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“My wife is ticklish,” he murmured, tormenting her flesh with soft bites.
His wife bit into her lower lip, and her throat swallowed. “Oscar?” she said, her voice husky with arousal.
“Yes?”
“I would like to see one of your paintings.”
“Now?”
Their gazes met, and in the depths of the emerald beauty of her eyes, he spied fright.It will not hurt the next time. He wanted to assure her of this, but it was better to show her. Lowering her foot, he tossed aside the sheets and pushed himself off the bed.
“You’re naked!”
He bent and grabbed his trousers, shaking them out before slipping them on. “I always sleep naked, countess.”
He didn’t bother to dress in full but held out his hand. Pushing down her nightgown, she scrambled from the bed and took his hand. They left her chamber, hurrying along the darkened corridor. His wife muffled her laugh.
“It feels as if we are sneaking around. It is exciting,” she whispered.
He took her to the room he claimed as his workspace. Opening the door, they spilled inside. Padding over to the window, he pulled back the heavy drapes allowing a measure of light to fill the room. The room was rather large and had several windows to allow in natural light. The room also overlooked a pretty garden and a birdhouse. Several paintings, all his, hung on the wall. At least three easels with wooden chairs were positioned near the windows, and a dark green chaise longue with golden edges was by the fire. His wife gasped, and he turned around. Awe suffused her features as she stared at his work.
“Oscar,” she breathed, walking over to a painting of her on her horse. “This is beautiful. When you said you painted, I never imagined work so flawless and powerful, done with such rare precision and realism. Why do you keep this to yourself?”
A rush of pleasure filled him at her admiration. “Habit,” Oscar answered. His art was his and only his.Expect now I am sharing it with you.
She whirled to face him. “When did you start painting?”
“According to my mother, I waddled into the art room, picked up her brush and made my first brush stroke at two years of age. I’ve never stopped painting. It is a great love,” he admitted.
“I…you are incredibly talented.”
He strolled over to the painting, perusing it critically. He supposed it was a lovely one. Whenever he painted, it was as if he went to a different world, one in which he felt great emotions and was pushed to capture it on canvas. Prue walked from painting to painting, gasping at times and reaching out hesitantly to touch a portrait of herself sitting embroidering. There were several of her, one of her in a favorite dress of white and silver she had worn to a recent ball, another of her looking demure besides a bouquet of roses and other flowers. Another showed her riding her chestnut mare. There were several of a large and snooty cat which were rendered with considerable affection.
His wife gave a quick gasp of utter astonishment. “These should be in a gallery. They are so lifelike and vibrant.”
“Earls do not paint or show their work to the public,” he said with a measure of amusement.
Her eyes softened as she stared up at him. “Is that what your family believes?”
Oscar raked his fingers through his hair, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction of their conversation. “It was what my father believed,” he said gruffly.
“Do you resent him for it?”
“No.”
At her stare, he expounded, “I wanted to enter the Royal Academy. I wanted to study art. With the responsibilities I was to inherit, it was not possible. I studied land management, mathematics, philosophy, French, Greek, Latin, history, geography, great literature and politics.”
She hurried over to him, lifted a hand to his jaw and cupped it. The warmth in that caress thawed the cold knot he hadn’t realized was forming. “I am sorry, Oscar.”
He held her hand to his jaw. “Do not be. I am my parents' only son. I have no regrets in fulfilling my duties.”
Her expressive eyes glittered with unshed tears. “But your art….”
He stroked a finger over her cheek. “My art is for me. I endure no loss at not having it displayed to be admired by theton.”
The tender look in her eyes unraveled him, and oddly he felt undeserving of it.
“I am glad you shared it with me.” His wife lifted onto her toes to press a kiss at the corner of his mouth. Her caress lingered, and he closed his eyes against the sensations evoked. Such trembling desire mystified him. When she stepped away from him slightly, Oscar traced his finger over the soft curve of her cheek down to her pointed chin. “Of recent years, you have been my favorite subject.”
