Rebecca smiled. “There is no need for such formality between us. Pray, call me Rebecca. You have done well,” she said, her tone rich with satisfaction. “Those paintings… they possesslife. A quality that will draw the eye and hold it, which is exactly what I wanted.”
A flicker of warmth stirred within Darcy, though she kept her expression composed. “I am pleased they meet your expectations. I believe I know how to correct the painting with Lady Shelby, and I shall adjust it to present a kiss that evokes true feeling.”
“Wonderful.” Rebecca smiled, then clapped her hands lightly, as though eager to move forward. “Which brings us to your next piece.”
Darcy stilled, attentive.
Rebecca’s gaze sharpened, intent and unapologetic. “I wish you to paint a woman in the act of self-pleasure.”
For a moment, Darcy merely stared at her.
Rebecca continued, untroubled by the silence. “It is a grave injustice, you see, that women are so often kept ignorant of their own bodies, of what they are capable of feeling. I would have that ignorance undone, if only in some small measure. Itmay astonish you to learn that many of the ladies who visit here are women quietly unfulfilled with their lot. We take care to let it be known that such pleasures are not reserved solely for men. Women may discover them as well. If they can see it rendered before them—captured in a painting—it may answer questions they would never dare to voice, and lead them, perhaps, to surrender to desires they might otherwise never have considered. And,” she added, a faint smile touching her lips. “It may even enlighten a few husbands who have no notion that their wives are capable of feeling as much, if not more, pleasure than they do themselves.”
Darcy inclined her head slowly. “I understand.” Though in truth… she did not. Not entirely. “I will do my utmost to bring it to life for you.”
“Lady Henrieta has agreed to sit for you,” Rebecca added. “She will meet you in chamber five.”
Darcy murmured her thanks, then turned and made her way back into the corridor, her curiosity stirred in ways she could not yet name. She had not gone far when steps faltered, and her heart gave a sudden, sharp jolt. Lord Raine stood just beyond the curve of the hall, as though he had been there some time, watching the ebb and flow of guests with that same quiet, assessing gaze she had come to recognize.
It was only a few hours since he’d returned them home from the delights of Vauxhall Gardens, and yet his presence struck upon her senses in a way that revealed, most alarmingly, that Darcy had been eager to see him again. Aghast at the realization, she forced down the smile that threatened to curve her lips.
Heat rushed unbidden to her cheeks as her gaze drifted to his mouth, the memory of it against hers stirring something far too dangerous within her heart. She found herself wanting—quite shamelessly—to taste him again. Startled by the wickedness of the thought, she lifted her gaze at once.
There was an unmistakable spark of sensual awareness in his eyes. He had observed the fleeting spark of desire she had tried to conceal. Another rush of heat flooded her entire body at once.
How mortifying.
A low laugh escaped him, rich with amusement, though there was something darker threaded beneath it as his gaze lingered upon her—slow, deliberate, unmistakably carnal.
“Miss Red,” he said softly. “I am exceedingly pleased you are here tonight.”
“My lord,” she returned, though her composure wavered just enough to betray her. Darcy rolled her eyes lightly, a gesture meant to reclaim some measure of dignity, though it only seemed to deepen his amusement. “I am certain there are other ladies who would offer you a far more diverting companion.”
“You do yourself a disservice,” he murmured. “You possess a most… compelling allure. Though I confess, women of your sort rarely succeed in arresting my attention.”
Startled, her eyes widened, and she laughed lightly. “You flatter and mock in the same breath. A woman would be wise to exercise great caution in your presence.”
His mouth curved in a faint smile, and he said only, “Allow me to escort you,” inclining his head toward the corridor ahead.
Darcy hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Thank you.”
They fell into step together.Too close.She was acutely aware of the quiet strength of his presence, the faint scent of him beneath the heavier perfumes of the house, the steady rhythm of his stride beside her own. It unsettled her, this awareness, as though her senses had been sharpened in his presence, attuned to every small detail she ought not to notice.
He glanced at her. “Who do you intend to paint this evening?”
Darcy kept her gaze forward. “Madam Rebecca has informed me that I am to paint Lady Henrietta… in the act of self-pleasure.”
The words felt strange upon her tongue.
There was a pause. Then, slowly, he said, “You do not know what that is, do you?”
Darcy scoffed softly, lifting her chin. She offered no reply, unwilling to confess ignorance so readily. They walked several steps in silence. Then, against her better judgment, she glanced up at him. “I do not,” she admitted, quietly.
“I will explain, if you wish.”
“No,” she said quickly. Anything from him that touched upon pleasure felt as though it might work upon her senses like some dangerous enchantment—one she did not trust herself to withstand. And yet, a quieter, deeper part of her longed to understand it from his perspective, knowing it would shape her own as she sought to create something truly compelling upon the canvas.
They reached the chamber. Lady Henrietta had not yet arrived. Darcy crossed to her easel, grateful for the small distance it placed between her and the earl, and seated herself upon the stool. Her fingers brushed lightly over her materials, more to occupy herself than from necessity.
