by Diane Gaston
‘Tit for tat, then.’ He unbuttoned his coat and removed it.
He thought he saw a flicker of anxiety in her eyes, but she quickly recovered and stared directly in his eyes.
She removed the fichu tucked into the neckline of her dress.
He untied his neckcloth and unwound it from his neck. ‘Your turn.’
He had his waistcoat yet to take off and he’d still be covered by his shirt. For Genna, her dress would be next.
She flashed a grin and kicked off her shoes.
‘Coward,’ he said, unbuttoning his waistcoat and shrugging out of it. He lifted his chin in a silent challenge.
‘I cannot do it myself.’ She turned her back to him.
He had not accounted for touching her. He unbuttoned the buttons at the back of her dress, too aware of her slender neck and her smooth skin. She pulled off her sleeves and let the dress slip to the floor.
Only her chemise and corset remained. She spun around again. ‘Now you.’
He could not help his eyes sweeping over her. Her corset showed her slender waist and pushed her breasts up to their voluptuous fullness.
She twirled a finger at him, indicating he should remove his shirt.
He undid the button at his neck and pulled his white linen shirt over his head.
Genna took in a sharp, audible breath.
She reached out and touched him, very softly, her fingers cool against his suddenly heated skin. She traced the contours of his bare chest, like he’d seen her touch the Elgin marbles.
‘Oh, Ross,’ she whispered.
He, unlike the statues, was not made of stone. Her touch, the awed look on her face, set his senses on fire. He forgot this was a game or a lesson he was going to teach her. He was alone with her, protected from everything outside, cocooned in a world existing only for the two of them.
‘Genna,’ he groaned, lifting her on to his lap so her legs straddled him.
She leaned into him, pressing against his arousal, and twined her arms around his neck. She dipped her head to him and he strained to meet her, capturing her mouth with his ravenous lips. The kiss was long and lingering. Like their one other kiss, she opened to him and his tongue touched hers, soft, warm and wet. She dug her fingers into his hair and matched his lips’ demand.
When finally they broke apart long enough to take a breath, Genna murmured, ‘Make love to me, Ross. Please. I want you to show me. No one else.’
He longed to show her. He wanted no other man to possess her like this.
He lifted her and rose from the chair. Her chemise was bunched about her waist and her stockinged legs wrapped around him. He carried her out of the studio into a small drawing room. He sat her on a couch and unlaced her corset, slipping it off entirely. He ran his hands over her body, still covered by her chemise. He freed her breasts from the thin fabric of the undergarment and relished their soft flesh and the nipples that hardened under his touch.
‘Mmm…’ she hummed. ‘You were right. Not the art. This. I wanted this. From you, Ross. Only you.’
He lay next to her on the couch and kissed her again, still rubbing his palm against her nipples. It seemed so right for him to make love to Genna. He could not think of another time or another woman who felt this right. He wanted to show her pleasure, a fair exchange for the pleasure just being with her brought to him.
She placed her hands in his hair again and pulled him into another kiss. He felt her hunger, her yearning resonate within his whole body.
They were surely kindred spirits, two of a kind, and at this moment they were as free as ever they would be, without anyone nearby to see. Her kiss was eager and urgent and he knew he could satisfy her urges. Why not make love to her? Why not show her? Bring her pleasure?
His lips made a path down her neck to her breasts to her nipple. He relished the feel and taste of her against his tongue. She twisted and squirmed beneath him. He backed off for a moment and rubbed her in long, sweeping strokes. She calmed again.
His hand splayed over her abdomen. She seized his wrist and guided his hand downward over her bunched-up skirts. Her arousal must tell her where the greatest pleasure lay. He obliged her by sliding his hand lower and gently touching the soft moist skin around her most womanly place.
‘Ross!’ she rasped. ‘Yes. Yes.’
She moved beneath his fingers and he could feel her pleasure building, building. He wanted to give her the pleasure, to feel her pleasure beneath his hand.
He found her tender spot and her voice became more urgent. ‘Yes. More. More,’ she cried.
He gave her more, able to feel the passion rising in her, higher and higher until her back arched and she cried out, writhing with the explosion of pleasure he’d released in her.
‘Ross,’ she cried as her spasm eased. ‘Ross.’
* * *
Genna basked in the sensations he had created in her. She’d never dreamed lovemaking could feel so—so pleasurable and unsettling. His touch was so acutely pleasurable it very nearly was pain. Not hurting, but agonising her with wanting what she had not known would come, that—that explosion of pleasure.
She pressed herself against him on the narrow couch. ‘I—I never knew a touch could feel like that, but that was not all, was it, Ross? That was a mere taste of lovemaking, was it not?’
She was not so green a girl, even if she was a maiden. She knew the barest of elements of lovemaking. She simply had not guessed such pleasure and need could be built by a touch.
She loved it. And wanted to feel it again. She wanted to feel everything about lovemaking. She tried to remember every part of this. How his lips felt against hers. How warm his tongue was. How it tasted of tea. She wanted her body to remember the feel of his hands against her skin. And how different it felt for his hands to touch her breasts, how that sensation touched off a veritable riot in her feminine parts. If she could paint this, what colours would she use?
All of them, she thought.
The cool, smooth blues blended into purple and gradually built from red to orange to a bright yellow, as bright as the sun. How would she paint such a feeling?
Like a rainbow that burst and turned into sunshine.
This very sort of sensation must have been what tempted her mother away from her father, she realised, more powerful and compelling than the mothering of children. Genna understood it a little. Right before Ross created that explosion of pleasure, Genna would have given up everything else for it.
Was she like her mother?
It must be so.
‘Show me the rest of it, Ross,’ she murmured. ‘I want to do this with you. Make love to me.’
He kissed her, a demanding kiss, one she was delighted to accept. Who knew a kiss could radiate throughout one’s whole body? Or a touch could set off such pleasurable pain? Who knew a kiss and touch could lead to a rainbow bursting? She could hardly wait to experience what lay ahead.
She unbuttoned the fall of his pantaloons, her heart racing with excitement. She would join with Ross.
Only Ross.
She thought she’d never want this attachment to a man, like her mother’s attachment to her lover, so imperative she’d leave her children for it.
She gazed down and saw his male member, swollen and long and so unlike the ones on the marble statues. She wavered. Would there be pain? How could he possibly fit inside her?
His hands, so gentle now, reassured her. Ross would never hurt her. Never.
His hand did not linger this time, but it tantalised, igniting her need for that bursting of colour.
‘Now, Ross,’ she begged. ‘Now. Please.’
He groaned and positioned himself on top of her. She felt his member touch the now-throbbing skin of her feminine parts. She parted her legs wider and he began to push in gently, gingerly.
She did not wish for him to be gentle. She wanted him to hurry. She wanted that pleasure to explode inside her again. Now.
‘Please,’ she begged, feeling that agonising need.
He pushed in a little more, and more, and pulled out again.
‘Mmm…’ she urged, ready for more, relishing the feel of him entering her. Joining with her.
He broke away and moved off her. Moved off the couch to stand a pace away.
‘No, Genna,’ he cried, raking a hand though his hair. He buttoned his pantaloons. ‘I will not do this with you.’ He sounded angry.
She felt bereft. Deserted. ‘Why not, if I want it?’ she asked.
‘You did not think, did you? Of what could happen? We could make a child.’ He strode out of the drawing room.
She sat up, stunned.
She’d not given one single thought to the idea that she might get with child from this. Even though she knew what had happened to her brother, why he had to hurry to get married. She’d acted as if this was only about feeling good.
She picked up her corset and put it on, tightening the laces as best she could. She returned to the studio.
He had already donned his shirt and waistcoat. He picked up his coat off the floor and glared at her.
She spoke. ‘I thought only of you and me.’
‘I could have ruined your life,’ he said.
She lifted her chin. ‘If I am to be an artist, it does not matter. I will not need to be proper.’
He wrapped his neckcloth around his neck and tied it in a terrible knot. ‘And how many members of the ton will pay to have their portrait painted by a baronet’s daughter who has a bastard child in tow? How many would let you paint their daughters?’
She turned away.
All the colour had been leached away. Only the black-and-white truth remained. She could not simply do as she wished. She could no longer act as if she and Ross were in their own fairy tale.
He moved closer to her, close enough to hand her her dress. ‘Do not make me the one who will ruin you, Genna.’
He despised her now. Why not? She did not like herself very much.
She donned her dress.
‘We should not be together,’ he said as he buttoned it for her. ‘Tidy your things. Jem will not be here with the curricle for another two hours. I’ll get us a hackney cab now.’ He walked out of the studio.
She did not want a hackney cab. She did not want to leave. She simply wanted to perish.
* * *
The brisk air did not do a great deal to cool Ross’s senses. He was still burning with desire and blazing with anger at himself. He’d nearly ruined her! He’d taken far too many liberties with her even before this. What had he been thinking?
He wasn’t thinking. Probably had not been thinking since he’d met her. He’d simply craved her—why pretend otherwise? He’d come up with the harebrained idea of a pretend betrothal so he could be with her. Had he thought of where that would lead? To seduction? Ruin? Risk?
He felt as if a fog had cleared and he suddenly could see around him.
He could have killed her dreams of being an artist. He could have got her with child. What then? He’d have to marry her. She did not want that. If he didn’t marry her, he’d embroil her in a scandal that would affect the rest of her life.
Perhaps he already had ruined her life by encouraging her, by coming up with this misguided betrothal. What were the chances of her—a woman—becoming a successful artist? Successful women artists were rare.
He found the corner where the hackney cabs waited and hired one.
When it pulled up in front of Vespery’s door, Genna emerged, locking the door behind her. Ross jumped out of the carriage to help her inside.
She did not look at him.
When the coach starting moving, she asked, ‘What happens now?’ Her voice was so tiny he hardly heard her.
‘I take you home,’ he said.
‘And, then?’
He did not understand. ‘And then—nothing.’
She averted her face, then suddenly squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. ‘It was not such an abominable request, you know. To make love to me. Is it not how men and women are meant to be with each other?’
‘If they are married,’ he shot back. ‘If they are safe from the kind of scandal that will wreck a lady’s life. Widows can manage it. Married women sometimes manage it. But not you, Genna. Not you.’
She went on. ‘I am not going to marry. I will not be in society. Are not the rules looser for women such as me?’
‘If you came from Italy, perhaps. Or France. Or anywhere besides the home of one of their own. You cannot fall from grace in the eyes of the ton and be acceptable to them. You know this, Genna.’
‘I thought you would understand,’ she accused. ‘You, of all people. No one would know except you and me.’
‘You and I have to face reality, Genna. Enough of these illusions.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Some things cannot be hidden, Genna.’
‘It might not have happened,’ she protested. ‘I might not have got with child.’
He turned her face to him, like he had in the studio. ‘What if we lost that gamble?’
She wrenched away.
They spent the last of the trip in silence.
* * *
When the coach pulled up to Tinmore’s town house, Ross paid the driver and walked her to the door.
‘This is goodbye, then?’ she asked uncertainly.
‘Yes. Goodbye,’ he responded, sounding the knocker.
The door opened and she stepped over the threshold.
He called before the door closed again. ‘Be ready tomorrow at eleven o’clock.’
She swivelled around to face him again. ‘Tomorrow? You do not wish to cancel?’
‘It is all arranged.’
She stared at him without speaking for several seconds. Finally she said, ‘I will be ready.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The next day Genna was ready early for Ross’s outing. A bad idea. She had nothing to do while waiting except to think.
She’d deliberately sought to seduce him. That was the truth. She’d merely been deluding herself by saying she did it for her art. It had all been her fault and now he despised her for it.
Why he still wished to take her on this outing was a mystery to her. Their friendship was ruined now.
She had ruined it.
Consequences. The cost of keeping her head in the clouds. She’d liked him. More than liked him. He’d become the most important person in her life. Now she’d come crashing back to earth.
We should not be together, he’d said.
He’d leave her, too. After this outing, she supposed.
Her mother had left her. Her father never cared for her. Lorene and Tess and Edmund had left her, too, in their way when they married. She’d always known Ross would leave her. That was part of their secret plan. She’d cry off and they would part.
So why did it hurt so much?
She groaned in pain and rested her head on the table in front of her. She was making herself sick with all this self-pity.
The only person she could depend upon was herself. She’d known that since a child. She still had her painting. She still would become Vespery’s assistant. She could take care of herself.
Thanks to Ross. He’d given her the lessons with Vespery. He’d showed her so much more, as well.
A footman knocked at the door.
‘Is Lord Rossdale here already?’ she asked him. ‘I’ll be right down.’
‘Not Lord Rossdale, miss.’ He handed her a card.
The Duchess of Kessington, the card said. She glanced up at the footman. ‘I will be down
directly. Is she in the drawing room?’
‘Yes, miss.’ He bowed and left the room.
What on earth did the Duchess want with her?
She glanced in the mirror and smoothed her hair. She deliberately walked from the room at a normal pace. No good appearing before the Duchess out of breath from rushing.
When she entered the drawing room, the Duchess was examining a blue-and-white porcelain bowl. ‘Chinese,’ she stated.
‘If you say so.’ Genna did not smile. ‘Good morning, Your Grace. Do have a seat. Shall I send for tea?’
‘Do not bother.’ The Duchess lowered herself into a chair. ‘This will not take long.’
Genna sat nearby and folded her hands in her lap, trying to look calm. She certainly did not wish the Duchess to know her emotions were in turmoil.
She waited.
An annoyed look came over the Duchess’s face, but she finally spoke. ‘I came here to discuss something with you.’
Genna raised her brows.
The Duchess pressed her lips together before continuing. ‘You cannot possibly marry Rossdale.’
‘I cannot? I am betrothed to him.’ Genna would not marry him, of course, but the Duchess did not know that.
‘You are entirely unsuitable.’ The Duchess leaned forward. ‘I have learned that you spend your days unchaperoned, alone with a man. That is scandalous, young lady.’
Alone with Ross? No. That could not be what she meant.
‘Alone with Mr Vespery? I am taking painting lessons from him, Your Grace.’
‘I know that,’ she snapped. ‘But it is what else goes on when you are alone with him that concerns me.’
The inference was appalling. ‘Ask his housekeeper. She is always nearby.’
‘Hmmph!’ The Duchess scowled. ‘A servant doesn’t matter. This has the appearance of scandal. That is all I need to know. It is not fitting for the wife of a future duke to be so shameless.’
Genna felt her cheeks heat. With anger. ‘Rossdale knows of the painting lessons. He arranged them. He provides me transport to and from Vespery’s studio. If he does not object to the lessons, why should I be concerned with what you or anyone else thinks of it?’