, striving for composure, “I possess sufficient good sense not to govern myself by the preferences of a charming libertine.”

He laughed, the sound low and rich, brushing over her senses like a caress she could not quite escape.

“There is no need to praise me so.”

“Praise?” she spluttered. “I intended no such thing.” She was entirely unwilling to admit the answering flicker of warmth in her chest.

“Is ‘charming” meant to be an insult?”

A provoking glint entered his gaze as he stepped closer still. Darcy lifted her chin in response. She would neither retreat nor behave like some fluttering miss overcome by nerves. She possessed resolve, and she would prove it. Why it mattered so greatly, she could not say. Yet the thought only steeled her further as Darcy held his gaze, her chin tipped upward in quiet, stubborn challenge. “Enlighten me, my lord. What, in your vast experience, does a kiss require?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I intend to render the painting exactly as Rebecca envisions it. I will not risk losing the commission because I failed to understand what she requires.”

“This commission matters greatly to you.”

Darcy’s eyes widened slightly. “Anyone obliged to work for her bread values the opportunity immensely, my lord.”

She almost winced at the edge in her tone, for it carried a quiet reproach, suggesting a man of his rank and privilege might never truly understand the needs and fears of those who were not born to wealth. Several beats of silence passed as he held her gaze, his own searching, as if trying to understand her.

“You can paint this without knowing passion. Not every kiss speaks of it,” he said at last. “Some offer comfort; others reveal the first stirrings of desire. Some are merely a quiet acknowledgment of another’s presence. But every kiss,” his gaze dipped meaningfully to her mouth, “should carry some measure of feeling.”

Darcy willed her expression to remain composed. “I see. Please continue.”

“Many women who visit Aphrodite for the first time,” he continued, “arrive with the sensibilities of the untouched but curious, wanting to break free of the mould others would cast them in. They look upon such paintings and see not vulgarity, but wonder. The promise of something more. This painting would be the slow unfolding of seduction. The sort that leads them, step by step, toward a carnal pleasure they cannot yet name but cannot help craving.”

“They do not leave Aphrodite untouched or quite so innocent,” Darcy murmured, a quiet sense of understanding unfolding within her. “They return to their beds and wonder what it is to be touched with care, with reverence, and with desire.”

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Indeed. They do not leave untouched or unmoved. They then allow their thoughts to turn to rakes and libertines, and the pleasures that might be discovered in their embrace.”

A silence stretched between them, taut and charged.

“It sounds dangerously persuasive,” Darcy said, though even those words scarcely conveyed the curiosity tightening through her chest.

“Have you ever been kissed, Red?”

Darcy said nothing. She could not. Her gaze betrayed her, dropping, traitorously, to his mouth. A strange heat unfurled low within her, sharp and startling in its intensity.

His lips curved, slow and knowing. “Perhaps the painting is not the only thing you wish to understand. I think you want me to kiss you.”

“What astonishing conceit,” she said softly, though the rebuke lacked conviction.

“Do you not?” he asked, stepping closer still.

Darcy should have stepped back. She did not. “I only wish to understand,” she managed, though her voice had lost its earlier steadiness.

His expression changed as she watched, the easy charm fading into something quieter, more intent. There was deliberation in his gaze now, and something else that made her breath catch, for he looked very much as though he desired to kiss her. How was it possible for him to convey so much with only a look?

“Understand what, Red?”

Darcy stared at him, at a loss for how to shape the words. It felt so difficult to admit to the quiet stirrings of temptation rising within her, as though giving them voice would make them far too real.

His mouth curved faintly. “Are you afraid to say it?”

She lifted her chin. “I am not.”

“Then tell me what you want.”