by Kelly Bowen
He heard her suck in a breath.
“In the blink of an eye, I went from being considered a serious artist to a plaything for the Lady Cecelias of the world. I was forced to seek commissions outside of London where bored, titled ladies did not propose contracts of a more carnal sort.”
“Flynn—”
“I should have known better from the very beginning,” he said with a sigh. “Because in all the time that I was with Cecelia, she never let me forget where I came from. She maintained that my past was something that I needed to overcome if I ever wanted to be an individual of importance.” He took a deep breath. “But growing up, there was goodness beside the awfulness, love beside the hate, and the sum total of all of that is a part of me. I refuse to sacrifice my sense of self on society’s altar of smug self-importance. I don’t want to forget where I come from.”
“Nor should you ever.” She pivoted away from him again. “I feel sorry for her.”
“For who? Cecelia?”
“Yes. She must have deeply rooted insecurities of her own to be unable to understand that. To be unable to admire you for you. To admire how far you’ve come.”
Flynn blinked at Charlotte’s back. He’d never considered it like that. “Well, she has an Italian count who claims to be an aspiring artist in her bed now to distract her,” he said, and then winced at his crudeness.
“Her loss,” Charlotte said, gazing up at the stars that were still only chalked suggestions amid the blue heavens.
Flynn scoffed. “Did you not hear me? I said she has an Italian count—”
“Who isn’t you. She’s an idiot.”
Flynn froze. She was still facing away from him, and he couldn’t see her face. Couldn’t tell if she was simply trying to make him feel better or if she meant more. Afraid that he was making a horrible mistake, he closed the distance between them, coming to stand directly behind her, giving her a chance to move away.
She didn’t.
Very gently, he put a hand at the small of her back, again giving her a chance to step away from him. Still, she didn’t move, but he could see the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders beneath her baggy shirt. “What are you doing?” she asked so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.
“I have no idea,” he answered. Gently, he tugged her around so that he could see her face. She was staring at the toes of her stockinged feet, the wool bunched around her ankles. “Look at me,” he said.
She kept her eyes on her toes for a moment longer before she lifted her gaze to his. In an instant, Flynn saw the want reflected in her eyes. It sizzled through him, leaving him unable to remember why this couldn’t happen. His eyes dropped to her lips, tantalizingly close to his. He imagined that they would be just as soft and warm as her skin. If he moved, simply leaned forward, he could find out. He could taste those lips, and when he had his fill of that, he would taste everything else.
It was Charlotte who moved then, her right hand coming up as if to caress his face. Her fingers stopped a breath away from his cheek, and he nearly came out of his skin, so badly did he need her touch. Without considering what he was doing, he turned his head, pressing the side of his jaw into her palm. Her breathing stuttered, and her fingers slid up over his cheek and higher, to smooth the edge of his brow.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I first saw you,” she whispered. “When you were burdened by so much unhappiness.”
“You should have,” he croaked.
The corner of her mouth curled. “That might have been…presumptuous.”
“Perhaps.” He caught her hand with his. “What else? What else did you want to do?”
Her eyes widened even as they went hot, the caramel depths now like molten gold. He saw her throat work as she tried to find words.
“Don’t tell me,” he murmured. “Show me.”
Her lips parted, and her eyes dropped to his mouth. Her hand slid from his, and now she was tracing the edge of his lower lip with the pads of her fingers. He closed his eyes, every muscle in his body fighting the need to simply take her right there.
He felt her shift, felt the butterfly-light pressure of her fingers vanish. In the next instant, her lips brushed his, soft and unhurried, and that simple touch sent a primal desire crashing through him with enough force to leave him shaking.
“When I first saw you,” she whispered, “I thought you looked how an angel ought to. Fierce. Strong.”
His eyes opened. “I’m not an angel.”
“No,” she agreed. “You’re real. Fierce and strong and real.”
“Charlotte…”
“I imagined how it would feel to be kissed by a man like that. Like you.” Her color had risen again, though her voice didn’t waver.
Flynn didn’t remember moving, but in a heartbeat, he had caught her head with his hands and covered her mouth with his. In an instant, all the hunger and want that he’d been trying to keep banked roared to life. He pushed her back a step, until her back was against the wall, and leaned into her, kissing her as though his life depended on it. And maybe it did. Maybe this woman beneath his hands and his lips, who had given him back what he had feared lost, really was his savior.
All he knew was that in this moment she was his. And that he was hers.
And that she was real and beautiful and perfect.
He felt her melt against him, one of her hands sliding around the back of his neck, her fingers threading through his hair. The other, the one hampered by the stitches on her shoulder, was tucked between them, her fingers splayed over his heart. Flynn tried to pace himself, tried to explore sweetly and softly, but she was opening beneath him, demanding more. He followed the outlines of her lips with his, every erotic fantasy he’d had pounding through his veins and making him groan. He slid his hands down the sides of her neck, taking care to avoid her shoulder, instead letting them trail along the sides of her bound breasts, to her waist and then to her hips. Forget silks and satins. These damn clothes that made every part of her body so touchable and yet so inaccessible would kill him.
He dropped his hands to the back of her buttocks, every glorious curve beneath her shapeless trousers fitting perfectly into his palms.
Charlotte shifted, her hand tightening around his neck, her teeth catching at his lower lip, teasing and tasting. He growled, pulling her hard against him, and was rewarded by a breathless gasp. He caught the sound against his lips, and his tongue explored the heat of her mouth, making this kiss a sexually explicit promise.
Flynn squeezed his eyes shut against the waves of desire that were crashing through him. She fit so flawlessly against him, her body strong and hot and pliant against his. But it wasn’t enough. His hands moved from her backside to the waistband of her trousers. He yanked her shirt up, sliding his fingers over the smooth, heated skin of her back. She arched against him, another breathless gasp escaping, and Flynn caught that one too.
She kissed the way she painted, he thought through a haze. Passionately, freely, honestly. She would make love the same way, he knew. And he would give her back everything twofold, watching those caramel eyes as she came apart beneath him, his name on those sinful lips.
“Flynn,” she whispered against his mouth.
He dipped his head and traced a path along the edge of her jaw to the hollow of her throat.
“Flynn,” she said again more urgently, and he raised his head, a sharp rapping on the door finally penetrating his lust-fogged mind.
“Mr. Rutledge?” Accompanying his muffled name was another round of rapping, more impatient this time. “Mr. Beaumont?”
He released Charlotte and staggered back. “Bloody Lisbon,” he cursed under his breath. His eyes flew to Charlotte, who looked back at him, flushed and breathing hard. “A moment,” Flynn shouted in the general direction of the door. He put a hand against her cheek. “We’re not done,” he whispered harshly.
Flynn dropped his hand and stalked to the door. He took a second to smooth his hair back, adjust his trousers,
and rearrange his features into what he hoped was bland neutrality, and yanked the door open.
Lisbon pushed past him, rubbing his hands against the chill. “About time. It’s freezing outside.”
“You could have just come in,” Flynn muttered even as he recoiled at the potential consequences of that and feeling, for the first time, a stirring of misgiving. What had he just done? What if he had taken advantage of circumstance and her vulnerability? What if she would come to despise him for it, given the time to reconsider?
The architect shook his head. “I try to retain some level of courtesy, Rutledge,” he said crisply, “and leave my artists alone to complete their work in peace. Though I do expect, on occasion, an invitation so that I might gauge how far you’ve—” He stopped abruptly as his eyes fell on Charlotte.
She had reclaimed the chair that Flynn had provided for her and was sitting back in it, her stocking foot crossed over her knee, her expression admirably vague. What wasn’t vague, however, was the large lump at her shoulder where her bandage sat under her now untucked shirt.
Lisbon’s eyes slid between them, eventually settling on Charlotte. “What happened to your shoulder, Mr. Beaumont?” he asked.
“You may dispense with calling me Mr. Beaumont,” she said, sounding almost resigned, as though this moment had always been inevitable. “I required…medical assistance, and Mr. Rutledge was kind enough to provide it. Subsequently, the truth was difficult to avoid.”
“What happened?” The architect’s words were like cut glass. “And why wasn’t I informed that one of my artists had been injured?”
“We encountered a bit of trouble on the streets two evenings past,” Flynn answered before she could. “And it was my decision not to worry you with something that you could do naught about.”
“It’s but a mere cut, and Mr. Rutledge has been quite thorough in his treatments and precautions,” Charlotte added hastily. “I’m very much on the mend, and I can assure you that it will not hinder my work.”
“Trouble?” Lisbon’s sharp eyes swiveled back to Flynn.
“Two gentlemen who sought to take something that was not theirs.”
He could see the architect’s features harden. “I see. I must assume that you also chose not to involve a magistrate? Or any other authorities?”
Flynn inclined his head. “The situation was resolved to my satisfaction. Save, of course, for Miss Beaumont’s unfortunate injury.”
“I see.” Lisbon crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “Will this be a problem, Mr. Rutledge?” he asked.
“Will what be a problem?”
“My decision to hire her. And my insistence that she will finish this commission.”
Lisbon’s decision to hire Charlotte Beaumont had already caused him all sorts of problems, the least of which being that he was suffering from an overwhelming desire for the woman who was sitting in that damn chair. He was tormented by a possessiveness that seemed to be getting worse with each passing minute. And he was plagued with the knowledge that he was both unable and unwilling to keep his hands off her.
None of which he would share with Henry Lisbon.
“Of course not,” he said, hoping he sounded suitably offended. “She is here on her own merit. Her gender and station in life are inconsequential.”
“I see.” He turned to Charlotte. “I must ask at this juncture if you would prefer other living arrangements?”
“Mr. Rutledge has already very gallantly offered. And like I told him, no, I do not wish other arrangements.” She still hadn’t looked at Flynn once. “This…unfortunate event will affect nothing.”
“Fine,” Lisbon said, glancing in Flynn’s direction briefly before returning his attention to Charlotte again. “I will honor your decision. However, I must stress that, as long as you are here, you will continue to be addressed as Charlie Beaumont. No one outside of this room shall be privy to the truth. I, for one, do not have the time to begin a search for a new artist with your skill should our clients object to your presence. I have promised that these paintings will be completed and mounted in time for the Christmastide services. Is that understood?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said. “Again, nothing has changed, I assure you. I simply won’t allow it. It will be like nothing ever happened.”
Flynn looked down at the toes of his boots, a deep disquiet settling into his gut, suddenly unsure if she was speaking of their work or their kiss.
“Excellent.” Lisbon moved farther into the room toward the panel, reaching for a lantern. “Now show me what you’ve done.”
Chapter 10
Charlotte stood and stared at the exquisite painting of the Madonna.
She’d slipped silently into the church to look at the painting, and it still sent chills down her spine, much the same way it had the first time she had seen it. It was of a quality that museums across the Continent sought for their walls, the sort of work that art teachers referenced to their young pupils. Here, in the soft light of her candle, Mary’s expression took on a haunting, ethereal quality, and Charlotte almost expected her to raise those soulful eyes and gaze at Charlotte.
And what would she see?
A woman balancing on the fine edge of ecstasy and terror.
Which was, of course, the aftermath of discovering exactly what it felt like to be kissed by Flynn Rutledge. Ecstasy because she had never, in all her life, been kissed the way Flynn Rutledge had kissed her. He had kissed her with a need and a passion that made her want to believe in happily ever afters of the heart. He had kissed her with the conviction of a man who had finally found what he’d been searching for.
And that ecstasy was coupled with a dread-filled terror that he would reconsider and declare that kiss a monumental mistake. And then in the next breath, a hope-fueled terror that he wouldn’t. Both of which catapulted her into unknown territory where expectations, professional and personal, were murky at best.
This new Charlotte, the one who took what she wanted, hadn’t stopped to think things through. Hadn’t stopped to think that she would fall as far as she had. Far enough to know that she couldn’t lose him, no matter what the cost. There was still a small voice demanding that she tell him who she really was, but everything else in her rebelled at that notion. She didn’t ever want to be Lady Charlotte again. That passive, unhappy, lonely creature had vanished forever in a pretty blue Haverhall sitting room, leaving behind only Charlie, a woman who fought for who and what she believed in.
A woman who had fallen in love.
Charlotte closed her eyes. Ecstasy and terror. Terror and ecstasy.
Rutledge had left with Lisbon after he’d viewed the panels, offering no explanation but both men instructing Charlotte to rest on their way out, and Flynn refusing to meet her eye. Charlotte had paced restlessly for a handful of minutes before she found her boots and coat and fled the confines of the studio. She’d wound up here, alone in the front of the empty church, as if she might find answers in the silence of the space. But the cavernous darkness only pressed in on her tiny cocoon of candlelight, leaving her trapped with her thoughts.
“You’re supposed to be resting.” His voice came out of the shadows and made her jump.
Awareness crackled through her like a tempest.
“Corpses have rested less than I,” Charlotte mumbled, trying to conceal the tremble in her voice. “I was cut, not run through and disemboweled.” She glanced over at Flynn as he came to stand directly beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. He wasn’t wearing a coat, and in the meager candlelight, it was difficult to see his features.
“Mmmm.” He didn’t argue further.
A silence descended between them, not uncomfortable but heavy with things unsaid.
“Who was the woman in this painting?” Charlotte asked, knowing she was being craven by not addressing what needed to be aired but unable to do it quite yet.
Flynn shifted, and she could feel him looking at her. Eventually he
turned, granting her a small reprieve. “My mother,” he replied.
Charlotte studied the woman who was gazing down at her son with such adoration. Who had clearly been adored in return. And even though she had started this conversation as a diversion, she needed to know more. “Tell me about her.”
“I’ve already told you enough,” he said, his words sharp in the darkness.
“No, you told me what she did,” Charlotte said quietly. “You never told me who she was.”
She heard Flynn release his breath on a sigh. “She was my most ardent supporter. The one person in the world who believed that I was destined for greatness.”
Charlotte remained quiet.
“Her…clientele was generally comprised of rich gentlemen. Some more gentle than others who found a penny’s worth of amusement in the sketches and drawings of her young son. By the time I was ten, I was selling small pencil-and-chalk pastel portraits on the docks, mostly to seamen anxious for a memento of their wives and lovers. By the time I was fourteen, I had secured a handful of commissions from wealthy industrialists. It was enough to help keep us from starving when my mother fell ill.”
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said helplessly.
“I’m not. Necessity is a powerful motivator. I may have mentioned that before.”
Without considering what she was doing, she found his hand in the darkness and threaded her fingers through his.
“My mother insisted that one day my paintings would hang in the Royal Academy. That one day, the titled men who had laughed and paid mere pennies for my work out of pity would look up at those walls and know that they could never afford another. That her son would become greater than they because of talent and not an accident of birth. That was her dream for me.”
“She was right. Your work belongs there,” Charlotte said with utter conviction. “Your paintings—this painting—deserve to be there.”