Page 6 of My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman

“Where would you like me?”

Several highly inappropriate answers danced on the tip of his tongue, but Clayton resisted. “That chair over there is fine. Now, Lady Fenton, have you had any further thoughts about who you’d like to be in the painting?”

She bit her lip. “I’m not sure.”

“Don’t worry, we can decide later. It’s more important to correctly capture your form. Are you ready to disrobe?”

The baroness glanced at her husband, then back at him. And nodded. It probably took mere seconds for her to untie the dressing gown and push it from her body, but time had slowed to a snail’s pace, and the shy and clumsy reveal of narrow shoulders, small breasts with surprisingly prominent rosy-brown nipples, lush hips, and a thatch of light brown curls between slender thighs was more erotic than the most experienced courtesan. The urge to suck those delectable-looking nipples, to spread her thighs and lick her cunt until all he could taste was her spicy-sweet flavor on his tongue, to fuck her hard and deep, was so strong his fists actually clenched at his sides. Hell. He needed to stop being a lusty twit and start being the professional artist who had dispassionately sketched dozens of naked women, even a few couples. To remember his strict rule against bedding married women.

“How should I arrange myself?” she asked softly.

“Take down your hair,” Clayton growled, unable to moderate his tone. “In this painting, you’ll be ready for bedding or reveling in the aftermath, Lady Fenton.”

The baroness blinked owl eyes at him. “In the circumstances, in this room, I think it would be best if you called me Susanna.”

He swallowed hard. “Then, Susanna, hair such as yours should be seen in all its glory. Please unpin it, and recline back on those cushions. Right arm beside your head, left hand resting just above your mound, thighs spread.”

“Do as Mr. Irving instructs, my dear,” rasped Lord Fenton from the other side of the room where he sat intently observing the scene, and Clayton looked away to compose himself at the thought the baron was equally aroused.

When loose, Susanna’s rich brown locks fell below her shoulders, and Clayton nodded in approval as she lay back on the satin cushions. But it soon became clear she was exceedingly nervous, as she posed so rigidly her limbs were sharp angles rather than languid curves.

Well versed in soothing his subjects, he smiled reassuringly. “Are you cold? It is certainly chilly outside. We can stoke the fireplace.”

“N-no, I’m fine,” Susanna whispered.

“Very well,” he replied. It was quite clear she wasn’t fine. Even less so a half hour later, when his best jokes and stories were exhausted, and no matter how he arranged her, or offered encouragement, she remained obviously frustrated and embarrassed at her body’s unwillingness to relax.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her face taut with misery.

“Don’t fret, Susanna,” said Lord Fenton. “Irving, perhaps you have another idea?”

Clayton rubbed his jaw. “There is something. It has worked for particularly nervous subjects but is rather risqué.”

“Just say it,” said Susanna. “Please.”

“Then I want you to do something wicked for me. Think of the last time his lordship pleasured you. How delicious it felt to have his hair brushing your inner thighs, his fingers inside you, his tongue flicking and lapping your silky-wet center. How hard you orgasmed.”

He paused expectantly, waiting for that secret little smile of a happy sexual memory, the corresponding relaxing of muscles. Yet the baroness went even more rigid, her pouty lips tight, her eyes dull with something that looked horrifyingly like disappointment and yearning.

As if she knew what he meant, but hadn’t experienced it herself.

“Susanna?” he said, alarmed. Surely that couldn’t be true. Surely. While he hadn’t witnessed much physical affection between the Fentons, they were so damned aware of each other with their quick glances and supportive words. That kind of trust and confidence only came from a solid shared history.

But she stared back at him, and abruptly something sparked in her gaze. Something that looked a little like anger. “I’m afraid I can’t recall such an occasion. Perhaps you might ask Joseph…beg pardon, Fenton. His memory for detail is far better than mine.”

* * *

Joseph had always known that one day there would be a reckoning for his many failures as a husband. Just not that it would be this morning, with an audience, and on such a humiliating topic. Now the truth of his wife’s unhappiness and frustration was burned in his mind. His determination to forget his past misdeeds and be a proper gentleman also meant he’d neglected her terribly in the bedchamber, and somehow having that fact revealed in front of none other than one of the ton’s most noted lovers, made his shame so much worse.

How did a man explain that he sucked cock better than any courtesan, but was woefully inexperienced when it came to women? His clients had been wealthy men who wanted a very discreet interlude and paid well for it. Once he’d arrived in England and met Susanna, he’d fallen hard and bedding another woman, or man, hadn’t crossed his mind. Being an innocent virgin, she hadn’t known exactly how inept he was or how many pleasures she’d been denied because he couldn’t bear the thought of his rough hands or ill-used mouth on her sweet little breasts or tight, hot quim.

“My lord?”

Reluctantly, he met Irving’s quizzical gaze. “Yes?”

“Forgive the impertinence, but I wonder if it is not modesty or nerves disrupting this session, but an intimate discord between the two of you. And if that is the case, then I cannot sketch or paint until it is resolved.”

Guilt clawed at his insides and burned a path across his cheekbones. Yet Irving’s gaze was so steady, his tone so implacable, that Joseph couldn’t halt the embarrassing truth blurting out. “You are correct. I’ve failed in my husbandly duty, and it’s my fault. I lack…experience in pleasuring a woman.”