Page 5 of My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman

“I…ah…”

He knew the exact moment his guest saw the state of his trousers, as Irving sucked in a breath. Yet instead of moving away, of putting distance between them with a laugh or cutting remark as any sane lord would, Joseph stood paralyzed as his cock grew impossibly harder.

“You picked up my favorite sketchbook,” said Irving lazily, a faint grin lifting his lips. “Further along, I introduce accessories. Different sized dildos mainly. But also a riding crop, and an adorable set of pearl-encrusted nipple clamps. The ladies are quite taken by such things, but why should they have all the fun? Gentlemen should be free to beg for such pleasures as well, I say. And have their wishes granted.”

Oh no. He was going to come. Ruin his trousers like some green lad, not because of a firm touch or tight quim or avid mouth, but bloody words. Words! And yet he couldn’t send Irving away. Not when Susanna wanted this portrait so much, and he wanted to please her.

“I have to leave,” Joseph said abruptly. “A meeting at the docks. But I shall engage your services for Lady Fenton’s portrait. Can you return in the morning? We’ll agree on a sitting fee, and you can get underway. Excellent. Good day.”

Without even waiting for a reply, he nudged Irving out of the way and fled the drawing room.

An evening’s worth of time and space, perhaps a session of self-pleasure, and these ridiculous feelings would pass. Yes, that was it. He just needed some decent brandy and an overdue tension release. Then control would return, he would be a proper English peer attracted only to women, and everything would be fine.

Surely.

Chapter 2

Today he would truly earn his pay.

Shivering a little despite the pleasantly fire-warmed temperature of the cleared-out music room, Clayton leaned down to again smooth the length of exquisite blue satin covering the square, low daybed that Lady Fenton had decided she wanted to pose on. The room was small, situated to the rear of the Fenton townhouse, however it had windows on two walls so plenty of natural light, and a lovely outlook on a walled garden. An ideal place to create art really, but for what the Fentons were paying him, he would have happily painted in a dank alley or perched in a henhouse.

Fifty guineas! Even now he could scarcely believe they’d offered such a sum for a portrait. That put him in the realm of the late masters like Thomas Gainsborough or Sir Joshua Reynolds, perhaps even the Prince Regent’s current favorite, Thomas Lawrence. And not just offered but actually paid; half his bounty sat in a leather drawstring purse in his satchel, with the rest due on completion. The generosity also meant that he’d been able to burn without qualm a letter from his father promising funds if he returned to Cambridge. While it was true that money didn’t buy happiness, it did buy choice and freedom, and bloody hell, that was almost as good.

Equal to his joy at impending financial ease, though: soon, oh so soon, he would see Susanna Fenton naked. The lady had stunned him yesterday with both her knowledge and rosy-cheeked admiration of his work, although by the look on Joseph Fenton’s face, there had been more than one stunned man in the parlor. As for later, when he’d watched the baron flicking through sketches of fucking and a gentleman self-pleasuring with true absorption and a hard cock…well. How very intriguing. Because it seemed that the Fentons might not be nearly as stuffy as the faces they presented to the ton, and the wicked, contrary part of him wanted to prod and tease and coax until he discovered exactly where their boundaries in propriety really were.

“Mr. Irving? Are you ready for me?”

Oh darling, you have no idea.

Clayton turned and smiled at Lady Fenton, who hovered in the doorway wearing a heavy brocade dressing gown. “I am indeed, madam. Come on in.”

“No easel?” she said, her eyes wide as she entered the room.

“Not today,” he replied. “Today is for preliminary sketches, trying out different poses, deciding how you want to be portrayed on canvas. I can paint whatever you wish, really. Anything from a naughty angel to an Amazonian warrior to a Shakespearean wood nymph.”

The baroness laughed as she perched awkwardly on the daybed. “Oh my.”

“Shall we get started, then?”

“In just a moment. Fenton will be joining us. He would like to, um, observe.”

Clayton almost groaned as he knelt to retrieve his charcoal and pencils from his satchel. The unobtainable woman of his dreams naked in front of him would be torment enough, but her brooding, broad-shouldered husband who indeed possessed one hell of a bulge between his legs in the room as well? Pure torture. “Of course.”

“How long have you been painting your, ah, special portraits?”

“Several years now,” he replied, swiftly sharpening his favorite pencil with a fine razor blade. “There is something marvelous about the human form. Endlessly fascinating shapes, curves, and colors for one thing, but what I enjoy most is revealing my subject’s inner self. Nakedness is a true equalizer. Without clothes, jewels, and other trappings, the soul shines through. Needs. Desires. Hopes and dreams….”

Lady Fenton sat forward on the daybed, twisting her dressing gown belt around one finger. “Oh, don’t stop.”

This woman’s innocent carnality would be the death of him. “Careful what you wish for, my lady. I can ramble for hours.”

“I don’t mind. I find you…er, the topic, fascinating.”

He tilted his head and stared at the baroness, far longer than was polite, until she quivered and bowed her head, showing a glimpse of slender, vulnerable neck made to be sucked and bitten. Preferably as he took her hard from behind. Would she be a lady who sighed and whimpered as she climaxed? Or one who screamed her pleasure?

“Forgive my tardiness,” said a voice from the doorway, and relieved at the interruption to those particular wayward thoughts, Clayton turned and inclined his head at Lord Fenton.

“It is of no matter, my lord.”