Page 3 of My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman

Joseph folded his newspaper precisely in half and set it beside his empty breakfast plate. “I understand. One does not renege on an arrangement with Lady Portia. I can only imagine the storm that hellion would unleash,” he finished, actually smiling.

He admired Lady Portia? Aggravating, but unsurprising, perhaps. The older woman was beautiful and accomplished, wellborn and impeccably connected. Yet she was so forceful, a lady who not only commanded and sent most of the ton scurrying for cover when she approached, but seemingly quite content to remain a childless spinster.

Everything I’m not.

Perhaps they were lovers. Perhaps all those days and nights Joseph claimed he was at the docks, or his club, or meeting with lawyers or bankers, he was bedding Pistol Portia, as so many of society called her. Damn them.

“Quite,” said Susanna, taking a bracing breath. “Do you wish me to cancel the meeting? I can, of course, send Mr. Irving away. Erotic portraits are unconventional and rather scandalous. But Lady Portia did recommend him so highly…”

“That would be impolite,” replied Joseph at last. “However I think I should remain here for the afternoon to greet him also. Let me know when he arrives. Until then, Susanna.”

And with that, her husband got to his feet, bowed, and retreated from the room.

Heart racing with anticipation, Susanna stared at her untouched plate of rapidly cooling food. Joseph never changed his schedule. And now he’d decided to stay home and receive London’s most infamous painter. Perhaps all wasn’t lost.

Mr. Clayton Irving might not know it, but he would be the catalyst for change in the Fenton marriage.

One way or another.

* * *

Oh, how the wealthy lived.

Stepping out of the traveling carriage kindly loaned to him for the journey by Lady Portia, Clayton glanced uneasily around St. James’s Square. Everything about the place screamed luxury and exclusivity, from the circular expanse of emerald lawn in the middle with a statue of King William III on horseback, to the sense of enclosure, a haven from the rest of London. The square was close to Carlton House, and the various branches of the military and government, clearly why the loftiest of people chose to make their home here. Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary, lived at number 18. At number 31, the sprawling red brick grandeur of Norfolk House was entirely fit for a duke. In the past there had been a plethora of dukes and earls, even a prime minister.

The artist in him could only admire the eclectic mix of old and new, red brick and cream stone, sculpted columns and wrought iron railings, and houses that ranged from three bays to eleven bays wide. And yet he felt so out of place and conspicuous, standing on the narrow footpath with several large leather satchels of sketchbooks slung over his shoulders and brown paper-covered portraits to showcase his skill in oil under each arm. Father’s fortune would be a drop in the bucket compared to those who resided here. Not that it mattered since he’d been cut off, but never had he felt more like the quintessential starving painter. Bloody hell, he needed this commission for new paints and brushes, and to pay the rent and bills from his tailor and bootmaker which were all due.

Straightening his shoulders, Clayton lugged his supplies up the shallow front steps of the cream stone, three-story townhouse, leaning well forward so he could rap sharply on the polished brass knocker.

Seconds later the door opened, to reveal a silver-haired butler who gave him a surprisingly friendly smile. “Ah, Mr. Irving. Her ladyship awaits you in the drawing room. Do you require assistance carrying your paintings?”

Clayton almost smiled. Sure, they might be wrapped in brown paper secured with string, but accidents happened, and he didn’t want to be responsible for an elderly butler expiring at the sight of a just-fucked woman wearing nothing but an emerald necklace, a demi-mask, and a sultry, satisfied smile. Or a leather-clad lady demonstrating her skill with a riding crop on her lover’s disobedient backside. His charcoal and pencil sketches of willing courtesans were even more explicit—pages and pages of languid eyes, kiss-swollen lips, taut nipples, and spread thighs. Sometimes he’d drawn the women pleasuring themselves and occasionally each other with fingers and dildos. “Thank you, but no. If you could direct me to the drawing room and Lady Fenton, I would be most grateful.”

“Of course, sir, right this way. His lordship is also waiting to meet with you.”

Clayton almost stumbled as he followed the butler across the marble-floored entrance hall. Christ. Both of them?

“Excellent,” he croaked, as his mouth dried in dread and anticipation.

“Just in here, sir,” said the butler, inclining his head as he held the door open.

The drawing room was blue. Not a cold, pale hue like Calamine, but a richer more vibrant shade, the color he would paint a perfect summer sky. Cushions, drapes and rugs, cream silk walls, and gilt accents around the paintings, several of them by the master of landscapes, John Constable. But the fabrics, hell. Never had he seen such lustrous embroidered satin cushions. As for the heavy velvet drapes, women across London would probably offer their firstborn even for a gown or pelisse made from them.

This was wealth. Modern wealth. And yet not gaudy, as new money could often be, but elegant and restrained. Much like the Fentons themselves.

“Mr. Irving. Welcome to our home.”

Clayton caught his breath as Susanna Fenton rose from a chaise and walked toward him, a polite smile on her face. Up close the petite beauty was even more enchanting than he’d realized. Brunette was such a lame word to describe the richness of her hair, like dark chocolate, and yet in the light it held a faint tint of mahogany also. Her eyes were so dark blue they almost appeared indigo. And her skin, the purest cream with a touch of rose at her cheeks. Christ, he positively itched to rip away her green gown, petticoats, chemise and stays so he could observe her fully. Discover the shape of her breasts, the color of her nipples in their natural state, and after he’d sucked them raw. The exact pink of her labia. If the curls between her legs were the same shade as her hair, lighter, darker, even black perhaps. The contrast of pearly cunt juice as it trickled from her center onto his demanding tongue…

“Mr. Irving?” she asked again, in a light, musical tone as she held out one slender hand.

Wake up, you damned fool!

Carefully setting down the wrapped paintings and satchels, Clayton curled his fingers around hers, then bowed over her hand. He couldn’t stop an uneven exhale as need pounded through him, and Lady Fenton’s hand trembled. “Do forgive me, my lady. I see a scene and immediately begin pondering the colors for my easel. I am indeed Clayton Irving, at your service.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her lips slightly parted, before flashing him a shy smile. “Oh, I understand. I do something similar when I see a bolt of fabric. What it might become, and who it might suit. If it could be enhanced by embroidery or gilt thread or left…ah…”

“Naked,” he said without thinking.