Portrait of a Forbidden Love--A Sexy Regency Romance

by Bronwyn Scott

  And she didn’t want to waste a moment of it.

  His eyes held hers with great solemnity. ‘Yes, we do.’ He set aside his cake fork and reached out a hand, raising her from the table. ‘Allow me to do the honours.’ His voice was a seductive husk that heated her blood even as his touch stoked it to a slow, searing roil. His fingers were at the buttons of her blouse, the undoing of each one a seduction of its own, revealing her bit by bit as the fabric fell away. He would burn her alive at this rate.

  His hands skimmed the curve of her breast rising above her chemise. ‘Silk—somehow I knew you’d wear silk underthings,’ he murmured against her skin, his breath warm as his hands worked the fastenings of her skirt free. She barely felt it slide down her legs. She was more interested in his mouth, his kisses, in the warmth of his hands at her hips as they took the hem of her chemise and pulled it over her head, rendering her bare to his gaze, except for her stockings. She was acutely aware of them against the stark relief of her nudity.

  ‘Leave them for now. I’ll take care of them,’ Darius instructed in a low growl. ‘Sit for me. Here, at the edge of the bed.’

  She trembled as she sat, a hot knowing look passing between them. ‘Like this?’ she breathed, hitching her legs slightly apart.

  ‘Yes, just like that.’ There was a hoarseness to his husk now. He was as aroused as she. ‘I want to worship all of you.’ And worship he did. Her mouth, her throat, her breasts, her belly, the curls between her thighs. Artemisia lay back on the bed and gave herself over to his mouth, his tongue on her skin, her body remembering. Oh, what divine loveliness. She knew this road, knew the pleasure he could bring. But this lingering was so much better than the previous pleasures.

  He blew against her curls and a little moan of contentment escaped her. He would put his tongue to her seam and she would writhe... No. She gave a mewl of disappointment and struggled up on her elbows. ‘Darius’, his name a plea.

  He grinned from the province of her thighs. ‘Not yet. Stockings first as I promised. It’s less fun when you anticipate my every move. A good lover isn’t entirely predictable.’

  Nor would she have predicted the sheer sensuality of having her stockings removed: the slow roll of silk down her legs by warm, confident hands, a trail of kisses left at the sensitive parts of her skin—inner thighs, the backs of her knees, the inside of her ankle—and back up again. This time there was no mistaking how it would end and she was twice as ready for him. She fell back on the bed, wet and wanting, giving herself over entirely to his mouth until pleasure overwhelmed her.

  His hands gripped her hips, his head resting on her mons as it took her. Had she ever felt so completely worshipped? He’d seduced her with a reverence unparalleled and her body had gloried in it, held nothing back in return when the pleasure had come. There’d been pleasure in it for him as well. She felt it in the heave of his back where her hand rested.

  As the pleasure calmed, he came along beside her, his dark head propped on a hand, his eyes hot. ‘I want you to be like that when I come inside you. I want you to lose yourself, to give over entirely.’ He kissed her beneath the ear. ‘I want to see you come apart. I want to know, tonight, that we are together when the pleasure takes us.’

  What did a woman say to that? To a lover who was adamantly focused on her needs, her pleasure before all else? Before his own? The truth would disappoint him. ‘Darius...’ She smoothed back his errant swoop of dark hair. ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘Yet you can for lesser pleasures,’ he reminded her, not scolding her.

  ‘That’s different.’ She played with his cravat, untying the knot and slipping out the tiepin. ‘You are incredibly overdressed for the occasion, Mr Rutherford.’ She gave him a slow smile. It seemed an age since she’d called him Mr Rutherford in truth. ‘Allow me to do the honours.’

  ‘I’ve a better idea.’ Darius rose from the bed and beyond her into the pool of light cast by the lamp. ‘Watch me.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Oh, that was not fair. He was pulling out all the stops tonight. She leaned back against the pillows and watched, aware that his eyes never left hers, that the renewal of her just-sated arousal had as much to do with his gaze as it did with the voyeuristic delight of watching him disrobe, something that was orchestrated just for her. It occurred to her that a wedding night must be very much like this—an attentive groom, worshipping his bride, an ardent lover offering his body on pleasure’s altar.

  ‘Are you watching, Artemisia?’ Darius’s voice was a low, commanding drawl. He unfastened the cufflinks of his shirt and set them aside, a small, intimate gesture that was as sexy in its minutiae as the grander effort of slipping off his waistcoat and his shirt, leaving his chest on full display for her. She let her eyes linger over every muscled plane of him, seeing him this time as not as an objective artist, or from the viewpoint of a woman enraged, but as a woman who wanted him, who hungered for him.

  ‘Yes, I am watching, I can hardly look away.’ She gave a soft, throaty laugh. ‘You are exquisite, Darius.’ She could spend the night looking at every piece of him: the musculature of his shoulders and collarbones, the sculpted vee of him at the hips and pelvis disappearing beneath his waistband.

  His hands rested at the waistband of those trousers, guardians of the last bastion of decency. ‘Take them off, Darius,’ she whispered, watching a slow smile take his face.

  ‘As you command, my lady.’ Darius let the trousers slide past lean hips and long thighs, drawing her eyes down his legs, over the curve of buttock and back. She needn’t rush the perusal. This was hardly a repeat of seeing him naked and surprised from his bath. There was time. This was a man uncloaking for his lover, his power on full display, with a blatancy one could not fully appreciate making love clothed on a beach. This was raw masculine beauty revealed for her.

  ‘Does this meet with your approval?’ He was playing the servant warrior with her now, the knight at his lady’s behest, ready to do as she bid, and her body was primed with desire. She could feel heat stirring between her legs, wetness gathering at her core. He might be asking the questions, but he was not waiting for her to give orders. Good. She was tired of giving orders, tired of being strong. Tonight, she wanted to be dominated, wanted someone else to take the lead.

  Darius came to the bed and moved over her, his arms bracketing her head as they took his weight. Like this, pressed length to naked length, she was potently aware of the size of him, the power of him, all of him, not just the hard phallus jutting against her thigh, and she revelled in his strength. This was a man who knew how to take care of himself and, in the knowing, also knew how to take care of others.

  He moved inside her, a reminder that this man wanted her, physically, emotionally. Her mewls and moans were not enough for him. He wanted her body, her mind, her soul. Her body she gave willingly. It was merely a vessel. The rest, less so. Yet she felt their tethers start to break free of their moorings as her hips lifted to him. Their bodies took up the rhythm of pleasure together; he set the pace, slow at first, a reminder that they needn’t rush this. For the moment, they were in control. Correction. He was in control.

  She gave a piquant shudder. He slid deep inside her and retreated like a lingering tide on the shores of her soul. She could look up into his face, his wide-open eyes, and see his naked pleasure on display, a reminder he was holding nothing back and a reminder that he was asking the same from her. Darius was leading by tempting, delicious example and she yearned to follow.

  She let out a gasp as he came up hard against her womb and the pace changed to something fiercer, deeper, sharper. It was driving them now, their control slipping. She clung to Darius, legs and arms wrapped tight around him, holding him to her, the very posture of her body urging him onwards to the awaiting brink, every nerve of her, every muscle, wanting to crash with him.

  There will be a cost, came a warning murmur.

&nbs
p; She could not give him everything. What would be left? What happened to her pride, her control, if she let it go? What happened when he broke her heart?

  Her body didn’t care. Her breath came fast, roused beyond logic. The decision was made. Just once, just tonight, she would fly with him and sort out the aftermath later.

  Darius came into her hard, his body gathered and tight with desire, his eyes black flames as she met his gaze, let him see the desire matched in her own. ‘Yes, Artemisia, yes, God, yes, let go.’ The words were an incoherent litany of encouragement as she arched into Darius and leapt off pleasure’s cliff with him, for him.

  * * *

  She had come for him and the knowledge of it, there at the last, had added a powerful intensity to his release. The very feel of Artemisia clenching, hot and wet about him, just before he withdrew to shudder his own completion, had undone him, drained him to the point of exhaustion. Darius thought he might never move again and that was fine with him. He was where he wanted to be, in Artemisia’s arms, gently adrift in ecstasy’s sea, pleasure pulsing over him long after the thundering physicality of release had abated.

  Time and speech lost all configuration. They laid together, naked and warm and silent, attuned to one another’s bodies, their quieting breath, the stilling of thumping hearts. Darius was aware, too, of the return of reason, the organisation of his thoughts, all of which centred around one essential idea: this was serious.

  They were two weeks into February, into the exploration he’d persuaded her to undertake, to see what they might be. He did not need another two weeks to know he didn’t want this to end. This was not an affair. This was...for ever. That was a strong, stunning concept to give space to in his mind. But once there, it was lodged. It would bear pondering, considering.

  Artemisia snuggled against him, her hair tickling his chest and his arm clenched about her. He breathed her in, all sweet desire and winter spice. ‘Artemisia, was it worth it? Letting go?’ It was a lover’s question, whispered in the aftermath of intimacy.

  She lifted her head a fraction to look him in the eye. ‘Yes, absolutely.’ Her gaze was soft and frank, but he did not miss the unspoken reservation in her voice.

  ‘But?’ he coaxed gently and then sighed as her head settled back against his chest. He didn’t need her answer. ‘You think you’ll regret this.’ Despite his assurances, despite all the care he could demonstrably lavish on her, even in bed the doubt lingered between them. He ran his hand down the slim length of her arm in a light caress, his words an invitation to disclosure. ‘Tell me, Artemisia? Who hurt you?’ The primal man in him would hunt him down and exact retribution. She was too full of life to restrict her passions, yet she felt compelled to do just that.

  ‘No one you know.’ She gave a short laugh, as if she’d read his very thoughts. ‘It was a long time ago and the fault was my own. But I learned. These things happen, Darius. No one is without scars.’ All true, but he wanted to know hers, every one of them.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ She was trying to brush it aside. He would not allow it. They’d come so far tonight, he didn’t want to stop here. ‘Don’t leave me out, Artemisia.’ He was tempted to remind her he hadn’t left her out. He’d shared his darkest regrets, his childhood. But he didn’t want her disclosure because she felt an obligation. He wanted it because she trusted him with it. She sighed and settled. Darius waited and was rewarded.

  ‘I was eighteen. My father had a protégé, Hunter McCullough, an Irish painter with immense potential. He spent a lot of time at the house and with me. We trained together and he flattered me, brought me little gifts. It was exciting to be the recipient of his attentions, although I knew he was a womaniser. The other artists at my father’s studio talked. He told me I was his North Star, his one constant. Part of me wanted to believe him but part of me was cautious as well. My father was famous. People vied for his favour. My father had warned us to be wary of being used as means of getting to him.’ Darius felt her shrug against him. Shrugging off memories or trying to evince a nonchalant insouciance?

  ‘I was young and wild, burning with curiosity. It’s hard not to be when there’s constant talk in the workshop about the goings-on between men and women, and teasing, and models in various stages of undress. Hunter had stolen a few kisses from me on various occasions. I was more than willing to accommodate him on those grounds. What could a few kisses hurt? In truth, I enjoyed them. I had not intended anything more than kisses. I didn’t understand how a man might misconstrue them as an invitation to more. My knowledge was theoretical, not practical at the time.’ Another shrug. This time Darius felt himself brace. The story was changing tone, becoming darker.

  Remembrances of other words she’d used once with him came to mind. Violated...against her will...unwilling...without permission.

  ‘One night, I was painting late. Everyone else had gone to an exhibition. He showed up at the studio, drunk and manic. His moods were mercurial. He was short on funds, again. A critic had slighted his latest painting. The world was against him, he said, but not me. He could always count on me, his one constant. Even drunk, he was an expert flatterer. It started as kisses, then we were on the posing couch and he was grabbing at my skirts.

  ‘I told him no, I tried to push him off, but he didn’t listen. He kept saying, what did it matter, we would marry and be the greatest artistic couple in London, we’d show them—them being the critics and creditors that dogged him—what he was really made of, greatness waiting to happen. No one would dare say anything against the son-in-law of Sir Lesley Stansfield.’ She paused and drew a ragged breath. ‘Then he took me...until he collapsed unconscious on me.’

  Anger surged through Darius, anger at Hunter McCullough, anger at his sex. ‘The bastard. That’s rape.’

  ‘That’s what I said. He said I enjoyed it, that I’d wanted it, that I’d led him on with kisses, that I’d asked too late for him to stop. It wasn’t fair. I even thought for a while he might be right. There was no way to put it to the test. I wasn’t going to publicly accuse him. Women don’t get to decide those things.’

  ‘Did you tell your father?’ Darius asked. He would call out any man who ever treated a daughter of his that way. He couldn’t imagine any father doing less.

  ‘Yes, and I told him not to believe a word of romance from McCullough when he came begging for my hand. My father believed me and sent McCullough packing back to Ireland. Threatened to ruin him if he breathed a word against us. Since then, I’ve been more careful with men, seeing them as they are.’ She sighed against him. ‘Don’t be mad, Darius. You can do nothing about it. It was a long time ago,’ she repeated. ‘I’ve made sure since then that my body is mine to give, not for anyone else to take.’

  ‘I can be appalled, though,’ Darius growled.

  ‘Not tonight,’ she whispered against his mouth. She swung over him, straddling him. ‘I seem to recall you like this.’

  He did like it. He liked it best when her back arched and her breasts thrust forward in the cups of her hands as she rode him, her hair falling about her as she claimed her release in the night not once more, but twice before they fell into pleasure’s deep sleep.

  * * *

  They slept late, well past breakfast. They might have even slept later if there hadn’t been an insistent knock at the door. It was the sound of raised voices, that of his beleaguered servant and the unmistakable clipped tones of an aristocrat, that roused Darius. He sat up, bleary eyed, and pushed a hand through his hair, his thoughts slow to assemble as Artemisia stirred beside him with a drowsy murmur. ‘What’s going on?’

  Before Darius could climb out of bed, the door opened and his servant slipped inside, shutting the door firmly behind him and bolting it. ‘Good morning, milord, Miss Stansfield, my pardon.’ He was suitably flushed and cognisant of the awkward situation.

  ‘What is it?’ Darius was gruff. His servants knew better than to bother
him when he was abed unless it was an emergency. A bolt of worry shot through him—was it an emergency? While he’d been indulging himself in Seasalter had something happened? ‘It’s not my father? My mother?’

  ‘No, my apologies,’ his servant stammered and then regained a sense of decorum. ‘It’s nothing of the sort. Sir Aldred Gray has arrived from the Academy and is demanding an audience.’

  Artemisia stiffened beside him. He put a hand on her arm in reassurance. ‘I will handle this. Stay in the room. Gray doesn’t need to know you’re here.’ To the servant he offered instruction, his brain functioning at full speed now. ‘Take Gray downstairs, see that he’s fed. I’ll meet with him once I’m dressed for the day.’ Three-quarters of an hour should be plenty of time to cool the gentleman’s heels and remind him who he was dealing with.

  The servant left and Darius shared a glance with Artemisia. ‘Not exactly the way I was planning on waking up this morning.’

  ‘No, certainly not,’ she said shortly, but her eyes said something more. They needn’t worry about what happened when they went to London. London had come to them. But procrastination had cost them. They weren’t ready.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Darius was ready to face the honourable Sir Aldred Gray an hour later. The honourable part was up for debate. The man had no reason to be here unless he doubted Darius was doing his job, a thought that rankled. Or, if he was curious as to what Darius was getting up to. Darius remembered with acute clarity that it had been Aldred who suggested he seduce Artemisia. That rankled even more, considering what had transpired these last two weeks with Artemisia. He was too aware that an outsider would see it as a lurid affair when in reality it was so much more and the decision had not been taken lightly.