Passion Wears Pearls

by Renee Bernard

  “Are these scars, Josiah?” she asked shyly, her fingers tracing a ridge of lines around his ankles. She hadn’t noticed them before, but then in the usual heat and race to satisfy their mutual hunger, Eleanor had never thought to look at her lover’s ankles.

  “Stories for another day.” Josiah pulled her down onto his chest and distracted her with kisses.

  One tumbled kiss led to a dozen more, and the slow embers that had glowed between them blazed into life. Josiah couldn’t stop kissing her. He didn’t want to. But she wriggled from him, and nibbled on his shoulder. “You have too many secrets and untold stories.”

  Josiah’s heart skipped a beat, but he shook his head. “Enough conversation.”

  He turned her over, delighting in her squeal of protest, but made quick work of ending any wish she had for verbal exchanges. He knelt at her feet and massaged each one until she had given in to the languid tyranny he imposed, then kissed the soles of her feet and ankles. Josiah skillfully rubbed the muscles of her legs and then slid his hands up over her bottom, appreciating the seductive curves of her body before dipping down to stroke her thighs. With each pass of his hands, he “inadvertently” teased the dark pink lips of her sex until she was glistening with her own arousal.

  “Josiah, please … no more!”

  He turned her over to part her thighs and finally kiss her waiting sex, licking the hot bud between her legs until her legs were quivering and he knew she was ready. He lifted himself up to cover her, her thighs parting to accommodate him as his rock-hard cock pressed and prodded her entrance to find the welcome harbor it sought.

  He drove forward in one long stroke, filling her completely, and his throat closed at the emotional impact of Eleanor in his arms with her green eyes looking up at him as their bodies blended into one. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and the dance of passion swept them both up, each riding wave after wave of sensation at each stroke, long and slow, deep and strong. As their ardor began to crest, Josiah instinctively shifted so that he was spooning her, neither one dominating the other, but instead, it became a soft tangle of flesh that left them both breathless and amazed.

  Eleanor gave in to the primal need for release, the hot coil inside of her springing free in a cascade of mounting ecstasy. She cried out as every part of her felt electrified and featherlight, as if something inside of her had broken free of her body at the moment of climax. Only the heat of Josiah’s body and a vague awareness of his answering cry and the searing crème that flooded her core grounded her to her physical being.

  She’d returned for this—for him.

  Without demands for his declarations or for respectability, Eleanor had returned.

  Because she didn’t want to live without hope.

  Josiah walked her down the stairs and held the lantern as she alighted the step into the carriage to return to the Grove. He kissed her fingertips and released her, as reluctantly as if she were a soldier heading off to battle instead of a warm, cozy bed and bath under Mrs. Clay’s matronly care.

  He hated it. Time had always been his enemy but now, it was as if every minute had a new edge to it. He should let her go before this intended confrontation, but he still had some time.

  He was borrowing hours from a future that wasn’t his to claim.

  “Eleanor.”

  “Yes?”

  “Come tomorrow. Will you come back tomorrow?”

  For him, it took forever for her to settle into the carriage seat and rearrange her skirts before she answered him.

  “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  Chapter

  21

  The following morning, she returned, and by sheer habit, they ended up in his studio. It was arranged almost as before, a blank canvas set up before the dais graced this time with only a wooden chair. Eleanor walked over to run her fingers over the chair’s curved back. “Would you not like to start another painting?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and joined her on the platform. “Perhaps. But, you should think about it carefully, Eleanor, before you offer to sit for me again.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a brush with scandal to sit for an artist once. But it’s pure scandal to do it twice and be seen as his favorite, don’t you think?” He lifted her hand to kiss her fingertips. “It might be more notoriety than you realize.”

  She leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder. “I hadn’t considered that, at all.”

  He stroked her cheek and fingered a stray curl that had come loose. “It’s a terrible sign that I’m so familiar with the twists and turns of infamy, Eleanor.”

  She laughed and pushed against him to free herself, looking up to better gauge his mood. His masculine beauty was as striking as ever, but Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat at the signs of fatigue she saw on his face. Dark circles shadowed his brown eyes and made Josiah look a bit beleaguered. “You look so tired.”

  He shook his head. “Ah! That’s what a man longs to hear from his beloved paramour!”

  Eleanor tried not to laugh but longed to divert him from whatever cares made him press his fingers into his temples and sigh. “Is it so strenuous, then? If painting tires you so, then perhaps …” She drew closer to him, to trace her fingers over the strong, beautiful arch of his brows and look into his mahogany brown eyes. “You need to try another perspective.”

  “Another perspective?”

  “Come, why not sit for me?” She led him playfully around to the front of the chair. “Let us set you there and see if I am not inspired to create a masterpiece of my own.”

  “Ah!” He sat back with an exaggerated pose, showing off his profile. “A masterpiece, you say? Think you it’s so easy?”

  “How hard can it be?” She climbed down and picked up his palette and a brush, doing her best imitation of his serious looks and then chewing on the end of the brush as she’d seen him do whenever he was lost in thought. “Now, be still, man. You may speak, naturally, but do try not to move too much.”

  “Are all artists this bossy?” he asked.

  “Shhh. I’m concentrating on the geometry of your nose.” She tapped the brush tip to her chin, then set it aside to pick up a small charcoal stick. “I shall sketch first and see if I cannot make a go of it.”

  “You’re just going to draw my nose? Any chance the rest of me is going to be in this portrait?” he teased.

  “Everything but your hands,” she replied. “I have never been able to draw hands, so I will imagine yours are tucked in your pockets—an artist’s discretion and vision, sir.”

  “I can see why the Royal Academy will be on our doorstep at any moment, miss. Sheer genius. Why did I never think of pockets?”

  Eleanor laughed. “Yes, why when—” She dropped the paintbrush in surprise as a tall, dark figure filled the studio doorway. “Oh!” She blushed miserably to be caught in an unguarded and intimate moment by a stranger.

  Josiah was facing her, still unaware of the intruder. “What? Did I move and spoil your efforts to put a wart on my nose?”

  “You have a guest.”

  He stood quickly. “So much for the troll’s effectiveness. Who goes there?”

  “It is I, unannounced as usual, but don’t blame the troll. He was trumped by your dragoness of a housekeeper, who vouched for me and ordered Creed to let me pass.” The man came forward, giving every impression that despite the fashionable cut and cost of his clothes, there was nothing soft or spoiled about him. “Have you followed in Dr. West’s footsteps and taken on an apprentice to help you buy more coal?”

  Eleanor stiffened, unsure in this man’s presence. She couldn’t discern from his expression whether he was friend or foe.

  “I’m no teacher, Galen. May I introduce Lord Winters, Galen Hawke? Galen is a trusted friend. Lord Winters, this is Miss Eleanor Beckett, my muse and inspiration.”

  Eleanor held her breath at the casual introduction to a peer of the realm, biting her lower lip at the surge of forbidden pleasure that whipped through h
er at his words. My muse and inspiration. “Your lordship, it is an honor to meet you.”

  “The honor is mine. I didn’t mean to intrude, Miss Beckett. I understood you were alone, Hastings, or I would never have barged in.”

  Josiah sobered instantly. “We’ve never bothered with calling cards. What brings you here, Galen?”

  “Nothing dire. Rowan let it slip that the painting was finished. He mumbled something about your genius and insanity and then forbid me to come.”

  “So naturally, here you are.” Josiah crossed his arms. “Did he mention meeting Miss Beckett?”

  “Naturally.” Lord Winters smiled, and Eleanor decided that she liked him after all. “You haven’t been yourself lately. And since you are so often absent unless, well, unless someone uses phrases like life and death, I thought it time to stop by and make sure …”

  Josiah finished his question. “I wasn’t hiding with some artistic temper tantrum or swinging from the rafters?” Eleanor gasped, but Josiah walked to the table to ring the bell for Escher. “Would you like some refreshments, Lord Winters?” he asked.

  Galen shook his head. “No. You have company—and I should go.”

  Eleanor took a step forward, determined to prove that she wasn’t embarrassed to be met in such a place but also hoping not to drive Josiah’s friend away prematurely. “Without seeing it?”

  Lord Winters stopped in his tracks, a warmer smile banishing the last of his initial icy impression. “That would make me look a bit daft, wouldn’t it? If I ran off without even a glance.”

  “It would make your excuse for stopping by less plausible,” Josiah noted sagely.

  “Mr. Hastings! You are too abrupt with your friend,” Eleanor chided him. “You just said he needed no excuses to call, and I would not have Lord Winters thinking that my presence has made you unkind.”

  Galen’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but Eleanor held her ground. They were both acting like children as far as she could tell.

  “Miss Beckett, I think my wife is going to like you.”

  Josiah playfully rolled his eyes. “There’s an alliance you should avoid.”

  Galen ignored him. “Don’t worry, Miss Beckett. I know Josiah too well to worry about his bluster. And you’re right. I would like to see the painting that had the ever-serious Dr. Rowan West spouting bad prose. Lady Winters has the better eye for these things, but I was impatient and didn’t wish to wait weeks.”

  “Is she not in London?” Eleanor asked.

  “She is still visiting with my father at our estate at Stamford Crossing. He’s ridiculously fond of Haley and has taken full advantage of her good nature to keep her close. I miss her beyond words, but”—he gave Josiah a dark look—“I wouldn’t want to risk her health in London.”

  “You are a considerate man, Galen.” Josiah crossed his arms, walked over to the painting where it was set against the far wall, and pulled off the canvas covering it.

  “Yes, let’s see the painting that has made you absent these last few …” His words faded as the work came into view. “Bloody hell!”

  “Language, your lordship!” Josiah said sagely. “She’s going to think the peerage no better than common dock workers if you’re any example.”

  “I apologize, Miss Beckett. I—forgot myself. It is a remarkable piece of art, isn’t it?” Galen stepped closer. “It should be seen by the public.”

  “Time enough, after …” Josiah’s words trailed off and he gave his friend an odd look. “Later. Rutherford would spit out a kidney if he heard you considering some kind of public event, Galen.”

  Galen shrugged. “True, things are not uncomplicated at present, but I’m tired of being restrained at every turn. I don’t see it as impudence if we try to live our lives. Hell, I want my wife back at my side where she belongs.”

  Eleanor’s brow furrowed in confusion. The conversation had grown convoluted, as if coded for their ears alone. “What complication is there?”

  Josiah waved a hand in the air. “It’s nothing. Old business we’re muddling through and nothing to do with us.”

  “I have a few connections, Hastings. A small nudge in the right direction and you could land a place in the Royal Society. You know I’d like nothing better than to balance the scales and do something for a friend. At the very least, the work will sell and you can afford to buy yourself a new coat, Hastings.”

  “There are no scales to balance, no debts to repay. You already do too much for our motley circle, Galen. And I don’t need … I don’t desire to be …” Words failed him. Even weeks ago, he’d never have hesitated if given an opportunity to secure his name in the honored rolls of lauded artists in England. Hell, that had been the whole point, hadn’t it? But ever since Eleanor had first sat on that chaise and looked at him, he’d forgotten everything he’d been striving for. All the torture and strain had faded. “I like my coat as it is.”

  “Fair enough. I’d say with this work, your peers couldn’t ignore you any longer, Hastings.” Galen winced as his friend covered up the painting, and turned instead to its living reflection. “Miss Beckett, I am sure just from this brief exchange that your presence has improved him.”

  Eleanor laughed. “I wouldn’t presume to boast of it, your lordship.”

  “No titles, please. They bruise my heart and remind me that I’m no better than the next man and probably worse for the attempt.” Galen’s dark eyes flashed with a pain that reminded her of Josiah when she asked him of his past. “Get him to show it, Miss Beckett.”

  Josiah moved away to rearrange the paints on his worktable. “Anonymity suits me.”

  “I should be going to allow you to talk privately about this unfinished business of yours,” Eleanor announced quietly, standing to break the awkward tension between the men. “It was an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Galen bowed over her hand. “And a pleasure for me, Miss Beckett. But there’s no need to rush off on my account. I was the one who interrupted your work, and from the unsubtle look of impatience on my friend’s face, I’ll remove myself from the fray.”

  “A wise man,” Josiah muttered. “I’ll see you at the next gathering.”

  Galen nodded, bowed to Eleanor again, and quickly withdrew, leaving the pair alone again. Eleanor had to catch her breath as the door closed behind him, amazed at the strange turn in their day. She had expected Josiah to puff up a bit at his friend’s praise and reaction to the painting, but instead he looked surly and even more uncertain.

  “Why didn’t you accept his offer? Lord Winters seems sincere and wishes to see you do well. I thought that’s what you wanted, Josiah. Immortality, yes?”

  He refused to look at her, his hands purposelessly moving the objects about on his worktable. “Yes. It’s what I wanted. But apparently I’d rather die a mortal and be forgotten, Eleanor, than …”

  “Than what?”

  “Than share you. I can’t bear the thought of other men looking at you when I—won’t always be able to look at you for as long as I want. Apparently, I’m a selfish bastard.”

  “Language.” The correction was whisper-soft, and lacked any teeth. She reached out to brush his hair back from his cheek and capture it behind his ear. “So this is only for your sake, this decision?”

  “Besides, you were the one most worried about your reputation, Eleanor. Are you so ready to see your portrait in a grand hall with hundreds of people gawking and commenting on that delectable woman in red?”

  “Well, when you put it like that …” Her expression sobered.

  “There would be no going back.”

  She became very still, and then stepped closer, molding herself to him, her face nestled against his chest, her head just reaching his chin. “I don’t want to go back.”

  “Eleanor?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was muffled with her lips pressed against his shirt, and the warm air of her breath sent a ripple of desire across his skin.

  “I want you to be proud of this—of me. Are you? If I
knew you were, then the weight of the world would fall away and I wouldn’t care what awaits me. If I knew that my Eleanor wasn’t embarrassed to be on that canvas … or to be in my arms.”

  “I’m very proud, Josiah. Please show the painting. Promise me that you will.”

  “As you wish.”

  “P-perhaps a small gathering though,” she amended, a flush creeping up from her breasts as old shy habits reasserted themselves. “I’m not sure I’m ready to face a large public event.”

  He nodded. “There’s my delectable Miss Beckett. Very well, my last great masterpiece will see the light of day, just to please its subject.”

  “Last? Surely this isn’t your last painting?”

  “Of course not. I misspoke.”

  “Can I not inspire you again?” She kissed him, and he savored the sweet fiery lust that came to life as she tasted his lips and opened her mouth to invite more of him to the feast. His muse knew exactly how to arouse him, her teeth capturing his lower lip and gently suckling the sensitive flesh there until every nerve ending was taut and ready for more.

  Then he was holding her, trying to catch his breath. He fingered the delicate strand of small pearls she was wearing. A modest thing with a single intricate gold filigree drop bead at its center, it was the only piece of jewelry he had ever seen her wear.

  Eleanor is like these pearls. Beautiful and whole, with an impenetrable depth in each one that makes me wish I could see inside of her heart. But there’s the inspiration. …

  “Ah, I think I know just what is needed. …” Josiah pulled out a good-size chest from underneath the table. He’d retrieved it the night before on a whim, toying with the idea of showing it to her just to see her eyes light up. But now, the treasure would serve another purpose. “Here, come see what I have.” He unlocked it and opened the lid, lifting several long ropes of pearls out for her to see.