Ophelia jumped to her feet, nearly tripping on the yards of velvet draped over her. “Mama,” she cried, horrified.
Yet, her mother beamed with delight as two footmen maneuvered her litter into the artist’s studio. The footmen, in their Stark livery, struggled to negotiate the narrow passageway, their white wigs askew and their faces strained, no doubt from fear of upending their delicate cargo.
“Good afternoon, my darling,” her mother called as the footmen lowered the litter next to Andrew, who did not appear at all surprised.
“Wh-what?” Ophelia snapped her gaze from Andrew to her mother, then back again.
“Hold still,” bellowed Rossetti, his black brows drawing together as he pointed his charcoal at her.
“Yes, do hold still for Mr. Rossetti,” her mother said, as if she wasn’t deathly ill or that her appearance in a third-floor art studio in a slightly questionable part of the city was commonplace.
Ophelia glared at Andrew, ready to hike up her velvet, medieval-style skirts, stride across the room, and shake him. She bit out, “What has possessed you to—”
“Ensure your mother enjoys herself?” he queried, a playful grin teasing his mouth. “Why, I am determined to keep the promise I made in Sussex.”
“And which promise was that?” she gritted.
Andrew’s grin dimmed, and he stared back at her solemnly. “That she not simply fade away.”
Her mother, in a stunning, wine-red brocade gown and black cloak with gold buttons, leaned forward, her silver hair curled about her strained though joyful face. “Andrew here promised me that I should live very differently than I had been, and last night, we sorted out my last few days.”
Last. Few. Days. Ophelia swallowed. There it was. Her mother’s words, said so easily, gutted her.
She’d known. She’d known for months, but this was it, spoken. Stated bluntly. A thing that was now on their doorstep rather than in the distant future. Her mother had very little time, and apparently, she had determined to enjoy every moment of it.
And Ophelia’d rather be dragged through hot coals than deny her mother that chance. She ignored the sadness clawing at her heart and lifted grateful, slightly damp eyes to Andrew. She didn’t even need to say thank you. He saw her gratitude, and the moment he did, his strong features eased.
You’re welcome, he mouthed.
“I’m sorry, but who are you exactly and”—Rossetti gestured wildly at her traveling garments—“are you going abroad?”
He sized Lady Darlington up as one might a prime horse. Except the artist was no doubt wondering if she had the funds to support his work.
“You might say that, young man,” Lady Darlington said lightly. “But these,” she said, gesturing to the thick fabric, “keep my old bones warm. Now, are you the talented artist I have heard so much about?”
Rossetti never took his dark eyes off Lady Darlington as he snatched up a piece of cream-colored paper. “I’m an artist. God knows what you may have heard.”
“That you’re a scandal, but your paintings are glorious.”
“Always a pleasure to meet someone who appreciates true art.”
Lady Darlington’s lips quirked. “And a man of your modesty is so difficult to find.”
“How true,” Rossetti replied as he sketched madly. “Ophelia is your daughter?”
“She is.”
“It’s quite clear to see where she has obtained it.”
“It?” Ophelia asked.
“Stark, make yourself useful. Buy us some champagne or something. Ophelia’s mother must be dying of thirst after trekking through the city.”
There was a long, awkward silence. Long enough for even Rossetti to realize he’d said something amiss. “What? Good God, it’s not as if she’s actually. . .”
Rossetti’s fingers stilled, and he took a long look at Lady Darlington. “Do forgive me, madam. Sometimes I only see the subject, not what lies beneath.”
“How can I be dismayed that you see something besides a dying woman?” Lady Darlington’s smile lit the room brighter than any dreary London afternoon sun might.
“Dying woman?” Rossetti repeated. His brow creased. “Madam, I only see a spirit which has descended from the heavens. And that spirit is so vital, so beautiful, so otherworldly, it is no surprise that it must soon give up its earthly envelope.”
Ophelia’s heart nearly stopped. How was it that Rossetti, a man who usually never thought a moment beyond his own desires, could say something so beautiful?
“Silly boy,” her mother tsked. “Next you shall be telling me you wish me to model for you.”
“Stark,” Rossetti snapped. “Champagne.”
Andrew glared at Rossetti. “Do I look like an errand boy?”
Rossetti gave him a shrug. “Well, if you wish the ladies to pine from thirst.”
“Don’t you drink gin, Mr. Rossetti?” Lady Darlington inquired, her lashes batting with a surprising degree of what appeared to be coquettishness.
Ophelia let out a frustrated squeak.
Stark and Rossetti gaped.
Andrew recovered first. “Gin is foul, Lady Darlington—”
“You’re not going to ruin our fun, are you?” Lady Darlington folded her black leather-gloved hands on her lap and waited patiently. “And close your mouth, Ophelia. One shouldn’t wish a fly to gain admittance.”
Ophelia snapped her mouth shut. Was this the woman who had ruled London for a good few years? She’d grown so accustomed to the quiet, kind lady who had been her friend and companion in their tiny little cottage in Sussex. But when she’d been small, her mother had donned silks and brocades every day, jewels in her stylishly coifed hair and a brilliant smile upon her lips.
Her father had given her mother gifts upon gifts and taken her out with a look of such pride upon his countenance, Ophelia had only prayed to find someone one day to look upon her thusly.
Did her mother miss it?
The swirling life of society? She did. Of course she did, or her mother never would have urged her to come to London to find her way. Ophelia lifted her chin. “Go on, Andrew. Buy us the best gin and let us get very. . .” She frowned, searching for the proper words. “How do you say it?”
“Plastered,” quipped Rossetti.
“Tight,” drawled Andrew with a sigh.
“Three sheets to the wind,” said Lady Darlington, and then she laughed.
A sweeter sound Ophelia had never heard. And in that moment, she realized she had Andrew to thank for that. No other. Andrew had given her mother joy and the chance to live to the full, one last time.
Her heart suddenly brimmed with that oh-so-dreaded emotion.
Love.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Prevarication is a waste of life.
When opportunity presents itself,
do not hesitate.
-Ophelia’s Notebook
Ophelia gripped the charcoal in her fingers, not quite hard enough to break it, but harder than she should. She held her breath for a long moment, marveling at her own audacity and Andrew’s ability to sleep.
Long. Sinuous. Powerful. Hard. All words that came to mind as she stared at Viscount Stark stretched out naked on his bed, bathed in the glow of the fire and her single taper.
Well, she thought he was naked. The white linen sheet was draped across his groin and was twisted around his legs as if at some point in the night before her invasion of his bedchamber, he had done battle with the bed-clothes.
While she couldn’t vouch for that particular area of his anatomy, the rest of him was gloriously nude. The massive four-poster bed should have been daunting. But Stark diminished its largeness with the sprawl of his body. His arms, flung above his head carelessly, flaunted carved biceps and forearms so muscled she could see the lines of his veins beneath his burnished skin. What would those arms feel like wrapped around her?
Safe?
She hadn’t felt safe in years. It was the thing she wanted most. Ironically, the
thing she wanted most was impossible to attain. Life never let one be safe. Hadn’t she learned that again and again?
So, if Andrew’s arms and broad chest, with muscles that strained his smooth skin, were not meant for safety, what exactly were they for?
A few weeks ago, she never would have had the courage to find out. Even a few days ago. But ever since she’d taken her mother’s advice and begun to allow herself to truly live, things had changed. The last few days had been a never-ending spree of meeting with Rossetti, drinking gin, basking in glorious paintings, and watching her mother delight in everything about her.
It had been eye-opening. Marvelous. Freeing. And Andrew had made it all possible. Even now, he was doing things that she never thought possible again.
The charcoal hovered over the parchment that she’d brought with her on her nocturnal raid. She hadn’t drawn or painted in months. All desire to create had faded from her with each day of her mama’s illness. But day after day filled with Andrew’s encouragement and her exposure to Rossetti, the man fully possessed by whatever muse had claimed him, had made her realize being a model wasn’t enough. Rossetti had been so full of action and life as he’d worked. She’d sat.
She didn’t wish to be the object. She wished to be the subject. And to do that, she’d have to find her muse.
Staring at Andrew’s naked form, she couldn’t deny that he was it. He’d awakened a part of her soul she’d thought had died.
Working quickly, pushing aside all extraneous thought, she allowed the charcoal to dance over the parchment. She traced her gaze over Andrew’s jet-black hair, which teased his sharp cheekbones. She studied his strong throat and the hollow just where it met his clavicle.
She paused, tempted to reach out and touch those defined bones. With each passing moment that she truly allowed herself to look at him, the silence of the night became more unbearable. Until the crackle of the fire seemed as loud as a cannon and her own heartbeat as harsh as thunder.
Shivering, she pulled her dressing gown closer, but it was a fruitless gesture. She wasn’t cold. Her breath caught in her throat, and a strange tingling heat danced down her spine, nestled in her belly, and drifted lower to the place between her legs.
She shook her head. Tonight she was here to draw him. No more. It didn’t matter that she’d been beyond daring and entered his bedchamber without his permission. . .in the middle of the night. She was going to leave just as soon as she’d gotten done a rudimentary sketch. Truly.
After all, he was a fit subject for her return to her passion. Her art. He need never know that she had snuck into his room, determined to let her soul blaze from the spark he had kindled.
“How long do you intend to stare?”
She jumped at those low, slightly amused words. “Wh-what?”
He stretched, arching his back, the sheet slipping dangerously but not revealing what was beneath. With only the liquid sort of relaxation one obtains when utterly relaxed, he opened his eyes, then pinned her with a hot, languorous look. “Don’t you wish to touch?”
All the sense she’d ever possessed, including the ability to speak, slipped away from her. Desperately, she grasped for some disdainful reply. But she had none. She couldn’t lie to him. From the first time they’d met, she’d wanted his touch. It had only been circumstance that had prevented him making love to her before, and now was her chance.
Was that why she’d slipped into his room? Even though she’d so determinedly told herself it was for her art? Well, it was for her art. But why not more?
“Ophelia?” he asked softly, her name a sound of worship across his lips.
There was nothing condescending or arrogant in the tone of his voice or the way he looked at her. That slow, patient heat was desire. Not the need to conquer.
Quite unbidden, she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. Thirsty. Thirsty to know him.
He propped himself up onto one elbow, the muscles of his chest working with ease at the slight movement. A look of indecision darkened his features, struck by something he’d never known before. Doubt. “I should ask you to leave. Vane was right, you know. This could ruin your reputation.”
She stood, the effort colossal on her suddenly trembling legs, and shrugged off her dressing gown, leaving her in nothing but her thin night-rail. “My reputation be damned.”
His eyes widened. “Ophelia, be serious—”
“Do you wish me to leave?” She couldn’t take this back-and-forth any longer. She needed to know. In fact, she needed this. Him. The feel of his arms wrapped around her, stealing her away from pain and fear.
But would he reject her?
He hesitated, then his gaze made a slow, torturous journey from the hem of her gown, over the curve of her hip and waist, pausing at her breasts, then lingering on her eyes. When their gazes met, all his protest died away, and he held out his hand to her in answer.
Ophelia clutched her charcoal and parchment and pushed one foot forward then another until her thighs brushed against the thick down mattress.
“What were you doing?” he asked gently.
She swallowed, suddenly feeling very silly. “Sketching you.”
“Truly?” he queried, the planes of his hard face softening in surprise.
Nodding, inch by careful inch, she held out the sketch, wishing she could somehow hide it away so he might never see it. She could hide her feelings from him in her speech, in her eyes, in her demeanor. But in her sketching?
Such a feat was impossible. For in her art was the root of her soul and the source of all her secrets.
He clasped the paper and stilled. “I look—” A muscle in his throat worked. “I look innocent.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “You are.”
His black brow arched in challenge.
“Your heart, Andrew,” she insisted. “It’s still that of a boy, hoping that the world is better than it truly is.”
Carefully, he set the parchment on the corner of his bed and lifted his crystal blue eyes to hers. “Is the world so very bad, then?”
She forced herself to hold his gaze. To not yield. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. “The world is not a kind place.”
“Then at least let me be kind to you.” He reached out that strong hand again, bold, hard fingers offering her comfort.
Her heart slammed inside her ribs as she took it. The feel of his rough hand over her soft one nearly undid her. It was so gentle. So careful, yet firm. “You already are.”
He tugged, pulling her onto the bed.
She yelped, but before she could give word to her shock, his mouth was over hers.
If she’d expected soft tenderness, she would have been sorely disappointed. Andrew took her mouth with a hunger so wild, she couldn’t draw breath.
Instead of fear at his wild kiss, her own desire grew under his ministrations. She wanted more, not less. She yanked her hand from his and wrapped her hands around his back, pulling him toward her. Desperate to feel his long, strong body against her own.
In one swift and stunningly efficient movement, Andrew reached down, took the hem of her nightgown and whipped it up then off her body.
She didn’t have time to truly register that she was naked in his bed. Not under his glorious assault. His tongue delved into her mouth, tasting, stealing her breath, stealing her thoughts with his passion.
Arching up against him, she let out a soft cry as her breasts brushed his hot, muscled body.
He pressed her down into the mattress and broke their kiss.
His face was tense, his chest pumping with each struggling breath. “This. . .is what you want?”
She moaned in protest, trying to tug him back toward her.
He resisted. “There’s no going back after this.”
She paused, realizing that her consent meant a great deal to him. In contrast to their wild movements just before, she gently took his face in her hands. “I never want to go back again. I want you, Andrew.”
As soon
as she uttered those words, a growl tore past his lips. He took her hands in one of his, then pinned them to the mattress in one of his palms.
Slowly, he kissed down her throat, then bit just hard enough to cause the slightest pain.
She cried out, unsure how she could enjoy something so strange.
In apology, he gently kissed the tender flesh. Languorously, he kissed her breasts, tracing her nipples with his tongue, teasing her, torturing her with his slow marauding.
She pulled against his grip to no avail.
Just when she thought she could take no more, he descended his mouth, gentle against her belly.
It was all so incredible that she didn’t quite understand why he kept kissing lower, until all of a sudden intense pleasure rippled from between her thighs.
Straining, she lifted her head up from the bed and stared down at him.
Andrew’s black hair caressed her thighs. And his mouth? His mouth was firmly pressed over her most intimate place, a place she rarely touched herself. It should have been horrifying, since it was such a private place. Instead, the vision of his mouth working over her, and the feel of his tongue tracing her, was the most shockingly wonderful thing she’d ever set eyes to.
With each flick of his tongue, she felt herself coming undone. Surely she was going to unravel. Moaning, she dropped her head back to the bed and tossed it back and forth. “Andrew?”
He didn’t answer, but increased the pace and pressure of his tongue. He sucked ever so slightly, and her entire world exploded into white, unrelenting pleasure. Wave after wave of it unfurled over her, and she barely realized he’d let go her hands.
Pushing her thighs apart, Andrew teased the head of his sex against her opening. It was enough to bring her back to some level of reality. She arched against him. Suddenly, she knew she was missing something, and he was about to give it to her. “Now, Andrew!”
At her command, he gripped her hips, then rocked against her.
She winced at the pressure, but she was so ready for him, she barely felt the pain as he thrust deep into her body. With each thrust, that wild-fire built again inside her. Hotter and hotter, until she was sure she was going to be consumed.
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