Passion Wears Pearls (30 page)

There was no gentility in the primal drive to possess her. He took no quarter and showed no mercy. It was a punishing force, thrusting forward up inside of her so completely that she cried out at the culmination of each push, surrendering to him completely. On and on, Josiah relentlessly took all that she offered, his desire fueled by the smell of her sex and the sounds of their flesh slapping together. Eleanor’s mews and moans of pleasure were oddly melodious, a sensual siren’s call so strong he didn’t care if he was being led to his doom anymore.

Pain and pleasure intertwined and Eleanor gave in to all of it, her skin marbling at the intensity of his touch. Her heart was pounding as the ache inside of her turned into a molten coil of tension. It was a glorious fall she’d never imagined. Her nerve endings blazed with a new sensitivity that made it difficult for her to breathe. Even so, she wanted more—so much more. “H-harder! Yes!”

He complied, one hand buried in her hair, riding her, civilization falling away, his cock growing even thicker as his arousal reached its peak. He could feel every inch of her, velvet inside velvet, and the raw pull and grip of her channel against him had him in thrall.

“Josiah, please …”

Fingering the small little pucker of flesh forbidden to him, he pressed into her and she screamed as she came at last, in great bucking spasms that forced him to let go of her hair so that he could grip her hips to keep his balance. It was a white-hot ecstasy that erased his sense of self, and he jetted inside of her, thrusting with each wave of his release
until he wasn’t sure where her climax had ended or his begun. It was a spiral of release that made him both conqueror and conquered.

He collapsed next to her, without withdrawing from her body, unwilling to break the connection or relinquish his hold, vaguely aware that he’d never fully taken off his pants. They were both covered in sweat despite the chill in the room, and Josiah leaned over to rescue the remnants of his shirt to keep her warm as best he could. But it took long minutes before his powers of speech returned.

“Eleanor,” he began, “that was …”

“No words, Josiah. Just hold me. Please”—she sighed, arching back against him—“just hold me.”

He held her, breathing in the scent of her hair and skin, tasting her arousal on his lips, and then one last thought echoed in his mind before an exhausted sleep claimed him.

It’s finished.

Afterward, Josiah awoke alone on the dais, surprised that he’d drifted off at all, and unsure of the hour, only to realize that Eleanor was gone. A quick search confirmed that the worst had happened. It was still early in the afternoon, but she had left without a farewell. There wasn’t even a note or a single sign that she’d graced his life beyond the painting that remained.

He had loved and lost.

To add to his disoriented misery, his vision had deteriorated. His vision was poor enough to hamper any sudden moves to action, but he knew it was due to more than fatigue. He reclaimed his clothes and headed downstairs to his bedroom to clean himself and decide what to do. Josiah briefly considered drafting her a letter but wasn’t sure if his handwriting would hold. He was convinced that sending her some scrawled nonsense in uneven lines wouldn’t assist his cause—and he’d be damned if he was going to dictate his innermost turmoil for poor Escher to spell out.

It occurred to him that he could summon his solicitor to
try to come up with some excuse to see her.
A new proposal for another work? Or will she recognize it for some weak personal plea to stay awhile longer … ?

Until what? Until my vision fails and I need a cane? Until she realizes her mistake and regrets everything?

He changed out of his clothes and dressed by habit in the simpler darker elements in his wardrobe, ignoring the choices his dressing room displayed for a life he no longer led. Silk coats and tailored waistcoats for parties and social evenings he no long enjoyed. Like the home he’d designed and furnished that now sat mostly unused, Josiah did his best to push aside the ghosts that plagued him and returned to his bedroom.

He paused in front of his makeshift altar and remembered how Eleanor had asked if he were a heathen, as only Eleanor Beckett could. The memory flooded through him and he had to bite his tongue to keep from speaking her name.

Pathetic. I’m already pathetic. This is insane.

Should I send the carriage? Would she come? Or is it worse if I send it and she doesn’t. …

“Damn it!” Josiah threw the bronze goddess into the corner, the racket of it striking the wall giving him a wicked fleeting satisfaction before the inevitable heartache took its place.

He walked over to retrieve it, and was forced to fumble about as the shadows bled into the gray cords drifting into the right side of his vision. As he searched on his hands and knees with outstretched fingers, a dozen instances when he could have declared his feelings to her echoed in his head—all lost opportunities that a dozen fortunes couldn’t gain him. He’d come so close to happiness, but Josiah wasn’t even sure that a man could complain of being robbed if he’d deliberately kept his doors unlocked and his most precious treasure unclaimed.

After a few moments, the familiar outline of small woman in bronze came into his hands. He lifted her up and studied her serene little face. “Are you damaged?” he
whispered, running his fingers over the statuette. It was intact, and he sighed in relief. “Well, that makes one of us, my beauty.”

It was a small thing, but he’d regretted his tantrum instantly. He returned Lakshmi to her place of honor and then lit a stick of incense, centering his thoughts out of habit and taking a few deep breaths.

“So much for wisdom. …”

Josiah knelt on the silk cushion and it was a long time before he had the heart to move.

Later that same evening, Josiah tried to eat his dinner alone in the studio by candlelight, sitting with her painting propped up next to the table. He’d rearranged his food several times, without much hope of deceiving his cook into believing that he hadn’t lost his appetite.

He raised his glass to Eleanor’s image, whispering in the quiet. “My prim and proper beauty. You’re wiser than I to avoid farewells. I’m not sure I’d have had the mettle for it. Hell, I’d say it’s a sure bet I’d have forfeited every promise I’ve made to myself and thrown honor out the window.”

“Is this the company you’re keeping these days?” Rowan’s voice interrupted his thoughts from the open doorway. “I’m not sure I can approve of a man talking to—”

The abrupt end of his speech made Josiah set down his brandy, instantly wary. “Rowan? Are you unwell?”

“Oh, my God! It’s …”

“Say it.” Josiah braced himself for the worst. “Don’t let our friendship stand in the way.”

“Remarkable!” West walked over, as reverently as a man
approaching an altar. “I’ve never seen anything like it, but I don’t know why. I mean”—Rowan crossed his arms and took another long, hard look—“it’s a portrait of a woman in a red velvet dress. But it’s … compelling and I’m—the colors, Hastings! It’s so vibrant and … she’s sitting still but I swear it’s as if she’s going to blink at any moment and a man doesn’t want to miss it. I thought you were a good painter before, but this … my God, Hastings! You’ve captured her and in a way I would never have imagined.”

Josiah lost his voice. All the sarcastic defenses he’d prepared evaporated as the emotional release of a triumph achieved washed over him.
I did it. Hell, I did it and I’m not even sure how. … It’s my masterpiece and all I want to do is see the thing away and gone because it isn’t her.

“You’re not an art critic, West, but I’ll take the praise all the same.”

“It’s done! And so quickly!” Rowan shook his head in amazement. “I’d come to make sure Rutherford had left you be and then was going to compliment you on that frightful-looking troll you’ve employed downstairs, but if you’ve finished it …”

“I finished it.”

“Damn,” Rowan whispered, still staring at the canvas.

The painting should have been pure scandal, a woman dressed in scarlet with her hair in wanton disarray, but it was the calm, unflinching fire and pristine self-awareness in the lady’s green eyes that defied judgment. Here was a woman refined and proud—who looked out without fear and dared a man to be worthy of touching even the hem of her garment.

“My sentiments exactly.” Josiah echoed the curse. “I’ve never finished a painting with such speed. I never saw a woman with such clarity. …”

“Who is she, Hastings?” Rowan asked.

“She is Miss Eleanor Beckett, a true lady and as pure and proper a soul as I have ever encountered.”
And the love of my life.

“A true lady and not a … professional model, then?” Rowan moved to the worktable and poured himself a brandy.
“Not that it matters. Cheer up, old friend. You’ll have Michael off your back, if that’s any consolation. And by God, it’s the masterpiece you wanted, Josiah.”

“Michael off my back?”

“You promised to dismiss her from harm’s way as soon as the painting was finished. And the timing couldn’t be better. Did you see the
Times
today?”

Josiah welcomed the change in subject, turning his back on Eleanor’s image and its soulful stare. “I didn’t. Is it set, then?”

“A week from Friday. Michael didn’t want to give him time to regroup or lay any traps. But since his good friend owns the gambling hall we agreed on, I think we’ll be safe enough. I’d considered temporarily closing my Wednesday clinic, but Gayle overruled me.”

“A wife’s prerogative, Dr. West.” Josiah could taste bitter envy on his tongue. Rowan had his beautiful young bride, and once this Jackal business was over, he could enjoy his life. But Josiah’s pride dictated that he forfeit Eleanor, Jackal or no Jackal, and so it was hard to muster any enthusiasm at all.

The painting was done, and Eleanor Beckett had left him per their agreement. He’d given himself over to the joys of her company and now he was grieving like a lost man in a storm. The real darkness was coming and he hated facing it alone. But there was nothing else to be done. It was best for her, he told himself, but the words held hollow comfort.

“Are you going to show it?” Rowan asked.

“I don’t know.” He pulled out the soft cloth and tossed it over the canvas, ending the siren’s spell. “I’m sure I will at some point. After all, what’s the use of a painting in dark rooms, right?”

“Josiah, you did dismiss her, didn’t you? Miss Beckett is away from this?”

At first, he couldn’t form the words to answer his friend. The wound was too fresh. “She’s away. My own poor timing is redeemed.”

Rowan continued, as if sensing Josiah’s distress. “Call her back when it’s finished, Hastings. If you care for her …”

“I care for her too much, Rowan.” He poured himself another generous brandy. “She is better off out of this mess and clear of me.”

“I’m not convinced of that. Every man deserves his happiness and we take what we can. If we learned anything in India, didn’t we learn how tenuous and brief life could be?”

“Amidst many painful lessons, yes, Rowan. But this is different.”

“It isn’t my business, but if—”

“No, it isn’t your business!” Josiah set his glass down a bit too forcefully, the amber liquid splashing out onto the wax-covered table. “It’s my decision! Not the Jaded’s! This is my life and I don’t need any more advice on how to live it. I love you like brothers, but all of you need to take a step back. Eleanor is—I’m not condemning her to life with some sort of invalid, and she’s too softhearted to refuse me, so I cannot even ask her. Now, please leave, Rowan. Just leave me to it.”

Rowan solemnly nodded and walked out, leaving Josiah to wrestle with his demons and the creeping black that edged into the candlelight.

Josiah lost track of the minutes, but when he heard the door open again, he almost threw one of the candleholders at the intruder. “Damn it! Can’t a man be alone?”

“I-if you wish—”

“Eleanor!” Josiah was on his feet instantly, rushing toward the welcome sight of her in the doorway silhouetted by the lights in the stairwell. It was only when he came closer, his steps slowed. “What are you doing here? Is everything …”