Love Letters (2 page)

“W
..w
..
where
?” She waited, breath held, to see if he’d recognize her voice.

He waved his hand dismissively.
“Where you stand.
Hurry now.”

Blast, but she couldn’t see his features. For some insane reason she needed to see his face just once before she undressed. He moved across the room, his strides long and purposeful. That confident stroll was so familiar, that memories assaulted her, rolling through her mind bittersweet. For a moment she thought she was fifteen again and anything was possible.

Even from afar, Brendon reeked of power. Deftly, he lit two more lanterns. It was only when he glanced back at her that she realized she was staring. She jerked her focus down and reached for the clasp on her cloak. Same square jaw, same lovely lips,
same
intense blue eyes.

With fingers that trembled, she managed to slip the sodden material from her shoulders and settled the cloak upon the back of a chair. Her gloves followed.

“Your hair down,” he demanded unapologetically.

If he was always this curt, no wonder why he needed a new model. They’d be running out the door the moment he spoke. What had happened to the charming man she’d known? Quickly, before she lost nerve, she pulled the pins from her hair. The thick tendrils fell in dark waves down her back and around her shoulders. She slipped the pins into her skirt pocket and paused, unsure how to continue.
Slow and seductive, or fast and sure?

“Hurry,” he
snapped,
his voice less than pleasant.

She
frowned,
reminding herself there was nothing to fear from this man. She knew Brendon.
Had taken tea in his parlor almost every day that summer ten years ago.
At least, she’d known him at one time. Now…well, now she wasn’t sure.

Bemused, she settled on the chair closest and pulled off her boots. She paused as she reached for her stockings. He’d seen her bare feet before, that day he’d stumbled upon her wading in the creek. There’d been no embarrassment then, only shyness, nothing erotic in the sight of her fifteen year old toes. Slowly, she dragged the rough wool down her legs. Her attention slid to that large bed settled so comfortably in the corner of the room. Was the attic where he slept, ate, worked? Like an animal trapped in a prison? Her stockings dropped to the floor.
Her feet bare, she paused once more, wiggling her toes against the chill boards.

She had lovely, slender feet, or so Mama had said.
As if it was something to be proud of, as if she could land the match of the season by the shape of her toes alone.
She quirked her head, wondering if Brendon would think they were lovely.

He cleared his throat, startling her. Clara snapped upright and reached for the buttons of her bodice before thinking twice. But as she met his gaze, she paused, her hands at her throat. He was watching her through narrowed eyes, studying her in a way that made her feel hot and chilled at the same time. Her breath caught and held. Had he finally recognized her?

His hooded gaze slowly traversed her body, starting at her head and working its way down her form. Did he study her as an artist did a subject, or as a man did a woman? Vaguely she was aware of the last button of her bodice coming undone under her nimble fingers. The material parted, leaving her corset and shift exposed. Beside her mother and maid, no one had ever seen her in a state of such undress. The realization made her feel oddly
seductive,
wicked even.

He tore his attention away, focusing on the table in front of him. “I’ll do a clay model first.”

“Of course.”

He’d given up everything to become a reclusive artist. Yet…it fit him somehow.
Those lovely, long fingers.
Those emotional eyes.
That brooding, romantic man she’d fallen in love with. Yes, he could be happy as an artist…but he obviously wasn’t. Sorrow hung around him as thick and heavy as her woolen cloak.

Elizabeth’s letter shifted through her mind. Clara could still remember every word of that missive sent to her over a year ago.

My brother has given up on life, I fear. The death of his wife destroyed Brendon’s spirit. He’s holed himself into a shack to practice art…art for Heaven’s sake. Mother is appalled and has claimed father is turning over in his grave…

Only a man who’d loved his wife well would mourn this hard. Part of her adored him for that, part of her hated him. Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, Clara dropped her bodice to the chair, hoping the movement might shock him from his solitude.

She was more than pleased when his shoulders stiffened. Her skirt followed in a swoosh that had him jerking his head upright. Suddenly, she found herself in only her shift and corset and yet no shyness prevailed. Only a thrilling sense of victory pulsed through her veins. She would gain his attention one way or another.

“Can you…” She paused, wondering how far she could tempt the beast.

He lowered his gaze and for a brief, embarrassing moment she thought he’d
refuse. Finally, he looked up. “Yes?”

“Can you help?”

He sighed, as if annoyed. Yet, with quick and sure steps he came closer. Clara’s heart pounded. The urge to run, to stand her ground, to hide…all flew through her mind at once. Instead, she froze and waited for him to see her for who she really was.
His sister’s friend, his peer, his love.

He paused only a few feet away. Those brilliant blue eyes pierced hers but no recognition warmed his gaze. Instead, a reluctant smile lifted the left corner of his mouth, a smile that hinted of youth and days of old.
A smile that tore at her heart.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” he asked.

She shook her head. Heat moved from her neck into her cheeks. He didn’t recognize her. Yet, he was close, so close she could see the gray flecks in his eyes. The sudden sting of tears burned, but she would not cry. Those harsh planes, the dark scruff on his chin and cheeks that said he hadn’t shaved in days…it
was
Brendon,
her
Brendon. The man had haunted her dreams for years, but he didn’t recognize her. Had she meant so little to him?

“Turn around.” His voice was gruff again.

She turned on unsteady legs, and the room wavered before her. Determined not to do something ridiculous, like faint, she focused on the chill breeze seeping through the cracks in the windows. Perhaps she’d made a mistake coming here. But the moment he stepped closer all concentration fled. A warm and welcoming heat radiated from his body. When his fingers actually rested against the nape of her neck, she
jumped,
the feel shockingly intimate.

“It’s all right,” he murmured softly, his breath a promise across her neck.

Clara closed her eyes, her body trembling in delight, begging for more even as her sensible mind told her to return home immediately. His hands brushed her hair over her shoulder, lingering in the strands longer than necessary. Why did he pause?

Just as suddenly as he had stopped, he started again. His fingertips skimmed down the arch of her neck, sending shivers over her skin. She closed her eyes, resisting the urge to sink into his warm body. How often had she dreamt of him touching her? But never like this…no,
her dreams had
been childish dreams of holding hands and sincere kisses. But now…the inside of her body seemed to have melted and she wouldn’t have been surprised if she fell into a puddle at his feet.

Deftly, he worked the clasps down her back until the corset parted and her lungs had room to expand. He tossed the stiff material to the chair. Free, she had to resist the urge to rub her tingling breasts.

He wondered to the windows, dismissing her. “There. Now come. No need to be nervous. I won’t bite.”

No, he wouldn’t apparently. But she just might.

“Remove your shift and we’ll get started.”

Remove your shift.
Bold words that frightened and thrilled her.
But she was merely a stranger…he didn’t recognize her. He’d probably seen hundreds of women naked. To him, she was no different. But to her…to her she would not be naked in front of a stranger, but the man she’d dreamt about for ten years now. Clara’s fingers bunched around the material at her hips.

Modesty fought with desire. Could she do it? She’d come so far, risked so much… how could she not? Swallowing hard, she slowly pulled at the soft shift. The hem brushed her calves…higher to her knees…higher to her thighs. Her heart pounded. Clara froze.

He’d barely gotten a look at her face. What if she turned and he recognized her? Why had she believed she could take this position and keep her emotions contained? She’d been fooling herself.
A stupid, stupid girl.

But she needed the coins. She needed her freedom. She had no choice. Brendon was paying well and she knew he’d be discreet, a gentleman…at least he had been. Was that gentleman still there, lurking underneath the gruff exterior? She could only pray he was. Taking in a deep breath, she pulled the shift over her head and dropped it to the chair.

Chapter 2

Dark clouds hovered above crumbling buildings that would do little to keep the weather at bay. Leaky roofs, broken windows…should it rain, the occupants would be chilled and soaked within minutes. Brendon stared unblinkingly at the grim scenery below. For days it’d been dreary, matching his mood.

In the months of solitude, he’d drank himself into a stupor, he’d slept the hours away, he’d worked on his art… he’d done everything possible to forget his previous life. A life he didn’t deserve. And now, because of a blushing, innocent beauty it all came rushing back.

She reminded him of the milkmaids back home, their sweet innocence so refreshing. Or the debutantes at their first ball, nervous yet excited.
Or a wife on her wedding night, eager and tempting.
He flinched at the comparison and raked his hands through his hair. He would
not
remember.

At least twenty females had come and gone as he searched for the perfect muse. He’d wondered if he’d ever find someone to inspire him, or perhaps he was doomed to a life of emptiness. And now with one look, he was terrified he’d found her. Perhaps it was her scent, sweet and clean, like dew on a country morning. Or perhaps it was her eyes, a particular shade of hazel that reminded him of spring fields in Devon. Or perhaps, it was the mere fact that she stood half-naked in the middle of his room.

A stab of loneliness clenched his gut. It had been months since he’d had the pleasure of a woman. She was lovely.
Beautiful.
What man wouldn’t be attracted to her?
Dark hair that caught the firelight and glistened, beautiful breasts that stretched the bodice of her gown.
Smooth skin that flushed pink like the inside of a shell…

He stiffened. Bloody
hell, that flush couldn’t be from embarrassment,
could it? He’d told his butler to find him someone a little more inexperienced, yet he hadn’t expected a virgin. Gads, just the thought made him
blanche
. He shook off the feeling. There was no possible way an innocent had come to this part of town for a few measly coins.

Still, curious, he started to turn toward her when a carriage rolled to a stop across the street. Brendon paused, his gaze narrowing. He couldn’t say why the vehicle caught his attention, other than the fact that the black lacquer and gold finish proclaimed the vehicle belonged to one of wealth and stature and therefore obviously not from the area.

A gent looking for a whore?
Or something worse?
He’d witnessed just about every vile thing one could possibly imagine while residing here. Repulsive acts that made a person’s blood curl. And that’s why he’d picked this place, knowing the destitute area would match his mood. Knowing he didn’t deserve to live the life of a wealthy gent. A punishment… and it was.

Depression threatening once more, he turned away. He didn’t get far before he froze in midstep. The woman stood naked in front of him…completely and utterly devoid of clothing like an angel dropped in all her glory to hell.
Perfect porcelain skin, aglow as if lit from inside.
Heat burst through his body; carnal and pulsing.
He wanted to touch every inch of her; run his hands down her curves and
study
her form. He wanted to paint her. He wanted to carve her likeness from marble so that she would be remembered forever. Hell, he wanted to
taste
her, touch her,
breathe
in her feminine scent.

An uncomfortable tightness rushed to his groin. Slowly, his gaze lowered from her face to her breasts.
Soft, lovely mounds that would fit perfectly into his palms.
His mouth went dry. Mauve colored nipples that were peaked hard, begging to be kissed. His fingers curled. Narrow waist, hips that flared into long legs…legs made for wrapping around a man. This was no whore. This was a goddess.