Lady Windermere's Lover (20 page)

“I was deeply enamored, though love may be overstating it.”

“There seems to be a pattern to his revenge. So at this point you were the injured party. I suppose you had to get back at him.” What was it about men, that they couldn’t put wrongs aside and move on? “Something about a collection of pictures.”

“I’m not proud of myself. Through my father, I had introduced Julian to Lord Maddox. I mentioned the affair to Radcliffe and his fatter purse prevailed. It was petty on my part, but I can’t help thinking Julian deserved it.”

“What happened to the dancer? What was her name?”

“I don’t remember. I suppose she stayed with him for a while. Julian never had any difficulty attracting women, even without a fat purse.”

“Whenever you mention him, there is an edge to your tone that’s just like his when he speaks of you. Neither of you can leave the past alone.”

“I’ve never had a friend like him, before or since.”

“You miss him.”

“I miss what we once had. And I suppose I regret that I can never have it back.” He sighed. “Our friendship was like our youth, never to be recovered.”

“You poor old man. Do you need me to carry your charcoal?” She offered a hand with mockery he chose to ignore. Instead he followed her invitation and sat next to her on the bed.

“Now you know about my regrettable past.”

“Regret is fruitless. Every experience helped make you the man you are.”

“I daren’t ask if that is a good thing.” he said, looping an arm around her shoulders. “Thank you for listening to my long, dreary tale.”

“No thanks are needed. I want to hear about your past, your thoughts, your plans for the future. Part of the trouble with our early marriage was that we didn’t talk, or rather you didn’t, except in French. The only place you didn’t speak French was in the bedchamber.” She leaned against his chest, covered only by his shirt. His body warmed her cheek; she felt his breathing and heard the beat of his heart. “You turned things about,” she said, slipping her arms about his torso. She’d never held a man like this before and it was lovely. “Yesterday you spoke French in here.”

“So I did. I suppose you understood every word.”

“I confess that I am uncertain of the meaning of the verb
foutre
.”

“It’s idiomatic, very hard to translate. In some uses it means ‘to put.’ ”

“
Je veux te foutre.
” She remembered the phrase. “ ‘I want to put you’ doesn’t make sense.”

“I told you it was an idiom.
Je veux beaucoup te foutre
. I don’t think I can translate it. There’s an English word beginning with the same letter and quite unacceptable in polite society.”

“You fiend! I would never say that word.”

“You appear to know it, however. One wonders what they teach at the Birmingham Academy for Young Ladies.” A low chuckle rippled through him.

“I heard it in London. No one would dare use it in respectable Birmingham.”

“Sounds deadly dull.”

“It is.”

“Since your education in excitement was inadequate, I shall have to take you in hand.”

“Teach me something else.”

He whispered, sending warm breath and delicious shivers into her ear. “
Je veux descendre à la cave et te baiser là.
”

A hum of sensation shot through her to the area she assumed he meant. “If kissing me in the cellar means what I think it does, you already did that.”

“I wasn’t sure you remembered. Under the influence of bhang you came quickly and departed into oblivion.”

“Tell me more.”

“I’m talking myself into a state unsuitable for the forenoon.”

“It’s not as though we have anywhere to go.” She rolled her eyes at the window.

With an exaggerated sigh he pushed her away and returned to the chair. “Stand up, my lady. I have a drawing to finish.”

Disappointed, Cynthia resumed her pose. Damian worked away at his charcoal with profound concentration. Only the occasional mutter, of satisfaction or disgust, broke a silence rendered complete by the snow, which muffled the usual noise of an inn yard. It was like being on an island.

“Don’t smile. I’m working on your face now. It’s hard enough without you twitching.”

“What is it like drawing after so many years?”

“Like getting back a missing limb.”

“Goodness. I have always enjoyed sketching, and I like to paint in watercolors, but not like that.”

“Perhaps because you never lost it.” He raised his head, his absurdly perfect features set and grave, but not closed off. “I realize now I did myself a great disservice by giving it up. I must have been mad.” Then his mouth curved, very slowly, and his cheeks developed dimples. “But it doesn’t mean there aren’t other things I enjoy just as much.”

“Is it your favorite thing in the world?”

“No. There is something I love better.”

Chapter 21

M
aking a portrait required intense focus on the subject. Every aspect of Cynthia’s form and features had to be transmitted from the eye to the hand. As never before, Damian studied the nuances of her appearance: the indentation of her neck above the lace ruffle of her modest gown; pearly oval fingernails; faint blue veins showing through the pale skin at the wrist. His palms imagined the contours of shoulders and bosom, the latter lightly heaving when she laughed. And her face. He knew the curve of the brows descending to the shapely nose and the pink rosebud mouth, the smooth cheeks and jawline given character by the assertive little chin. Now he discovered the faintest shadows beneath each wide eye, thick lashes several shades darker than her hair, a little dip below the plump lower lip.

With every stroke and smudge of charcoal and fingers he felt his rusty skills return. While his work wasn’t as polished as it used to be, he had never applied himself to a portrait with greater fervor. The connection between subject and artist, Cynthia and himself, deepened as he drew. As he traced thin lines to define the quirk at each end of her mouth, she smiled.

“You moved just as I was drawing your mouth,” he complained.

“I’m sorry. You smiled and it made me respond.”

“I didn’t realize I had done so.”

“I wondered what you were thinking. You’ve been very quiet.”

“I was thinking that portraiture is like lovemaking.”

“Oh.” She blushed and bit her lip. “How so?”

“Stop moving your mouth. It is done best with complete concentration and, preferably, great knowledge of the subject.”

“Do you know me?”

“I am making it my business to do so better.”

“Can you not learn more from listening than looking?”

“Every sense conveys knowledge.”

“I’m not sure I want to smell anyone.” She wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t seem very romantic.”

“What of perfumes? You yourself favor a light rosewater.”

“I don’t like heavy aromatics.”

“A good thing. It would be a pity to mask your sweet natural scent. As for taste and touch, I wouldn’t wish to make the acquaintance of everyone through such sensual exploration, but their uses in amorous congress must be evident.”

Since he’d been staring at her fixedly for more than an hour, he detected the light flush that he suspected descended beneath her garments, the barely perceptible acceleration of her breathing. What a very fine thing it would be if she were to be as aroused by hearing talk of lovemaking as he was by delivering it. She didn’t seem to be unduly shocked. While he finished the drawing, he described out loud each minute detail of her face and the stroke of his fingers that conveyed it to paper. No word was spoken that could not have been uttered in a drawing room full of maiden aunts, but he aimed to spin a seductive web to ensnare the two of them. It wasn’t as though there was anything else to do. With luck they’d be caught in the snow for days.

“I
think that’s finished,” Damian said, dropping the stick of charcoal into the pencil box. “Stop me before I spoil it.”

Cynthia stretched her arms and rotated her neck. “I’m the opposite. I despair of improving my work and give up in disgust.”

“Do you wish to see it?”

Happy to move after holding the pose for half an hour, she stood beside him while he held the sketch pad at arm’s length. Once again, his talent astonished her “The way you have provided texture with the charcoal is marvelous. I can’t seem to get the shadows right, try as I may with crosshatching or by smearing the pencil.”

“I had some great teachers but I need practice. Shall we take lessons together?”

Nothing he said could have pleased her more. “I’m a mere dabbler compared to you, but I would enjoy it very much. May I have the drawing?”

“If you wish. As long as I have the original.”

The glow that had warmed her blood while he drew and talked, bloomed to full heat. Peeking sideways, she found him looking at her with unabashed hunger. Whatever else her husband felt, he desired her.

They were alone in a bedchamber with nothing else to do. Did it matter that it was barely noon?

She took a deep breath, then cursed the door and whatever servant had decided to knock on it.

“Come in,” Damian said.

It was Harrison, the coachman. “Excuse me, my lord and my lady. It has stopped snowing and it’s warming up fast.” So it was. She had been too absorbed to notice the change in the quality of the daylight. “Will you be wishing to travel today? One of the wheels got knocked about a bit in the storm last night. The ostler here thinks it’s safe, but I’d like you to have a look at it, my lord.”

“I? I know nothing of wheels.”

“I’d as soon not travel without your agreeing.”

Damian raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Assuming that the carriage is, in my expert judgment, ready for use, I’ll return shortly and we can discuss our movements.” His smoldering gaze suggested that his immediate plan was very much in line with her own.

“And my lady,” Harrison went on.

“Yes?” Cynthia trusted she wasn’t expected to render an opinion on the soundness of the horses.

“I found some items of yours when I cleaned the carriage this morning. I gave them to Miss Matthews and I believe she brought them up with your bags.”

While Damian performed his unwelcome errand, Cynthia wandered into the other room to see if the things Harrison had found included her favorite shawl, which she hadn’t been able to find when they packed in a hurry. She discovered a pair of lace mittens, her silver needle case, and a familiar portfolio.

How did
that
come to be in the carriage? It must have been stowed under the seat on Damian’s orders sometime in the last few days. With guilty excitement she carried it into the larger bedchamber and spread the pictures on the bed. Should she lock the door? No need. Matthews wouldn’t enter without knocking and if Damian came back? Well, she wouldn’t mind being surprised by him in the act of examining his portfolio. It would save her from bringing up the subject.

There were a dozen of them, just as beautiful and outlandish as she recalled, glowing with gilt and rich vibrant colors. Like Oliver she pondered the technique, but only in a passing thought. Her attention settled on a painting she hadn’t looked at in detail before. A sloe-eyed lady, entirely naked save for a pair of bracelets, lay on a pile of pillows. No one was putting anything into anything in this particular view. What shocked her was that there were
two
men with her. Turbaned and robed, they sat cross-legged and impassive, just looking at her, avidly and with utmost concentration, as though she were the most fascinating thing in the world.

Thus had Damian regarded her while he drew her portrait and she had glowed under the intensity of his gaze. Supposing, instead of being swathed to the neck in wool, she had undressed for him. Her breathing deepened.

Two men! Did women actually consort with two men at the same time? The idea amazed, appalled, and on a deep level attracted her. What if she were that reclining beauty? It was a thought that would have her thrown out of Birmingham forever, if she dared voice it, which she never would. For a moment she let herself dwell on the notion of sharing a bed with two men at the same time, but there was only one she wanted. However, it didn’t do any harm to let her fancy toy with a little foreign wickedness. She’d never act on it and no one would ever know what went on in her head. Imagining herself in the position of the Persian lady, she felt silk cushions under her skin, heard the distant song of a fountain, inhaled the scent of strange flowers. Two pairs of eyes seized every inch of her revealed flesh, admiring and wanting her. She was all powerful and utterly vulnerable.

Moaning, she leaned against the stout bedpost and clasped her hand to her aching secret place. Pressing and rubbing relieved her ache for a moment, and then her desire mounted and the intervention of wool and linen was an unsupportable barrier to pleasure. She clawed at her skirts, burrowed beneath the layers, and found herself wet and wanting. It was easy, she discovered, to pleasure herself, and she regretted all the years she had done without. She didn’t even have to look at the picture. It was etched on her mind when she closed her eyes and imagined lustful gazes devouring her. Her middle finger found the place that, when agitated, brought her to the height of joy. She tumbled into bliss and feared her legs would collapse under her. A pair of strong arms and a hard body saved her from falling.

Oh God.

She tried to pull away, shamed to her toes that she had been discovered like this, her hand up her skirts.

“Don’t,” Damian said softly against her temple. “Stay.”

Face on fire, she hung her head. “I don’t . . .” She couldn’t even complete a sentence.

“Watching you pleasure yourself was beautiful. And exciting.” Because she was looking down she saw the proof of it, straining against the fall of his breeches. “I take it you like my pictures.”

“Why are they here?” She dwelled on an inessential.

“I was going to give them to a friend and I am glad I did not. I thought you would be shocked.”

“I am, but . . .” Daring to look at him she found that his gaze, hot and steady, rekindled her heat.

“That makes me very happy. Tell me what you think when you look at them.” Keeping an arm around her, he pointed at the one with the two men. “At that one, say.”

“She likes to be looked at.”

He tilted his head and regarded the miniature with his artist’s eye. “So she does. By two men at once, no less. Would you like that?”

“Not really. But I like it in the drawing.” She spoke barely above a whisper. “I like it when you look at me.”

“And I want to oblige you.” His smile was wide and his dimples pronounced. “With fewer clothes, I think.”

Fever rippled through her. “Yes, please,” she said.

He set about undressing her with the quiet competence of a well-trained maid, except that it was nothing like being disrobed by Matthews. When her maid got her ready for bed her breasts didn’t swell or her belly throb. When Matthews loosened the drawstring of her shift she didn’t have strong, masculine hands, artist’s hands, to slide the garment off her shoulders. Matthews didn’t leave her naked and she did not stare at her mistress.

“Stay there,” he commanded. “Put your hands behind your neck and hold on to the bedpost.” The posture raised her bosom and left her body exposed, without a hand to offer a fig leaf to her sex. Stepping back a couple of feet, he surveyed her slowly, starting with her bare toes and moving up her legs, lingering over the fair curls, her curved hips and belly, the prominent breasts. As his eyes passed each place, she fancied he touched her with a feather’s caress. Her skin tingled, her nipples tightened, and her private place grew wetter. She clenched her inner muscles and swiveled her hips.

“Don’t move,” he said. “See how excited you can become just from me looking at you.”

She’d often felt invisible, starved for notice and attention. Never had she envisioned this delicious scrutiny. “Do many people enjoy being looked at?”

He considered his answer with the same calm deliberation with which he continued to examine her body. “I don’t know if it’s common, but you aren’t alone. Some people have special things that arouse them. Can you guess what mine is?”

Wide-eyed, she shook her head. He came over to her, casually tweaked her hard nipples with his fingertips, and whispered in her ear. Something in French she didn’t understand except for that one word.

“I see,” she said. “You like to use the kind of words they don’t use in Birmingham.”

“Dreadfully dull place.”

“Do you always speak in French?”

“Sometimes German or Italian. I shall have to tutor you.”

“I would like to learn words for certain things.” She touched her sex and, greatly daring, the bulge of his, through the soft doeskin of his breeches. “Also, I should like to look at you.”

“While I undress, look at the drawings and tell me what you see.”

Turning her back on him, not without a sway of her hips for his benefit, she picked up one of the miniatures. “The man is lying back on his elbows. The woman straddles him and is about to lower herself onto his . . . male member. There must be a better word for it?” She heard rustling cloth and a heavy garment tossed aside.

“There are dozens. I prefer
cock
. Short and sweet.”

“In this picture the lady seems to think so. Or sweet, anyway, since she is about to taste it. I would estimate that the gentleman’s cock is not especially short, though I don’t have a frame of reference for comparison.”

“You have quite a talent for dirty speaking yourself, my lady.” More rustling and a boot lying on its side, visible from the corner of her eye.

“Thank you, my lord.” She dropped a curtsey, which ought to give him a splendid view of her bare bottom. Feeling his heated eyes on her behind made up for not watching him remove his clothes. She visualized the emergence of his . . . cock.
Cock
. It was good to know its name since she intended to think about it a lot henceforth.

“Describe another.” His voice was muffled so he must be removing his shirt.

“Goodness, this one is very peculiar. The man is lying on his back with knees against his shoulders. His cock is sticking up and the lady has her back to him and seems to be about to sit on it. I should think it would be quite uncomfortable.”

“In that case we won’t try that one.” His voice shook with laughter.

She turned and discovered him almost as naked as she. “Are we going to try any of them?”

He stepped out of his breeches and flung them over the back of a chair. “Only if you would like.”

He was a magnificent specimen, her husband, firm and muscled and proportioned like a statue of a god. His cock looked long, hard, and ready. “I would like to try them all. Though maybe not that backward one.”

“Make your choice.”

Making herself return to the array of miniatures now that they had a rival for attention in Damian’s bare flesh, she put her imagination to work. “I am torn. This one is interesting. The woman is on her hands and knees and the man is taking her from behind.”