Nicole Jordan (35 page)

Diana actually believed Thorne’s protestations of innocence, since she didn’t think he would lie that baldly to her. And so she gave herself up to his fervent embrace, all the while feeling a measure of pride that she had sold several of her paintings without his aid.

It was two days after that when Thorne strolled into her dining room while she was breakfasting, smiling smugly as he set a newspaper on the table before her.

“Did you happen to see the
Morning Chronicle
yet? I had nothing to do with this, either, I’ll have you know.”

On the front page, Diana saw, taking up a full third of the sheet, was a column by England’s major art critic of the day, Lord Howell, regarding the current exhibit at the British Academy for the Fine Arts.

Thorne settled at the table uninvited and helped himself to coffee while she swiftly read.

Her stomach knotted when her name leapt out at her, but Lord Howell seemed to have muted his usual vitriolic pen in favor of lauding her talent.

 

Miss Sheridan is the freshest artist to come along in a decade…. Her use of luminosity and color to create atmosphere is nothing short of remarkable…. The fact that she is female is frankly even more remarkable, given the restrictions under which she must work. Miss Sheridan has recently been permitted to enroll in classes at the British Academy for the Fine Arts, but it is this columnist’s opinion that she is skilled enough to teach expression, perspective, and composition at this very moment, and that it would be a great pity if she allowed her professors to stymie her obvious genius….

 

The entire column was unabashed praise of her work from a prime arbiter of artistic taste in Britain, and Diana was stunned.

Thorne chuckled at her overwhelmed look. “Howell prides himself on his own genius, and his approval could not have been bought for any sum, even had I tried. This is solely the result of your own talent and dedication to your craft. I predict you’ll be in great demand now, so you had best keep your appointment book handy.”

Thorne’s prediction proved to be utterly correct. Before Diana had even finished breakfasting, her footman announced that she had a visitor awaiting her in the drawing room.

When she went to investigate, a tall, silver-haired matron with a haughty expression greeted her. “I am Lady Ranworth, Miss Sheridan. You will recall we met at Lady Hennessy’s recent ball. I am an intimate of Judith’s, and she gave me the direction of your studio. Pray forgive me for calling at this early hour, but after that most admiring article in the
Chronicle
this morning, I thought I had best act to secure your time before anyone else does. I wish to offer you a commission to paint my portrait.”

After an addled moment, Diana managed a smile. “I would be pleased to paint you, Lady Ranworth. When would you like to arrange your first sitting?”

“As soon as possible. I expect any number of my friends will wish to have their portraits painted by you, and I want to be first.”

Diana hoped that was the case. One of the few successful female portraitists of the last century, Angelica Kauffman, had earned a very good living by developing a secure circle of patrons among well-born British ladies.

“Would tomorrow morning suit you?”

“That would be most excellent.”

They set the time for the appointment and agreed on a price—four times the sum that Diana’s portraits had fetched in the country.

After showing Lady Ranworth out, Diana returned to the dining room, still marveling at her sudden change of fortune.

Thorne was still there, reading the morning papers. “Good news?” he asked as Diana sank distractedly into her chair.

“
Amazing
news. I have just been offered my first commission since coming to London.” Lifting her gaze to Thorne’s, she shook her head. “I think I must be dreaming. If I pinch myself, I will awaken.”

Thorne merely grinned. “I won’t be so trite as to say I told you so, but only warn you not to accept too many commissions just now. Until you finish my portrait, I have first claim on your time, and I mean to hold you to it.” His voice dropped to a husky murmur. “Besides, I have yet to pose fully nude for you, and you require practice painting nudes.”

Diana felt her cheeks warm at the wicked, heated look Thorne was giving her. Then casually he returned to perusing the papers, leaving her body tingling with anticipation of their next sitting, just as the rogue had obviously intended.

Sixteen

T
horne did
indeed insist on posing nude for their next sitting, but Diana willingly agreed, rationalizing that this could be her best and perhaps only opportunity to study the male form.

Rather than complete his nearly finished shipboard portrait, she used the time to make detailed sketches of his body, particularly his chest but also the forbidden area of his loins. But as usual, Thorne made concentration difficult.

He lay reclining at ease on the chaise longue, lean, lithe, and naked, while she sat in an adjacent chair with her sketch pad. All too often Diana found her focus straying from her task to marvel at her subject. Thorne was a beautiful god of a man, and intensely sexual, with his loins fully aroused.

After a quarter hour or so, he arched his back and stretched, as if to purposely call attention to the part of his body that could give her such wild pleasure.

Diana managed to ignore him until he complained of the chill. The spring weather had turned exceedingly fine of late, enough to forgo a fire in her studio, and the sunlight streaming in the long windows had further raised the temperature, so that his grievance only made her suspect a ploy.

“If you like,” she offered wryly, “I will fetch you a blanket to cover your bare limbs.”

“I would rather have
you
covering me, sweeting. I think you should come here and warm me.”

She shot Thorne an exasperated look. “Can you not control your lust for a mere hour?”

“I can, certainly, but why the devil would I wish to?”

His irreverent charm made her want to laugh, and when he gave her the full effect of his lazy smile, Diana felt a flush warm her entire body.

“I don’t know how much longer I can last,” Thorne drawled. “I had no trouble becoming aroused with you studying me so intently. But if you want my manhood to remain erect for much longer, you need to offer me some incentive, such as taking off your clothes.”

“Your manhood needn’t remain erect for my sake. Your mere nudity is adequate for my purposes.”

Holding her gaze, he reached down to cup his swollen member. “Wouldn’t you like to feel this inside you?” he asked, his voice now maddeningly sensuous.

Remembering that heat and hardness filling her, Diana felt her mouth go dry. Thorne was uncompromisingly masculine, thoroughly shameless, and entirely too irresistible.

“Half an hour more,” she replied, summoning all her willpower.

He lay back with a smug smile. “Very well, but you are deceiving yourself if you think you can hold out that long against me.”

Thorne proved to be right that time; Diana lasted a mere twenty minutes longer, despite her vows to resist his wicked blandishments. But it was his next lesson in pleasure that was truly wicked—when he made
her
pose nude for
him
and then painted her body instead of a canvas.

Until then Diana had never known her profession could be so erotic.

He started by undressing her and lightly kissing the now-healed bullet scar on her shoulder. Next, he shed his own clothing, leaving his beautiful body entirely naked, since his own injuries no longer required bandages. Then, laying her down on the chaise, Thorne knelt beside her and made use of the sponges. Finally he opened the basket he had brought with him.

Lifting out two wooden bowls—one of lush, ripe strawberries, one of clotted cream—he bit into a juicy berry and ran the sweet pulp over Diana’s lips before allowing her to eat it. All the while he made no effort to disguise his blatant appraisal of her body.

His sensual scrutiny made her loins throb; she could feel his glance heat her skin, just as if he was caressing her with his lips, with his warm breath. The next strawberry he bit into, he rubbed on her nipples, then bent to suck off the juice, making Diana inhale a breath and arch involuntarily.

“Hungry?” he asked tauntingly as he fed her the berry. “I certainly am, but not for food. And for what I have in mind, I want you just so….”

He arranged her limbs to his satisfaction: her left arm draped over the back of the chaise, the other resting beside her bare hip, her left leg upraised slightly, knee bent, while her right fell over the edge of the seat, her foot touching the floor.

“I like the flagrant display,” he said thoughtfully, those devilish eyes moving over her with raking leisure. “But I want you hot and wanton, all wet and hungry for me.”

His hands reaching for her, he slid his thumbs upward to brush the underside of her breasts, shooting sparks through Diana.

When he pinched one nipple into an obedient pout, she clenched her teeth. “Do you mean to torment me?”

His slow smile was part wolfish, wholly enticing. “Oh, yes. But mainly I intend to play the artist today.” He dipped a forefinger in the thick cream. “I’ve always appreciated art. It excites the senses and stimulates the intellectual faculties….”

Lazily his slick finger coated the engorged tips of her breasts, his erotic attentions instantly making her ache with pleasure.

“And I’ve always admired your skills….”

Dipping into the cream once more, he used careful brushstrokes to first paint the dusky triangle of curls between her thighs and then the lips of her sex, daubing until Diana was whimpering with need.

“But today,” Thorne said wickedly before bending his golden head, “I mean to show you just how artistically talented
I
can be.”

He
was
artistically talented, Diana discovered to her incredible delight. Amazingly so.

That sensual afternoon, however, was the last time she allowed herself the luxury of indulging in Thorne’s lessons in pleasure, since in a matter of days, the
Chronicle
article had made her art the latest rage of the ton. Half the noble ladies in London, it seemed, suddenly wanted Diana to paint them, and her portraits were in such high demand that she had difficulty making time in her schedule for all her new commissions. She was even required to turn down several of them.

The following day when Thorne came to collect Diana for a five-o’clock drive in the park, she was completing the final stage of her very first commission, adding the draperies to Lady Ranworth’s portrait.

When she begged off their drive, Thorne sympathetically agreed, but before taking his leave, he paused to study the nearly finished work on her easel.

“I don’t recall Lady Ranworth looking this striking,” he observed. “You have more than done her justice.”

Diana smiled a bit sardonically as she added a dab of vermillion to the canvas. “I believe I mentioned the importance of flattery. I learned long ago that for a portraitist to sell, it is wise to improve the features of the sitter and to play down the worst flaws. Subjects are more willing to pay high prices for pleasing portraits than for ugly ones.”

Thorne walked over to inspect her finished portrait of him onboard ship, which was leaning against the far studio wall, in the final stage of drying.

“So you purposely embellished my attractions in my portrait? How lowering.”

At his pained tone, Diana uttered a wry laugh. “Doubtless you are fishing for compliments, your lordship. But at the risk of puffing up your self-esteem any higher than it is, I admit that your attractions didn’t require the least bit of embellishing.”

Just then she heard a commotion beyond the open studio door—rapid footsteps mounting the stairs, accompanied by her cousin’s voice angrily calling her name. Amy had been to the house once before, Diana recalled, and no doubt knew the way to the studio.