Page 4 of My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman

Lady Fenton coughed, but her eyes twinkled. “Unadorned, yes. Oh dear, I’m being terribly rude. Permit me to introduce my husband, Lord Fenton.”

Clayton’s heart thudded frantically as Joseph Fenton left his place by the nearest window and joined them. If the baroness was noon on a summer’s day, the baron could only be described as midnight in winter. Ebony hair and equally dark eyes. Several inches shorter than his own six feet in height, but with massive shoulders and chest, slashing black brows, and an air of utter aloofness. God. He would wager everything he owned that this attractive lord had a very thick cock. Lady Fenton might struggle to circle it with her delicate hands, but he would master that glorious erection as he fucked him hard and deep, break the man with harsh pleasure until he surrendered his inhibitions with a wild cry.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Irving,” said Lord Fenton, a rich hint of Irish brogue caressing the words, as he held out his hand.

As Clayton gripped it a jolt raced up his arm, but he forced himself to shake the baron’s hand rather than slide it under his jacket and shirt to see what those slightly callused fingertips felt like against his skin. “My lord,” he rasped.

Fenton’s gaze dropped, and he quickly pulled his hand away.

Damnation.

Clayton almost groaned. A few minutes into the meeting and he was behaving like a man ready for Bedlam. This commission could open all sorts of doors for him, and potentially settle his bills. He needed to concentrate on that, not on how much he wanted to fuck both the Fentons senseless. They were married and eminently respectable. Rumored to actually be faithful, so not interested in dalliance. Hell, there was a chance that Lady Portia had glossed over the truth with them regarding the actual type of portraits he did, and the couple were about to be shocked beyond belief.

He had to face the truth. Joseph and Susanna Fenton were just not meant to be his.

* * *

Meeting Clayton Irving in person had been a test to reassure himself that he had changed. No longer Joseph the poor Irish tailor, but Lord Fenton the wealthy English baron. Not the weak, confused sinner who lusted after men as well as women, but a proper, respectable husband with eyes only for his wife.

And he’d failed utterly.

Joseph stared at the drawing room floor, fiercely willing his pulse to slow, his palm to cease tingling, to regain some semblance of control. Bad enough he’d almost spoken like a damned Irishman instead of the Etonian blue blood he always tried to mimic to be accepted. But every part of him wanted to drop to his knees at the artist’s feet and beg to be allowed to please him with mouth, fingers, ass, whichever way he liked.

Which was ridiculous and dangerous. Irving wanted women, not men. That was well documented in every scandal sheet London possessed, and offering yourself to the wrong man was a swift way to get arrested, or even hanged. Besides, he didn’t want to be that wretched fool anymore. The fool in the shabby Dublin room who had willingly performed and submitted to those sordid, illegal acts for money, acts that had promised such ecstasy and yet delivered none. If Susanna, the sweet and pure sunshine of his life, ever discovered the way he had earned his ticket to London, she would be horrified. Disgusted. Probably cast him out. So every day he strived to be the perfect lordly spouse: polite, restrained, and courteous.

Even now, he could scarcely believe such a beautiful, kind-hearted woman had said yes to his proposal. The first time he’d met her at Lithgow Imports, her father’s business, he’d been nearly struck dumb. The same again on their wedding day, when she’d smiled and pledged her troth. But the nights…Christ Almighty. He tried to stay away, knowing how unworthy he was to be near her let alone inside her, but then his need for her floral-scented softness, her tight, hot little quim would become too great. His one saving grace was swiftness, not sullying her perfection with his rough hands, or burdening her with the possibility of a child with his bad blood.

And now he risked the entire new life he’d created, because he hadn’t been able to resist inviting temptation in the form of tall, muscled, golden-haired Clayton Irving into his home.

Say something, you damned Irish fool.

Joseph cleared his throat and raised his head to meet the other man’s emerald gaze. It was almost hard to look at him, he was so handsome. And knowing the artist had more talent in his little finger than he could ever hope to possess in any area, even with a barony, was both humbling and humiliating. “Perhaps we should take a look at your portfolio? I know my wife is eager to see examples of your work.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Irving, nodding. “I’ve brought my sketchbooks and two oil paintings. Before I do though…you are both aware my portraits are not, shall we say, conventional? I believe the popular term is scandalous.”

Susanna hopped from one foot to the other, her slipper heels unnaturally loud on the drawing room floor in the moment of silence. “Yes. We do. I mean…I know they are scandalous. And that is what I want. A scandalous portrait without my clothes on.”

Blinking in shock, Joseph glanced at his wife. She sounded so defiant. The Susanna he knew would never want such a thing, or speak like that. Yet the fact that she had, called to that other unnatural part of him, a bone-deep yearning to submit to the commands of his lover. That insisted he obey her wishes. “Of course, my dear.”

Irving closed his eyes briefly, then a half-smile appeared. “Well. Then allow me to set up. The paintings will be best viewed by the window for natural light, and I’ll spread out my sketchbooks on the chaise and table if that is agreeable.”

“Certainly,” said Susanna, twisting her fingers together.

Their guest worked quickly, expertly unwrapping two oil paintings and displaying them to catch the early afternoon sunlight from the tall, street-facing windows. Then he spread out perhaps a dozen sketchbooks of varying sizes along the embroidered chaise and low gilt-edged table. Susanna immediately crossed the room to view the paintings, and seconds later her fingers rose to cover her mouth, even as her other hand reached out and nearly touched the canvas. Hell. His wife was both scandalized and enraptured.

Swallowing hard, Joseph walked to the sketchbook collection and picked up the one closest to hand.

Christ Almighty.

Talented didn’t begin to describe Clayton Irving. The sketches were so lifelike, so vibrant and real, Joseph half expected the people in them to move. To turn their heads and tell him to get out of their room because they were busy. And they were all busy. A naked woman on a cushioned window seat with her fingers buried in her nether curls, her head thrown back as she climaxed. A well-dressed masked gentleman fucking a well-dressed masked lady spread across a desk in a library. An older man with his hands bound behind his head, lying on a disheveled bed with a woman’s quim hovering over his extended tongue, as though teasing him with the prize of licking up her honey. And then, oh God, then, a muscled young buck reclining on a chaise, his huge, thick erection in one hand, his smile challenging and eyes heavy-lidded with arousal, his curled finger beckoning.

Get on your knees and suck me down your throat, Joseph. Deeper. That’s it. Now use your tongue. Mmmm…

“Yes,” he whispered, his breath hitching as his cock strained against the confines of his trousers.

“Seen something you like?”

Irving’s voice was soft, yet it had the impact of a shout, and Joseph almost dropped the sketchbook. The other man stood behind him, not touching, but he could practically feel the heat emanating from his body, a slight puff of air on the side of his neck, and Joseph bit his lip to suppress a needy moan. Then, in the most inexplicable moment of his life, he turned around.