Since the Surrender

by Julie Anne Long

No, is what she ought to have said.

  Her head moved up and down and without her conscious permission.

  “Well, it’s well-nigh indescribable. The snug, wet heat of a woman’s mouth over one’s…ahem…and sucking…and licking…” He said this slowly. Torturously slowly. Apparently, thoughtfully allowing her time to picture all of it. “It makes one mindless with…well, bliss. As the poets say,” he added with a diabolical amount of cheer.

  He was watching her rather fixedly.

  Mesmerized, she watched his mouth form the words “snug” and “wet” and “heat” and “sucking,” and felt faint with fascination, and the snug and wet parts of her throbbed as though he’d called them by name.

  “I didn’t know,” she said finally, almost sadly.

  “And Rosalind…” His voice had become velvety with sympathy. “Imagine the positions of the angel and the gentleman there…reversed.”

  She looked at them again. Then looked quickly away.

  Back to the man in front of her, who was far more erotic than the painting by virtue of his mere existence.

  “One can…” Her voice was squeaky gravel from nerves. She cleared her throat. “…do that, too?” She bravely met his eyes. “I mean, a man can…to a woman…”

  He became far more specific.

  “Nothing is more erotic than kneeling between the legs of a woman one desires and…tasting her…licking her…until she writhes and screams with pleasure. The warmth, and wet, and heat…”

  He said this with the absolute conviction with which she was so familiar, and in the tone with which he might recite a requisitions list.

  Her skin had acquired a fresh coat of fever. Do that to me.

  “S-Screams?” She was fairly certain she’d never once screamed in the throes of passion.

  Was he telling her the truth?

  Of course he was. She knew, simply based upon how she felt when he’d simply kissed her. Or when he was even near.

  Her knees were suddenly made of butter. She began to put her hands up to her face. Then brought them down again, out of pride. Though she was certain the color of her face, and her threadbare voice, and the way her bodice was moving, gave away everything she felt. It was difficult to breathe through this onslaught of erotic education.

  There was a silence.

  She threw another sidelong glance at the angel.

  “Rosalind…” he said gently. He gave her name the intonation of a question. As though something had occurred to him.

  She looked up miserably. She was afraid of what he was going to ask next.

  His turn to clear his throat. His face was carefully expressionless now. “He did…make you come?”

  It took her a moment to realize to whom he was referring.

  “Of course!” she said with indignant loyalty. “At least five times that I can recall!”

  Chase froze.

  “Five times…in one go?” He sounded significantly subdued.

  She frowned, puzzled by the question.

  And then his eyes widened, his face lit, and his head went back a bit and came down again in comprehension. “Ohhhhh.”

  He looked briefly troubled, and inscrutability swept all other expression from his face.

  Her own comprehension set in with a cold shock. “Can it—can I…?”

  “Every…single…. time,” he said firmly. “Well, if done properly. Sometimes more than once per…well, per. And there are so many, many, many ways to…”

  Stop stop stop stop stop.

  “How?” The word forced its way out, though it sounded a little strangled. “How can you…what are the…”

  She knew of but one way.

  So, apparently, had her husband.

  “I hardly know where to begin. Right side up, upside down, vertically, horizontally, backward, forward, wrong side out, diagonally, nude, partially clothed—”

  “Wrong side out?”

  “I wanted to see if you were listening. You can even do it for yourself.”

  She’d guessed this, as she had rather participated—at his prompting—in her own near seduction behind a bookcase.

  “I…”

  “Rosalind…”

  She looked up at him.

  “I would be happy to show you all of it. Any time at all. You deserve to know.”

  The words were smoky soft, a sensual lullaby. Her knees were tempted to buckle, her body to stretch out on the bed he tellingly glanced toward.

  There was a silence, dense as those velvet curtains on the bed in the Montmorency.

  “If you wish, you can imagine this bed is the Henry VIII bed in the Montmorency, Rosalind. For fantasy plays a role, too. And I’ll show you now.”

  “How…how did you know?” she whispered it, awestruck.

  “You’d be surprised by what I know.” He was whispering now, too.

  “I doubt that.”

  His smile was all lazy wickedness.

  She closed her eyes tightly. It was too much. It wasn’t that she hadn’t overheard soldiers discussing coarse and sexual things, and it wasn’t as though she’d been unduly troubled by it, as she wasn’t a fragile flower. But all of those things had been rather…straightforward. Conversation riddled with cant for breasts and penises and the act of sex, and the like. The army was a decidedly earthy place.

  But this…this was like stumbling across a world parallel to the one she lived in, with its own rules and laws and landscape and language. It had become clear to her that there were endless angles and depths of sensuality to explore, and that Chase could likely lead her through each one. She was unnerved and dizzy, and angry. She knew he’d been purposefully explicit: to dissolve her resolve. Very unfair, as he knew by now what he could do to her with a single touch.

  But in truth, she appreciated being enlightened.

  Because now she understood what she’d missed. And what she would sacrifice if she never experienced it.

  And what he truly wanted from her.

  She took in a deep fortifying breath.

  “Thank you for being so forthcoming,” she managed coolly.

  She was gratified when he blinked.

  She turned for the door, and over her shoulder said firmly, “And that’s definitely the same angel.”

  The Duchess looked up as the creaking stairs announced their descent.

  “Did you learn what you came to learn?” she asked.

  “And then some,” Chase confirmed, noticing that Rosalind was narrowing her eyes at him. “The angel upstairs is compelling.”

  He followed her down the stairs, watching the lovely sway of her sweet peach arse, and regretted what he’d just done to her. He’d done it in part deliberately, and it hadn’t at all been cricket, and he’d timed it badly.

  A man may time things badly when he wants something badly, he thought.

  “Ah, yes. I can see why,” the Duchess said. “That particular angel has inspired many a gentleman to feats of endurance, and I do believe her very presence helps to awaken slumbering appendages, given what she’s doing to a gentleman’s appendage in the painting. Though not always, I should say,” she added.

  God. Marie-Claude had obviously said something to the Duchess about him.

  “That painting,” she added, “and the one over the settee of the sprawling girl, would be the work of a Mr. Wyndham.”

  Wyndham? He’d never heard of a painter named Wyndham in his life.

  “Are you interested in investing in erotic art, Captain?”

  “I might well be,” Chase said smoothly. “Do you know Mr. Wyndham’s direction? We should like to have a word with him about his work.”

  “He lives and works in Bethel Street—above a cobbler’s, I believe. I shouldn’t think there are many cobblers on Bethel Street.”

  “My sincere thanks. How is business for you now?”

  “Well, livelier since an American ship as well as The Courage pulled into port. I understand we’ll be losing you soon to that fine vessel? The stock
y gentleman standing near the hearth is the first mate of the American ship. A Mr. Lavay. Determined to spend all his money here, and we’re happy to encourage it.”

  “And I’m happy to hear that commerce is alive and well. I sent Mr. Kinkade regards from you, and from Marie-Claude in particular.”

  “Thank you for the thought, Captain Eversea. We’re still awaiting his return.”

  If she noticed that Kinkade hadn’t sent his regards in return, she didn’t say a word about it.

  “You’re certain we can’t tempt you into lingering, Captain Eversea?” Her eyes darted from Chase to Rosalind and back again so quickly they called to mind billiard balls.

  “You can certainly tempt me, Duchess,” he said gallantly, “but I fear we cannot linger today.”

  They agreed to call upon Mr. Wyndham straightaway.

  From what he understood of artists, they typically lived in garrets because the rent was cheap. But this one lived in a fairly respectable part of town, and he was indeed above a cobbler. As they climbed his stairs, they heard the steady thwack thwack thwack of a shoe being built or repaired.

  A woman with a thunderous, fleshy face, hair wrapped up in a rag, wielding a broom the way one might clutch a pike, answered the door.

  “Es up there.” She used her chin to point.

  The first thing they saw in this blazingly sunny room was a much larger than life-size painting featuring almost nothing but miles of rose and cream flesh. It was notable primarily for the artist’s enthusiasm for its subject—a nude woman reclining—rather than its finesse.

  “Commissioned by an earl. It’s not a very good painting, all in all,” the artist who must have been Wyndham called over his shoulder with cheerful candor. His back was to them; he was rifling among a row of jarred pigments lined on a shelf, each labeled neatly with their names, ready for crushing and mixing. He came away with OCHRE.

  “Aye, but she’s pretty.” Chase was appreciative.

  Rosalind was regarding the painting bravely, without blinking. The woman truly was imposing: twice the size of a usual woman, sprawling lazily and round everywhere—round white thighs, round tum, round arms, enormous breasts, lush curls atop her head and between her thighs. A quite obvious brunette. A very earthy painting. Not painstaking, and not the least sentimental.

  Wyndham looked amused by the fact that Chase hadn’t disagreed with his own assessment of the painting. “A rich man’s mistress.”

  “A fortunate man.”

  They shared a manly grin while Rosalind struggled to appear sophisticated.

  “My job is no hardship. I do make a fair living, current appearances notwithstanding. There are times of lean and times of fat. And so it goes.”

  “As it so happens, I’d like to speak to you about commissioning a painting.”

  “Commissioning me? You must frequent brothels. Or perhaps you’re contemplating opening your own, Mister…?”

  “Charles.”

  Mr. Wyndham turned fully around and took a good look at the two of them.

  He was a lean chap, pale from a life lived indoors and, from the looks of him, gleeful nights of debauchery. He was decorated in vivid streaks of paint; his shirt was linen, loose and old, two buttons open at the throat, rolled up at the sleeves. Hair clipped short, the better to keep paint out of it, Chase supposed, and just a shade darker than a fox pelt. His eyes were sherry-colored, narrow, and glittered in the broad light of the room, mischievous, a bit jaded. It appeared that his nose had been broken once.

  Wyndham’s eyes widened. “Please accept my apologies. My questions were asked in all seriousness—I’d wondered where you happened upon my work, or where you might have heard of me. I didn’t notice you had brought”—he studied Rosalind for a moment, then decided upon—“a lady with you. Though I doubt I’d be any less blunt in her presence.”

  He smiled at her, and bowed, and Rosalind smiled, too. Chase could feel her tamping her flirting impulses. It was virtually the only way any woman could communicate with this man, he decided.

  “But perhaps this is a social call? Mrs. Pomfrey!” Wyndham suddenly turned and bellowed down the stairs, “Will you please bring up tea for three?” Flirting.

  “Ye didna gi’ me the blunt fer market, ye stingy bugger!” The feminine snarl came from somewhere in the bowels of the house. “Canna buy tea wi’ air! Drink paint if ye’re thirsty!”

  “I fear I cannot offer you any tea,” Wyndham confirmed gravely. “But I’ve…” He looked around the room. “Brandy!” He’d located it on a shelf beneath the window, tucked between jars of oil. “It was a gift from a friend. And he’s an earl, so it’s drinkable.” He rubbed his hands on a cloth tucked into the waistband of his splattered trousers and looked about, apparently for glasses, saw none, shrugged, dashed the bottle up to his mouth, took a slug, passed the bottle to Chase, who also shrugged, threw back a gulp, then held it out to Rosalind.

  Who stared at him with burning incredulity.

  He handed the bottle back to Wyndham, who settled it back on the table. Which wobbled, as one leg was clearly shorter than the other, or the loft itself slanted somewhat downward.

  “You know of my work, sir? Where would you have seen it?”

  “At the Velvet Glove.”

  “Of course, of course. There’s the one over the settee, and several up in the rooms,” the painter confirmed.

  “One of an angel…” Chase paused.

  “Well, she isn’t quite an angel,” Wyndham modified. “Given what she’s doing.”

  While the two men shared another manly grin, Rosalind was desperately seeking a safe place to land her eyes. Everywhere, there were naked things or bawdily smiling men.

  “If you see my angels, like as not you’re in a brothel,” Wyndham agreed complacently. And then he turned to admire Rosalind quite baldly.

  She returned his gaze evenly, taking his measure.

  “I take it you don’t mean to explain your friend, sir. Fear not. I number among my favorite acquaintances all manner of unexplainable men and women. Did you wish me to paint her? Perhaps she’d like some modeling work? Or…perhaps I’ll be quiet and you can explain to me why a man of obvious means is here with a beautiful well-bred woman.”

  “You might direct those questions to me, Mr. Wyndham. I am standing right before you.” Rosalind could be stern, too.

  He looked genuinely startled.

  “I beg your pardon, madam. The sort of women accompanied by men to my loft generally leave the talking to the men. I’d be delighted to address anything at all to you.”

  A leading statement to be sure—“the sort of women,” indeed—but he said it so disarmingly that the rays of his charm were surely felt as far away as the banks of the Thames. Surely people were basking in them even now.

  Mr. Wyndham could likely get away with nearly anything.

  Chase liked him for no particular reason except that he seemed entirely himself.

  He was also certain he would never allow Wyndham anywhere near any of his sisters.

  “We do admire your technique, Mr. Wyndham,” he said smoothly. “Have you ever painted anything other than bordello art? We thought we’d like something a bit…pastoral. For a country home. The Duchess was certain your skills extended beyond…”

  “Togas and tits?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Pastoral, hmmm?” Wyndham studied them with his sharp eyes. Intrigued. Amused.

  “I’m fond of cows,” Rosalind offered brightly.

  “She’s fond of cows,” Chase reiterated.

  “I have, in fact, painted cows,” Wyndham admitted.

  He said nothing more.

  Rosalind was rigid with anticipation.

  A few days ago, when he was listening to Colin, Chase had never dreamed that talk of cows would fill him with such anticipation. But he realized he would have to tread carefully here. Mr. Wyndham was nobody’s fool, and he had the air of someone who cared not the least what anyone thought of him. Which mad
e him a man not easily frightened or swayed.

  “Perhaps I can view this pastoral painting or something like it to ascertain whether you can paint what we wish to purchase?”

  He’d just done a wonderful imitation of a prig. Genevieve would have been proud.

  “Well, in truth, I’ve painted landscapes for the Earl of Rawden, who does God only knows what with them, as I haven’t yet seen them hanging in his home. I painted another, a much larger and more complex work featuring cows, though never met the gentleman who commissioned it, in truth. Though I was happy enough to take his money. A gentleman approached me and asked me to paint something that could be mistaken for an Italian Renaissance painting. Ha! Was I amused! I was informed that it was for a wealthy client whose mistress was a bit of a snob but wasn’t particularly educated and wouldn’t know the difference. And I was told that more commissions would be forthcoming if I were discreet about it, as he didn’t want anyone to know he’d learned of me from the Velvet Glove. A married man, I imagine. So I painted cows and horses and cherubs and I threw in an angel because I can paint them easily enough and he wanted one. He wanted me to add a moon, too, and moons are quite easy, too. Just a…” He made a sweeping, curving motion in the air. “Is that the sort of thing you had in mind?”

  He’d just neatly described the Rubinetto painting at the Montmorency.

  But Chase knew he couldn’t ask Wyndham whether he painted under a different name without revealing what he already knew.

  It was also entirely possible Mr. Wyndham hadn’t even signed the painting himself. That Rubinetto had been added later.

  So he asked a question Mr. Wyndham was certain to understand.

  “Does your threshold of discretion come with a price?”

  Mr. Wyndham’s head went back in appreciation of this gambit. He smiled slowly. “What did you have in mind, sir?”

  “Ten pounds.”

  “It was commissioned by a Mr. Welland-Dowd.”

  Chase stared.

  Wyndham grinned. “I’ve the morals and loyalty of a cat,” he confessed. “And I need to pay my housekeeper.”

  “Bleedin’ right ye need to pay yer ’ousekeeper!” The voice was unnervingly close. The sound of a broom being violently applied to a corner was heard at the foot of the stairs. Slam, slam, slam.