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“Sit.”

The softly murmured word cut through the tension that had laced her nerves tighter than a corset. Her gaze flew to Prestwick. She found him watching her, his bright-blue-sky eyes tender and intimate in a way they had no right to be when he sat naked before every woman in attendance.

For a moment, she could do nothing but stare back at him.

Then she sat anyway.

Not because he’d urged her to, but because if she didn’t, she would likely humiliate herself by swooning. And that would never do. She mustn’t allow anyone to see how badly rattled she was by the duke’s presence and his willingness to pose in the nude.

Ophelia looked away from him, forcing her attention to the almost forgotten paint box she carried beneath her arm. With great care, she placed it on the tray Theodora had arranged for her use, opening it and sliding out the drawers to access her brushes.

She caught sight of Prestwick’s feet, tucked on the rungs of the stool he occupied. Why, even that part of him was handsome—large as the rest of him, his toes elegant and long. It hardly seemed fair.

“Now, then,” Theodora announced gaily, “time for us all to get to work before our poor model grows weary of holding his present position. Two hours begins now!”

Two hours of pure torment, Ophelia thought grimly as she took up her brush and waited for the maid circling with a pitcher to add water to her crystal rinsing dish.

Torment.

If Apollo had possessed any doubts, he could now unequivocally confirm that sitting mere feet from Ophelia as she painted for two bloody hours was nothing short of sheer and utter torture. And his present state of agony had nothing to do with the fact that he sat before at least a dozen ladies, clad in nothing but his mask and a chapeau. He had never been ashamed of his nudity; indeed, his form was a source of great pride. He excelled at rowing, cricket, and riding horseback, and he took delight in honing his body. A body that was presently on display for all to see.

Thank Christ for the hat discreetly placed over his rampaging cockstand, else the ladies in attendance would have received even more of a show.

Two hours of watching the graceful movements of her hand and brush.

Two hours of catching the delectable scent of jasmine and violets whenever wind blew in the windows in little, dramatic bursts of air.

Of studying her and feigning disinterest.

Of being close enough to touch her and yet unable to take her in his arms and deliver her straight to his bed as he so desperately longed.

And continuing the pretense that he had innocently volunteered as a naked subject for the lady painters when the wily Theodora, Lady Ponsford, had announced her desire to host a nude portrait session that afternoon.

In truth, there was one reason and one alone he had offered himself as the subject. And she was seated before him, a gilded ray of sunshine landing in her hair and emphasizing the golds and coppers in the lush red strands. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth as she contemplated the work on her easel with a pensive stare. There remained a becoming bloom of pink in her cheeks that heightened whenever her stare collided with his.

He had recognized her nervousness at once when she had been led to her seat by Theodora, a wild widow well-known for her impish exploits. It was a wonder that no one else could see how shocked Ophelia was by the debauchery carrying on around her. She was an innocent lamb amongst wolves, and the urge to protect her remained a fierce, driving need. When she’d swayed, he had feared she would swoon.

Instinct had taken over when he’d urged her to sit.

He had been aware of the risk he was taking in agreeing to pose nude for the ladies’ portrait painting, but he had done so because he’d known Ophelia, as hostess, would be in attendance. And admittedly because the notion of her staring at any other man in this assemblage when he was fully unclothed had been enough to send a rush of jealousy through Apollo that had been nearly crushing.

But what he had not known, what he never could have fathomed, was how damned torturous it would be to sit still and pretend as if he were entirely unaffected by Ophelia for two hours whilst he inwardly prayed for the next moment their eyes would meet. He was desperate for any hint of her he could claim—the rise and fall of her breath, the whisper of her brush on canvas, her surreptitious glance, the stray tendril of hair on her cheek that he longed to tuck behind her ear.

But it was her gray-green eyes he wanted most, on him. Divulging the secrets she tried so desperately to keep. He knew he was not mistaken. Although she resisted at every turn, Ophelia wanted him. He saw it in her gaze. He sensed it in the subtle tension of her shoulders, the way her knees were pressed together beneath her silken skirts, as if to stave off the desire that was no doubt affecting her every bit as much as it was him.

Her desire for him was a weakness he intended to use in his favor. And that made sitting on this blasted uncomfortable stool bare-arsed whilst a gaggle of women ogled him and painted his portrait worth every bloody second. It didn’t matter how many others were in the room or where their eyes strayed anyway. All that mattered was the woman who owned his stare. He wondered if Ophelia knew how badly her proper afternoon gown, which was buttoned up to the throat, made him want to tear it off and ravish her.

Likely not, or she would have already run screaming out the library door, he thought grimly.

“Dear fellow wicked club members,” Theodora announced suddenly, her voice forcing him to tear his eyes from Ophelia with great reluctance. “Our two hours of portrait painting are at an end.” She stood and faced the gathering, their protests mingling with sighs of disappointment, and held up a hand to silence them. “No grumbling, now. We’ve all enjoyed the same amount of time, and I daresay we did quite thoroughly enjoy every moment.”

She cast a saucy look in Apollo’s direction at the last announcement as the other women in the library chuckled. Theodora was a lovely woman in her own right, with thick dark hair and dancing brown eyes. But she wasn’t Ophelia, and her blatant interest didn’t intrigue him in the slightest. There was one woman he wanted with the fervor of a man beneath the blazing desert sun who had suddenly been offered water.

Theodora turned back to her audience again. “If everyone will be so kind as to turn around their portraits, I’ll venture through and decide upon the most-skilled rendition. The winner receives the prize of a private dinner with our mysterious model.”

A private dinner with him?

Apollo’s brows snapped together. He had most certainly never agreed to such a sacrifice. The last thing he wanted to do after sitting here naked and still for two hours was to entertain someone of Theodora’s choosing for a private dinner. One that would, from the emphasis she had placed upon the word private, come with expectations he had no intention of meeting.