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When they reached the house, Daniel handed Lily’s supplies to a servant with orders to deliver them to her chamber and then led her through the dining hall and kitchen where cooks were busy preparing the luncheon. She felt extremely conspicuous, but no one seemed to notice them. He led her up a back stairway to his suite on the third floor.
They entered a large sitting room decorated in an eastern style. A large sofa covered in a fiery red brocade graced one wall. An intricate Oriental rug covered the floor and was so plush that Lily’s shoes sank down at least an inch as she stood on it. Two leather armchairs surrounded a mahogany reading table, and two tall elegant barristers’ bookcases lined one wall, housing gilt edged leather bound volumes. Oriental prints adorned the walls, framed beautifully in black lacquered wood. Lily stopped, her feet sinking into the soft fibers beneath her, and looked around the room, taking it all in. Daniel nudged her forward to a door on the far wall, and she entered his bedchamber.
His four poster bed was solid cherry draped in burgundy silk. An elegant sitting window housed a chaise longue and settee, both covered in a burgundy brocade. A small table sat between the two seats. On it were several crystal bottles filled with a dark liquid. Probably brandy, Lily thought. A lush leather armchair sat opposite the bed, next to a door that undoubtedly led to a lavatory with modern plumbing. For some strange reason, Lily was curious to see the duke’s bath chamber. She must have been staring, for he came up behind her, lightly touched his hands to her waist, and slowly turned her to the left.
“This,” he whispered into her ear, “is, I believe, what you wanted to see.”
Lily gasped. The gilt-framed painting graced the wall, positioned so that it was visible from the bed. The picture was of a maiden, gowned in vivid crimson, holding a crucifix and cleaning blood from a dead man behind her. Her expression was one of serene contemplation, despite the vile task she undertook. Lily moved closer to the painting, reaching toward it.
“Don’t worry,” she told Daniel. “I won’t touch it. I know better. I just want to… God, it’s wonderful. I want to look closely at his strokes.”
“I know what you mean. It’s almost a psychic touch, isn’t it? You can feel the texture in your mind if you put your fingers close t
o it.”
“Yes, exactly!” He understood. The duke actually understood how she felt. Lily gazed, drinking it in. “Who is it, do you suppose?”
“St. Praxedis. It’s one of Vermeer’s earlier works. There are some skeptics who don’t think it can be attributed to him, but there has never been any doubt in my mind.”
“St. Praxedis…from the early Catholic Church?”
“Yes, she was elevated to sainthood for her services to the dead bodies of the martyrs. Do you see how she’s holding the crucifix as she cleans the blood from the body? That symbolizes the martyr’s blood mixing with the blood of Christ.”
“My God, he was a genius,” Lily whispered. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. “I wish I could paint like that.”
Daniel moved closer behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, encircling her. Lily absently settled her hands on his and continued to admire the painting.
“Have you ever tried oils?” Daniel asked.
“No, but I’ve always wanted to. My father has had a hard time indulging my artistic side. He would rather I stitch samplers and find a husband. He allows my dalliance with watercolor; however, he feels that oil painting is for more…masculine endeavors. I was never allowed to try them.” She leaned back against him. The nearness of his hard muscled form warmed her through. His breath tickled her cheek. Being in his arms felt…good.
“That’s a pity,” he said. “I’d love to see what you could do with them.”
“So would I, Your Grace.”
He gently turned her around to face him. “Daniel,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry?”
“I want you to use my name. My Christian name.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper—”
Then his mouth was on hers, slowly sliding over her lips, coaxing them open. He nipped gently at her lower lip, teasing her with his tongue. She sighed as he licked her softly. She was kissing him again. In his bedchamber. She should be fleeing, but her legs wouldn’t move. Didn’t want to move…
He trailed to her cheek and covered it with soft fluttery kisses that felt like the wings of a butterfly, and then slid to her ear and nipped lightly on the lobe.
“Say my name,” he whispered. “I want it to drip from your ruby lips like a fine Bordeaux. I want to feel the silky caress as you whisper it against my neck. I want to hear you sob it into my mouth as I kiss you. Please, Lily. Say my name.”
She shuddered. His husky voice made her knees tremble. Was it possible that underneath this renowned blackguard lurked the soul of a poet? Or was this just a practiced technique in seduction? As he slid his lips over her neck and face and her heart thumped wildly, she couldn’t bring herself to care.
“Daniel,” she moaned softly. “Oh, Daniel.”
He groaned. “Oh yes, love. Kiss me.”
Despite her better judgment, she responded with innocent eagerness, finding his mouth with hers and letting her tongue wander apprehensively into his warmth. He took her tongue, mated it with his, sucking it gently and then freeing it to explore him. She let it roam over his full lips, sucking them and biting them gently, as little moans escaped from her throat. His lips were firm yet soft on hers, and he tasted of honey. Mmm, delicious. Her blood boiled as his lips meandered over her cheek to her neck.
