Page 99 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

The Duchess of Basil entered upon Rebecca’s arm in a dark yellow gown that skimmed her figure like poured sunlight. A delicate mask veiled the upper half of her face, but nothing concealed the assurance with which she crossed the chamber. Every man noticed her. She noticed only her husband.

The duke’s expression altered when their gazes met, softening with an intimacy so complete that, for one unguarded instant, Sebastian despised him for possessing it.

There had been a time when he had considered Basil reckless, even absurd, for surrendering so wholly to one woman. Now Sebastian envied him with a bitterness that tasted of whisky and self-contempt.

More guests arrived. Their bodies warmed the chamber, and conversation wove through the incense in a low, expectant hum. Some ladies wore jeweled masks, and gowns cut daringly low across the breast. Others appeared in translucent peignoirs of ivory, sapphire, and deep crimson, the fabric drifting over nipples, hips, and thighs with every unhurried step. Pearls gleamed at throats. Anklets chimed softly beneath trailing hems. Their hair had been loosened into artful disorder, as though each had only just risen from a lover’s bed or intended soon to fall into one.

Six ladies ascended the dais and arranged themselves across the bed and surrounding chaises with the composed sensuality of women fully aware they were being watched. One reclined against a mound of crimson pillows, a bare leg revealed from ankle to thigh. Another knelt beside her, trailing idle fingers through spilled black hair. Their poses suggested invitation without submission, pleasure offered because they desired it rather than because any man had earned it.

The woman in blue captured Sebastian’s attention before he could resist. Her peignoir was the color of moonlight upon deep water, sheer enough that candlelight traced the softness of her breasts and the curved line of her waist beneath it. She moved with an unstudied grace that struck him like recognition before his mind could supply a name. Her hips swayed gently as she crossed the dais, and her dark brown hair, threaded with glints of gold, fell in loose waves nearly to her waist.

Sebastian’s pulse changed. He tore his gaze away, irritated by the force of his response, and looked toward the easel.

Then went still.

A man occupied the artist’s chair. He arranged brushes and pigments with quiet efficiency, unfamiliar and wholly wrong. Darcy was not there. Unease slipped beneath Sebastian’s ribs. Had she abandoned the commission? Had his mother’s public cruelty driven her from Aphrodite, or from London altogether? The possibility left the room abruptly airless.

Rebecca brought her palms together once. The delicate clap sliced cleanly through the murmurings. She crossed the chamber in a gown of lacquered red satin, its bodice cut low and severe, its skirts opening with each stride to reveal flashes of a jeweled garter. Yet Sebastian noticed something stranger than the daring gown. She had softened the cosmetics with which she usually fashioned herself into an ageless creature of Aphrodite. Candlelight revealed the youthful line of her cheek, the natural curve of her mouth, and a vulnerability beneath the practiced allure.

Curious.

Rebecca turned before the dais, and a slow smile gathered every gaze in the room. “My friends, over these past weeks, I have commissioned a series of paintings for your private delight. Tonight we arrive at their culmination. Not merely an exhibition of bodies, but a celebration of appetite, freedom, and the exquisite pleasure discovered when restraint is surrendered by choice.”

Anticipation moved through the chamber like a warm breath.

“Six ladies await upon the dais. Each has come willingly. Each will accept only the touch, act, or partner that heightens her pleasure.” Her gaze traveled over the gentlemen. “I invite six men to join them and create a moment our artist shall render immortal.”

Several women laughed softly. A gentleman near the bed loosened his cravat.

“And those who remain spectators shall not be forgotten,” Rebecca continued. “You will live within the painting as shadow, profile, reaching hand, or watching eye. Enough to tempt the imagination. Never enough to satisfy it.”

Several gentlemen rose at once and moved toward the dais with eagerness poorly disguised as composure. Sebastian remained where he was. The spectacle offered him no temptation. He had not come to watch strangers surrender to pleasure.

He had come hoping to see Darcy. The admission formed at last. He set down his glass and turned toward the shadowed corridor, intending to depart before longing drove him to seek her elsewhere.

Rebecca intercepted him with effortless precision.

“Darling,” she murmured, amusement curling through her voice, “surely you are not leaving before the most interesting part.”

“I have no interest in your display.”

Her smile did not waver. “How disappointing. I imagined you might wish to claim her.”

A chill swept through him. Sebastian turned. His gaze cut across silk, candlelight, and moving bodies until it found the woman in blue. The delicate slope of her shoulders. The dark-gold fire in her hair. The profile he had kissed beneath rain and moonlight.

Darcy.

Recognition struck first. Then something dark and fiercely possessive surged through him, so powerful it nearly overwhelmed every rational thought.

“What the devil is she doing upon that dais?”

Rebecca’s expression cooled. “Her heart has been broken. She has chosen pleasure as its remedy.”

Sebastian moved with deliberate purpose toward the dais, every step measured, though the dark surge within him threatened to break through restraint.

“Do not do this,” Rebecca said, stepping into his path. Her voice had lost every trace of playfulness. “You cast her aside. You do not now possess the right to remove her because another man may give her what you refused.”

He cast her a cold, unyielding glance.