Passion Wears Pearls (22 page)

The brazier next to her perch on the couch did little to ward off the chill in the room, but Eleanor was comfortable in the warm layers of silk and velvet that encased her. Not to mention the additional experience of fiery-sweet tendrils of pleasure that revisited her with every recollection of his kisses.

He’d asked her for mercy and she’d dutifully retreated in a daze to the sanctuary of the Grove. But with the morning’s light, Eleanor had learned that despite her decadent proclamation, there had been no divine punishment, no strikes of lightning, and most shocking of all, no outward mark or change to reflect her inner transformation.

She was determined to demonstrate to him that she was not only “unharmed,” as he’d put it, but capable of enduring as many of those wonderful kisses as the man could inflict. The challenge was to see if she could persuade him to it, without overtly being brazen or upsetting his pride and honor.

“Do you … mix all the colors yourself?” she asked, admiring the contents of the tiny jars spread out across the floor next to him.

“Every painter guards his formulas with great zeal. See this red? This is for your hair. I added gold dust to try to capture the luster of your curls.”

“How horribly extravagant!” she gasped.

“Your coloring demanded it, Miss Beckett. We cannot cheat now.”

She shook her head. “You will bankrupt yourself, sir. Between the cost of your model and her ridiculous coloring, I cannot see how this is a very sound financial enterprise.”

“This is art, Miss Beckett. We cannot think of pecuniary matters when we are pursuing greatness,” he said
loftily, then gave her a wink. “Which is why artists are infamous for proudly starving, I’m sure.”

“Poor things!” She sighed, then straightened her shoulders before he could correct her. “I am glad that you are not starving, Mr. Hastings.”

“Thank you, Miss Beckett.”

Time slipped away as Eleanor allowed herself to enjoy the sight of him swept up in his pursuit of greatness. Josiah’s hands moved in a dance, from the palette to the canvas and back, and the wicked echo of her dream came back as she imagined that it was her skin he was painting, the cool of the oil touching her face and throat, or sliding down across the planes of her belly.

“Beautiful,” he muttered under his breath. “Just beautiful.”

“What do you find beautiful, Mr. Hastings? I mean, you said before about a woman’s hair being so fascinating to a man, and I begin to wonder, what else … has that power?” She blushed. “I was curious, as to the general subject, of course, and not to you in particular. It is an—academic question.”

“Of course.” He smiled, openly amused at the topic. “Miss Beckett, for a woman who professes to adhere to decorum, you do bring up the most surprising things, but since it is
academic …”

“Entirely academic, Mr. Hastings.”

“In that moment, I was admiring the slope of your eyebrows, Miss Beckett. You are a geometric feast of curves and lines today, and I was merely grateful for it.”

“Oh!” She sighed.

“You’re disappointed?”

“A little,” she confessed. “I’ve not given one thought in my lifetime to my eyebrows, Mr. Hastings, and I should be comforted by that fact. But if beauty is so entirely out of my control or perception, it’s a frightening thing for a woman, isn’t it? Since beauty is supposed to be one of my singular goals, is it not?”

“So they say,” Josiah said, continuing to work as they
settled into the conversation. “But you have never professed any interest in such shallow pursuits as vanity, Eleanor.”

“True! I’m not going to waste hours of my life in front of a mirror. But here I am and there you are—and even after all this time, it still feels strange to think that anything about me appeals. It is a mystery, Mr. Hastings.”

“Describe a beautiful woman to me.”

She began to fidget, but held still out of habit when he started to growl. “Very well. She has golden hair, smooth and lovely without a single rebellious snarl or curl, and gentle blue eyes. Her skin is porcelain and she is quite petite and dainty. She is fashionable and neat, and her feet are well positioned.”

“Well positioned?”

“Yes. My mother said my feet pointed out like a farm hand’s. I’m not sure she’d ever seen a farm hand, but apparently, a lady is not supposed to stand like she’s claiming territory or about to break into a march.” She smiled. “I am grateful that the length of my skirts forces you to use your imagination, Mr. Hastings.”

“How provocative of you!” His hands moved faster, the conversation inspiring him as his vision mercifully stayed clear. “I shall imagine that your feet are perfection and allow you to keep your secrets.”

“As you keep yours?”

“Mine? I have no secrets.” Josiah kept his eyes on the canvas, unwilling to look at her as he spoke such a blatant lie.

“Do you not?”

“If I did, it doesn’t seem prudent to admit it, Miss Beckett.”

“You never answered my question, Mr. Hastings.” She cleared her throat. “About what you find appealing in a woman?”

“You must, of course, vow to keep this information to yourself.”

“I promise.”

“Well, besides the obvious appealing bits—”

“And what would be obvious, sir?”

“Miss Beckett, please! The obvious would be a sweet nature, lyrical talents, and a constant heart,” he teased, dabbing a bit of white paint onto his brush. “Let’s see, as a wicked representative of my gender, I will confess that what physically appeals most about a woman is an elusive list. Censoring myself somewhat, I can say I have a personal weakness for the soft curve just at her throat, where her collarbone draws the eyes across to the lines of her shoulders and neck. Not to omit the shape of her ears and ankles, the smell of her skin, and most decidedly, the irresistible grace of the inside of her wrists and that little pulse that can betray her innermost feelings.” He sighed. “Better to ask what doesn’t appeal, Miss Beckett, for I’m sure the list would be shorter.”

She laughed. “What doesn’t appeal?”

He shook his head, the idea suddenly sobering him because there was nothing about Eleanor Beckett that didn’t appeal. But it went beyond the color and beauty of her form, and he knew it. He loved these impossible questions that made her blush and the even more impossible answers that made him burn for her. He loved the turns of her mind and her naïve and curious nature.

“Don’t move, Miss Beckett. Shoulders back, if you please.” He did his best to pretend to paint until his nerves had steadied. “If you’d like to take a break …”

“No, Mr. Hastings! I would—”

But Escher’s arrival with a tray overrode her protest, the older man crossing the room with his usual groaning, unsteady gait. Josiah turned to watch his progress, then shifted back to his work as Escher rested the platter down, his relief apparent. “There’s a note, sir.”

Josiah glanced over his shoulder at the familiar gray shadow of Escher, but didn’t move from his stool. “What does it say, good man?” Josiah asked, dabbing his brush to the canvas.

Mr. Escher rolled his eyes but dutifully broke the seal on the note. “Josiah, our contact at the
Times
reports that a
response to our placement has been received. The Jackal has taken the bait and the Jaded are set. His identity remains unknown. No word from Thorne on—”

“That’s enough, thank you, Escher.” Josiah came back to the present with a quick snap of embarrassment. He’d been so involved in what he was doing he’d sacrificed discretion and included Eleanor on the worst of the Jaded’s business. “I’ll see to it later.”

Escher withdrew with only a few grumbles and closed the door behind him.

“The Jackal? The Jaded?” she asked, her eyes wide with awe. “Are you in pursuit of a spy or a notorious criminal, Mr. Hastings?”

He had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling. “Not exactly. It’s … just a bit of business. My friends and I are working on … resolving a private matter.”

“Is Mr. Rutherford involved?”

“Why?” he asked, oddly irritated by the question. “Are you concerned for Michael’s safety?”

“Hardly. But as he is concerned with yours, I would very much want to make sure your protective older brother and nanny is aware of any nonsense you’ve entangled yourself in that includes jackals and bait,” she shot back calmly. “Not that I mean to pry into your personal business.”

His irritation evaporated. She was so formidable and so enticing, Josiah found himself wondering how any man withstood the combination of a beautiful woman who possessed such fiery wit. “I am a member of a small circle of gentlemen known as the Jaded, and while it sounds wicked, I think there are knitting circles that get into more mischief.”

“Knitting circles aren’t generally baiting jackals and placing furtive advertisements in the papers, Mr. Hastings.” Eleanor’s green eyes blazed with disapproval. “Again, not that it concerns me.”

Josiah bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “I was only guessing since I cannot knit.”

“You are a rogue, Mr. Hastings.” This time it was
Eleanor who gave in to the odd humor of the moment and lost the battle to smile. “And I, for one, imagine there are dozens of knitting circles relieved to do without you.”

He waited a few seconds until her shoulders relaxed before he touched the brush to the canvas. “What are you thinking, Miss Beckett?”

“I’m thinking I should have gotten those character references when you offered them to me.”

He laughed. “Are you thirsty, Miss Beckett? Why don’t I ring for Escher to come back to bring us something to drink?”

Eleanor’s face betrayed her confusion. “But he’s already brought us refreshments, Mr. Hastings. It’s there on the tray, is it not?”

Josiah turned quickly, as if he’d spotted a cobra on the table. “Ah! Yes, so he has! I didn’t even bother to look. Shall I pour you a glass, then?”

She shook her head slowly. “No, thank you.”

He dismissed the idea of pouring himself a glass, all too aware that his luck hadn’t been very solid lately. Josiah wasn’t in the mood for another “inexplicable” spill. He picked up a different brush and his palette, reacquiring the point on the canvas he’d been working on and trying to orient his vision. “Back to it, then.”

“You are all business today, Mr. Hastings.”

“I am a man on a mission, Miss Beckett.” He looked up at her. “Hold still, please.”

“Mr. Hastings.” She sighed. “Why haven’t you kissed me again?”

Damn. So much for my peace of mind. …

“I’d rather not say, Miss Beckett.” He started to lift his brush, but Josiah knew it was a sham. He was seconds away from “obliging” her again, and forfeiting the day.

“You said I could never overstep. And I left yesterday, when you asked, without protest.”

“You were—very kind to do so, Miss Beckett. I am in your debt.”
God, it’s all so formal and I can feel the lightning sparking up my spine because I’m right back where
we left off in the park. Because if I know anything of my Eleanor, next comes—

“I wish you to kiss me again, Mr. Hastings. I wish that you would, if only to prove to myself that it was real.” She was blushing so beautifully it made his chest ache to look at her.

He set his brush and palette down, as carefully as he could, and unfolded from his seat. “Let’s have at it, then, and see if we can’t set all these questions to rest and get back to work, shall we?”

“Yes.” She answered breathlessly, waiting for him with eyes that mirrored his every want. “Yes, please.”

He went down on one knee on the dais, and without preamble, leaned over to gently pull her into his arms. Whatever light kiss he’d intended was immediately lost as something inside of him broke free and begged to have nothing between them. She sighed at the first touch of his lips to hers, and Josiah let it all go—there was nothing restrained or held back.

Here was a bruising conquest without a victim, for his Eleanor matched his urgency and hunger as the kiss began as if there had been no interruption from the park. He sampled every corner of her mouth and feasted on the sensations and passion she evoked inside of him, her body molding to his as his hands pressed her against his chest.

His cock grew heavy and hard, and he almost shuddered at the churning fire in his blood that coiled inside of him and demanded release. Lust poured through him, and Josiah groaned at the long-lost memory of what it could be to truly drown in a woman’s embrace. Eleanor arched against his caresses, her hands frantically seeking purchase on his sleeves and shirtfront, molding her body to his, spurring him on.

He kissed her neck and teased the hollow of her throat with his tongue only to find the sensitive juncture of the trail where her neck and shoulder came together in a firm curve that begged for the playful work of a man’s teeth until she cried out to plead for more. His breath fanned the
gentle rise of her breasts just above the gown’s décolletage, sweeping over the modest curves of her body and savoring the heat of her breasts when she shifted up against him.

Eleanor had never dreamt that every inch of her skin could become electrically linked to create an overwhelming cascade of tingling arcs that ignored even physics and gravity. He nipped at her throat and shoulder, and her breasts tightened until the fiery points of her nipples ached at the touch of her own clothes. His breath fanned her ears and her thighs trembled, a coil of tension between her hips answering every unspoken command with primal promises of fulfillment.

Josiah found her delectably curved bottom beneath all the layers of her heavy skirt and petticoats, to lift her up against him and then allow her to slide ever so slowly back down onto the fainting couch, pressing her back to recline against its curved cushions.

Too easily. Too quickly. He was caught up in it, lost to the sweet discovery that whatever lesson he’d thought to teach her, he’d forgotten all common sense along the way.

It was too easy to slide red velvet up to give his hands what they craved. His proper lady wore proper stockings and flannel drawers, but he sought her flesh through the opening in her underclothes and found the velvet folds of her sex, already dripping with honey and slick with want.