Absolute Pleasure (6 page)

"It's open."

"Excellent." Gabriel hadn't intended on hosting a guest, but he faked enthusiasm. He was scarcely equipped, so he'd have to improvise. "My studio is in a cottage in the backyard, where the light is better. Shall we go out?"

"I'd like that." Audaciously, she sauntered over to him and slipped her arm into his. "How long will we be?"

"I'll be doing some detailed sketching. Perhaps two or three hours?"

"Three hours will be splendid." She glowered at Miss Smith who had also risen. "Mary, why don't you finish your errands, then meet me here at four o'clock?"

Miss Smith hesitated, plainly wanting to object or complain that Lady Elizabeth would be unsupervised and at his mercy, but a telling visual communication passed between them, and Miss Smith—evidently acquiescing to the lady's higher rank—backed down without comment

"If you're sure," she broached suspiciously.

"I'll be fine. Don't worry." Sensing her companion's desire for further persuasion, Lady Elizabeth turned toward Gabriel. "I'm in good hands, aren't I?"

"The best," he could only concede.

"There, see?" She bestowed another penetrating look on Miss Smith, this one a tad more pleading.

"I'll return at four," Mary Smith ultimately said.

Gabriel embraced his unforeseen triumph and whisked Lady Elizabeth out of the room before she could change her mind.

Behind him, John's voice was discernible as he set about smoothing any ruffled feathers, while efficiently assisting Miss Smith in an expeditious departure. Within seconds, his father would have her wrapped in her cloak and deposited in the Norwich carriage.

Quickly, Gabriel ushered Lady Elizabeth out the door at the rear of the house. Anticipation induced him to race, and he practically flew down the three steps and onto the garden walk until he realized that Lady Elizabeth was nearly running to keep up with his lengthy strides.

"Where are my manners?" he murmured sheepishly, halting while she steadied herself. "I didn't mean to rush you."

"No harm done." She confidently matched his keen gaze. "I find myself to be rather in a hurry, as well."

They tarried, face-to-face, probing for hidden insight or nuance. Damn, but if he didn't notice it, once again: an irrepressible perception that he comprehended more about her man he should. They had an unusual affinity that made them closer than the circumstances warranted, that allowed him to distinguish her aims and objectives.

She was as ardent for the pending encounter as he was, and the comprehension gave him pause.

Am I doing the right thing?
he caught himself thinking.

As swiftly as the absurd caprice entered his mind, he tossed it away. Of course, instigating a clandestine relationship with her was the
right
thing! Seducement was how he earned his living, how he garnered economic security for his father. She wouldn't be hurt; in fact, she'd likely get much more out of their illicit liaison than he would.

Still, she stirred him, had him doubting his incentives for subterfuge. Veracity had never been high on his list of admirable personal characteristics, and previously, he'd never suffered any qualms about bending me truth or stretching a falsehood— so long as it served his purpose—-but the idea of scheming against her, of conspiring to win her affection, left a sour taste in his mouth.

With hardly any circumspection, she was geared to join him in his warren of sin and decadence so that she could voluntarily offer herself up to his indecent intrigues, and he sustained an unfamiliar, piercing twinge of guilt, which threw him totally off guard.

The woman inspired such foreign, outlandish sentiments! The effect she incited was confusing yet exciting, and only bolstered his resolve that he'd selected the appropriate course by setting his sights on her. Their affair would be out of the ordinary, would titillate and inflame beyond his wildest imaginings, so he would let his scheme play out, would enjoy the ride while it lasted, for once unsure of what his condition would be at the conclusion.

Chapter Four

Mr. Cristofore was determinedly staring at her, assessing her motives or, perhaps, guessing at her intent. There was no question but that she'd shocked him with her forward conduct. And Mary, too. The poor woman had to be aghast and bewildered by Elizabeth's demand for solitude.

Previously, Elizabeth would never have dared pass time with a gentleman in his private quarters, be it his work establishment or no. Mary was the only person before whom she'd have risked such scandalous comportment; Mary could be trusted with secrets.

Elizabeth had been raised on formality and proper etiquette, yet suddenly, she was tired of the strictures by which she'd constantly lived. She craved a taste of freedom from convention, a sampling of independence. In twenty-seven years, she'd never acted extravagantly, had never broken a rule or violated a tenet of the numerous silly and frivolous codes that regulated her world.

She couldn't abide that she'd been so virtuous, so obedient, so tractable. For once, she wanted to be a tad mischievous, to savor some of the zest and animation that other—less restrained—women presumably experienced on a daily basis.

The past forty-eight hours had been an ordeal, as she'd chafed and stewed over Mr. Cristofore. She could reflect upon no other topic. She hadn't been able to eat, had scarcely slept.

With an almost insane burst of gladness, she'd penned the note requesting an audience, and when his reply had come, recommending an immediate appointment, she'd been weak with relief. If he'd changed his mind about painting her, or had had to postpone because of prior engagements, she truly couldn't have survived a delay.

For a long while, her life had been stifling, her days too tedious to be borne. Why, she might just go mad if there weren't significant modifications! Unexpectedly, she was searching for some method of assuaging the monotony, and she was hoping against hope that Mr. Cristofore would be the cure for what seemed to be ailing her.

She'd never had an overly active imagination, steeped as she'd been in ritual and routine but, with no difficulty, she'd fantasized about Mr. Cristofore. While she couldn't picture herself as brash enough to display any body parts for his appreciation, she could certainly envision being kissed by him.

The notion was outrageous, but as she'd never been kissed before, it was also downright tantalizing. Late at night, lying in her cold, lonely bed, she would glare at the ceiling, dissecting the subtleties involved. It was so rousing, so extreme, so ... so uncivilized.

Her nocturnal recollections provoked intense sensations of longing, and she'd jump out of bed and pace her bedchamber. Overcome by odd bursts of energy, she'd be hot and disturbed, tingly and stimulated, her heart racing for no apparent reason.

Her nipples would peak into painfully tight buds that consistently prodded against her nightdress. She ached and throbbed in numerous locations that demanded a type of attention she didn't understand, making her crave things she couldn't begin to name.

Mr. Cristofore would grasp why she was so tormented, just as he would discern the remedy, so she was eager for the chance to enjoy his uninterrupted fellowship. Not that she believed anything would actually happen. Or that she would accede should he recklessly initiate familiar behavior.

While he zealously acted as though he was smitten with her, she was convinced that his interest was feigned. After all, she'd observed him in action, so she was cognizant of the. dubious state of his character. She recognized her limitations and wasn't hurt by stark reality: She was not the sort of woman who could attract a man such as Mr. Cristofore, just as he was not the kind of man to whom a woman of her stoic nature would ever succumb. They were oil and water.

Still, she could dream, couldn't she? Of fiery, capricious kisses? Where was the harm in a little wishful thinking, in some fun and frolic? And if a kiss or two transpired, so much the better! If she let herself be showered with his affable male personality, mayhap after their sessions ended and the blasted painting was completed, this infernal yearning would wane.

With a jolt, she realized that she was loitering at the base of the steps, clutching his arm, and gazing at him like an infatuated girl. Droplets of an icy winter rain drifted down, wetting their hair and shoulders. They'd exited the main house so quickly that they'd left their outergarments behind, and their clothes were speedily moistening.

What an inexperienced ninny he must find her to be! Embarrassed, she turned away, striving to appear as un-flustered as possible and, as she took in the walled yard that was shielded from the street by his three-story house, she had to stifle a sigh of delight.

In the center was a cozy cottage, constructed of gray stone with white shutters and trim. Large glass windows, which had to cost him a fortune in taxes, lined the front. A fire burned inside, and smoke curled enticingly out of the chimney. Vines and rose arbors adorned the surface, the leaves absent, the branches withered with me season, but the barren stalks gave ample evidence of the riot of color that would decorate the perimeter come the spring.

It was a storybook place, an abode one might discover tucked away in a shady rural glen on a summer afternoon.

"How positively lovely," she murmured. "An enchanted bower."

"That's how I've always conceived of it."

"Whatever is it doing in the middle of London?"

"The house's former owner built it for his mother-in-law." He shrugged. "The instant I saw it, I fell in love. I simply
had
to have it."

"I can certainly comprehend why." Oh, how marvelous it would be to own such a sanctuary. To have serenity and quiet, no conflict or strife with which to deal. She was unaccountably jealous. "This is where you work?"

"For lengthy hours every day." He studied it then, too, as though having just detected its rarity. "The interior is even more wonderful. Shall we go in?"

"Yes!" She could hardly wait to see the rest.

They started down the walk, and she was damp and chilled. The temperature was frigid, the precipitation bracing, and guiltily, she pondered how long they'd tarried on the stairs. When she was with Mr. Cristofore, her discretion and prudence fled.

Buck up!
she warned herself.
Before you step over the threshold and the door shuts behind you.

While she planned to relish their rendezvous, she wasn't about to do anything foolish. He might make her feel like a giggling, swooning juvenile, but she was an adult, who'd already beheld his capacity for seduction. She wasn't about to be another conquest in what she was sure was an attenuated string of amorous pursuits.

Yet, as the door swung back, and she entered, she could barely keep from clucking her tongue in dismay. The main salon was a veritable sinner's paradise, a sanctuary of iniquity, a lavish, lewd celebration for the eyes, the nose, the skin.

Yes, it was unmistakably an artist's studio. There were easels and shelves covered with haphazard collections of paints, brushes, and other accouterments. Evidently, he had frantic spurts of inspiration that he couldn't contain for there were half-finished oil paintings—portraits, animals, pastoral countrysides, busy city avenues—leaned and piled in the corners. AH were in vibrant, intense hues, rich in detail and emotion, and they offered exuberant confirmation of his talent.

However, the room was also a visual feast, meant to sensually invigorate the painter as well as the painted.

Potted plants, many with festive flowers, hung from the ceiling and sat on the floor. Drapes and rugs, in varying hues of blue and green, were scattered about. Exquisite light filtered in, making it difficult to recall the dismal weather outside. She felt as though she'd been transported onto an Italian portico.

There was an older style marble fireplace, and a stove. Both blazed with cheery fires, and the dual heating converted the ambiance to humid and tropical. She longed to shed her heavy clothing, to lounge and pretend she was on a secluded, equatorial island.

A plush fainting couch was positioned in the center. It was covered with cushy pillows that fell to the floor in casual disarray. The material was soft and inviting, imploring her to recline upon it, to sprawl and grow more comfortable than she ought

How would she keep her wits about her in such an indecent environment? Why would she want to?

Mr. Cristofore's hand was at the small of her back, urging her inside. While any sane woman would have run m the opposite direction, she was excited, in awe, ready for whatever might happen in the risqué atmosphere. She'd come craving amusement and, apparently, she'd found it in spades.

"What do you think?" he asked from behind her. His voice was low and intimate, and it slithered across her nerves, inducing her to prickle and tremble. Crazily, she was wild to acquiesce in any unnatural deed he might suggest.

He stepped nearer, his legs pushing against her dress, so that the toes of his boots dipped under the hem of her skirt. She inhaled vigorously, cherishing his smell, his warmth.

"It's remarkable." She peered at him over her shoulder, and the side of her arm brushed his chest, her hip embedded in the cradle of his thighs. "How lucky you are."

"I agree."

Their gazes met and held, and Elizabeth was stunned by the forceful response that his adjacency produced. A tangible energy flared between them, inducing an invisible field of animation, and she'd never endured anything remotely similar.

Stimulated and enlivened, the hairs on her neck and arms stood up. The air crackled with a peculiar intensity, much as it might with the approach of a lightning storm. If she'd pointed at him, she wouldn't have been surprised to see sparks shooting from her fingertip.

He felt it, too. His anatomy was thoroughly attuned to hers, his torso reaching out, seeking a connection she couldn't define, but even in her naive condition she recognized it as the link that drew lovers together.

Languidly, his fervid appraisal drifted to her mouth, and his keen evaluation ignited a fire in her belly. His lips were just a few inches from her own. Imperceptibly, he shifted nearer, hovering, and for the briefest second, she truly supposed he was about to kiss her—an absurd assumption! She jerked away, her heart literally skipping a beat, and her startled reaction kept him from proceeding with whatever he'd proposed to do.

He increased the distance between them, and his brow creased with concern, as though demanding an explanation for their extraordinary corporeal responses. She had the distinct impression that he wasn't happy; he was confounded and baffled and—she was convinced—more than a bit annoyed.

She might have laughed at his consternation, so plainly was it written on his face, but she decided to take pity on him instead. They enjoyed a perplexing, significant, mutual affinity, when he had calculated for none to exist at all. He was less than ecstatic.

How splendid to bedevil such a magnetic, sophisticated lady's man!

Still, she could never forget that he was a bounder of the first water. Shady incentives had driven him to invite her to a painting session. In all likelihood, he had calculated a scheme that involved a scenario that would have her pining away and incessantly brooding over him and their relationship. The ultimate objective of his plot eluded her, but her inability to grasp his exact aims didn't make his machinations any less real.

While such an intrigue could presumably succeed on a less astute woman, Elizabeth hadn't been called sensible all her life for nothing. She had a good head on her shoulders, and she meant to use it. Two could play at the game of fictitious enamoration, though on her part, at least, the engrossment was genuine. Perhaps Mr. Cristofore had finally met his female match!

"What is it, Mr. Cristofore? Of a sudden, you look ... pained."

"Me?”

"Is everything all right?”

"Si."

The introspection that had overtaken him vanished. The puzzlement and irritation that had been so transparent were masked, replaced by his engaging smile, and the fervor and focus of it scalded her.

How absolutely phenomenal to have his undivided attention! Her feminine confidence soared. After a few hours in his company, she'd be a new woman!

"I was merely staring," he explained, "in order to catalog your facial attributes. I do it often. Does it bother you?"

As if she'd mind being scrutinized by Gabriel Cristofore! "No, it doesn't. It's just different. I'm not accustomed to such thorough assessment."

"No one is."

"It's unnerving."

"Don't worry; you'll get used to it."

"I'm sure I will."

"Would you sit?" He motioned toward the decadent, inviting sofa.

"Certainly."

In for a penny, in for a pound,
she told herself.

With aplomb, she strolled to the sofa, determined to perch on the edge and to sit as ladylike as she was able. Back straight, hands folded demurely in her lap, she eased down, but as her rear landed on the cushion, poise could not be achieved.

The design encouraged slouching, compelling her to snuggle so that she wouldn't slide off onto the floor. Then, of course, once she'd sunk in fully, she was enveloped by opulence, buffered by sumptuous fabric, and she couldn't see any reason to straighten.