“But you have potential,” he murmured as he took her chin in his paint-speckled fingers and turned her face gently to each side, studying her. “Delicate bone structure, skin like porcelain, the slight stature of a waif but with deceivingly ample curves…”
Folding her arms in front of those same curves, she flushed, certain that the porcelain skin he’d complimented was now scarlet. “I don’t think—”
“Beautiful.”
Beautiful. She stared at him, her protest forgotten. With a single word, he’d stunned her speechless.
He dropped his hand away, then turned to step back inside the studio. He grabbed up a pile of clothes lying across the chaise and handed them to her.
“You can change behind the screen in the corner. And hurry up.” He gestured for her to come inside. “You’ve already arrived too late in the day. If you waste any more time, we’ll lose all of our light.”
Eve stared, utterly bewildered, yet oddly excited as a quiet thrill curled through her. For the first time in two months she felt energized, adventurous, daring…alive. The roiling mix of emotions tingled to the tips of her fingers and toes with wild anticipation. Oh, it was simply divine! And exactly what she’d been missing from her recently boring life.
She looked at the costume in her hand. She should stop Mr. Vincenzo right now and explain the mistake and how she was there to retrieve a painting, not pose for one. That she was a respectable young miss—well, as respectable as a shipping merchant’s daughter could ever be—and not someone who was paid to let men look at her, on stage, in a painting, or otherwise. But if she explained herself, the precious freedom she’d found this afternoon would be snuffed out, and the oppressive dread would press in around her once more.
Yet if she remained…An adventure.
And anyway, what harm was there in missing the breakfast and pretending to be a model? Society women paid thousands of pounds to have their portraits painted, and there was certainly nothing scandalous about that. They bragged about it, in fact. No one would ever know that she’d been here. And what was the worst that could happen, that he would be angry with her when he learned that she knew nothing about being a model? If he was going to be angry and send her away anyway, then—
“Well?” he called out. “Are we going to do this or not?”
With a deep breath to tamp down the excitement coursing through her, she stepped inside.
Chapter 2
As the woman disappeared behind the screen to change, Dominick Mercer shut the double doors with a shake of his head. Who on earth had Eads sent him this time?
That hustler spent his life among the stews and theatres of Covent Garden, attending everything from respectable venues to bawdy backroom entertainments. He was surrounded by women who had no qualms about being displayed naked for payment. Which was why Dom had hired him to find his models.
Every few weeks or so, Eads would come across an actress or singer who was different from the rest of the women onstage. More physically striking, more statuesque. One who exuded energy and vivaciousness. A woman who captured the attention of a room the moment she entered it. Eads referred those women to Dom in exchange for a finder’s fee. Unevenly educated daughters of tradesmen or merchants, they were usually actresses looking for a way to make extra money or singers who didn’t have the voice to strut the boards at the Royal. They all possessed a spark in their eyes, a sultry assuredness tempered by comfortable grace…those qualities that the best models possessed.
But this one was different. This one possessed an inherent allure that simply shined.
She wasn’t the most classically striking of women, certainly not as statuesque as he preferred. And her hair and eyes—both had him unable to decide if she were brunette or ginger, if her eyes were amber or green. That alone presented a problem when he’d have to capture her in the varying light. But she also possessed delicate features, fine lines, and an energy that radiated from her.
She might very well prove to be exactly the challenge he’d been seeking.
He needed a spark to re-energize his career. A career that had been decidedly floundering since his return to England two years ago. That was due in no small part to the necessity of keeping his artistic life secret. It was one thing for a peer to dabble in the occasional landscape or study of horses and hounds. But it was something altogether different to create scandalous paintings of naked women in the kinds of shocking compositions on which he’d built his reputation as one of Italy’s leading artists.
Only a handful of people knew his secret. His personal secretary, valet, butler—no one else. Not even his old maestro Giuseppe or Jacopo, his current apprentice, had any idea that Domenico Vincenzo and the Marquess of Ellsworth were one and the same. He fully intended to keep it that way, because if society ever learned the truth, it would mean not only the end of his reputation but quite possibly of the entire marquessate.
And certainly the end of his career as an artist. Which might as well be the end of him.
Lately, though, the burden of hiding his identity had become smothering. He had no idea how much longer he’d be able to sustain this dual existence.
“Are you all right?” he called out as he fetched his sketchbook and began to hunt for a piece of charcoal amidst the ordered clutter on his worktable.
“Yes, but the ties are being a bit difficult.”
“Leave them.” He frowned in concentration as he snatched up the charcoal, then spilled a cup of chalk across his palm and searched for a red piece.
Amusement danced in her voice. “So you’re planning a nude sketch, then?”
He chuckled as he palmed both the red chalk and charcoal. Cheeky. This one had spirit. He hoped he could capture it on canvas. “Do you want me?”
A long pause, followed by a breathy but startled, “Do I want you?”
His head snapped up as a hot ache throbbed instantly in his loins. Oh yes, this one was certainly alluring, all right. Apparently without even trying.
“Need me,” he clarified quickly. Then he rolled his eyes. Well, that wasn’t any better. “To help with the ties.” His lips twisted as he murmured low enough that she wouldn’t hear, “Or with other things.”
Even as he spoke the words, he knew he’d be a fool to act on them. Bedding his model…Wasn’t that what had gotten him into his current predicament in the first place, as an artist without a model?
He’d sworn to himself nearly a decade ago that he’d never blur the lines between art and intimacy, knowing that both would suffer. But he’d made a mistake with Constance. A grand one.
Even now he couldn’t say who had seduced whom, only that one moment he’d been painting her and the next he’d been accepting the physical pleasures she eagerly gave. She’d been irresistible…beautifully curvaceous, innately sultry, and confident in her own naked flesh. She’d let him satiate himself in her, in a way he hadn’t with any other woman since he returned to England.
But she wasn’t content to be his model and lover. She wanted to be his wife. And that demand was downright madness.
As the Marquess of Ellsworth, he couldn’t marry her. A former actress turned artist’s model could never be his marchioness. He’d be laughed out of England. And as Vincenzo, he wouldn’t marry her, because he’d long ago sworn never to divide his passions. A man couldn’t serve two mistresses. Both would lose.
So he’d had no choice but to end the relationship. Which meant that he’d also lost her as a model and needed to find a new one.
“Am I what you’re looking for?”
When he glanced up at the soft voice, his heart stuttered.
She stood in front of the screen in the cream-colored gown whose front ties hugged at her breasts and accentuated her hips before the soft cotton draped down from her slender waist to tease at her knees. She was bare above the neckline of the corset-style bodice, the view of her creamy, slender shoulders unimpeded.
Without a word, he slowly circled her again, to take another ass
essing look at her. A faint blush beguilingly pinked her cheeks, and she crossed her arms to cover her bosom, although the gowns that society women wore to the opera were far more revealing than this. Good. Because it wasn’t the world-weary, hard-edged look of an experienced seductress he wanted to capture for his next painting, but the exact opposite—one of softness and innocent excitement.
She possessed all of that. In spades.
“That costume will do nicely,” he finally murmured, which earned him a deepening of her blush. And an inexplicable tightening of his gut in response.
He gestured her toward the chaise longue.
She took a step forward, then halted, suddenly nervous. “You closed the doors.”
“Yes. For privacy.” He frowned at her expression, one that reminded him of a doe cornered by hounds. “But the doors are unlocked. You can leave any time you choose. And I will not lay a hand on you.” That promise he would never break. “You’re perfectly safe here.”
Uncertainty flitted across her face as she bit her bottom lip.
“Enough good light comes through the fanlight to allow me to paint you with the doors closed.” He pointed at the large, semi-circular window. Unable to resist, he teased, “Unless you’d rather I paint you dressed like that in full view of the neighbors.”
“Of course not!” She gave a short, nervous laugh, her arms once more crossing over her chest.
Good Lord, she really was new to all this. Which only increased the challenge she presented.
He didn’t dare tell her that he planned to eventually paint her in the nude for fear she would flee before he had the chance to even sketch her. With this one, better to ease into his plans.
“It’s just you and I, then?” She twisted her hands in her skirt. “Will that other man—the one I met in the alley—will he return?”
She was nervous about being seen? Wherever Eads had found her, it definitely wasn’t half-dressed in some backroom review. “Jacopo’s done for the day. He won’t be back until morning.”
“Good,” she answered on a breath of relief.
He narrowed his gaze on her, gauging her reaction even as he grabbed a wooden chair and dragged it up in front of the chaise. “You don’t like Jacopo?” When she hesitated, he prompted, “I’ll be paying you to expose yourself to me for hours on end. I think the least you can do is answer my question.”
With a forced shrug of her shoulders, one which signified her answer to be anything but casual, she sighed out, “He…patted me…on the bottom.”
Dom froze for a beat, unprepared for the rush of anger her words brought. “Did you kick him between the legs?”
“No!” Her blush turned scarlet, accentuating the creamy smoothness of her skin.
“You should have.” He picked up his sketchbook and flipped it open as he sat on the chair and gestured once more toward the chaise. “You should kick any man who touches you without your permission.”
Amusement sparkled in her voice. “Including you?”
“Especially me.” He snapped off the tip of the charcoal and tossed it away. “As hard as you can. And then kick him again when he’s down.”
She stared at him in astonishment.
He shrugged. It was the most obvious thing in the world—“For good measure.”
A soft bubble of laughter spilled from her pink lips as she realized that he was bamming her. Partially, anyway. Her hand flew to her mouth, but it was too late to stop the lilting laugh that drifted through the studio, as soft as the northern light falling through the fanlight’s glass.
The nervousness eased from her, and she lowered herself gracefully onto the chaise. But she sat straight with a ramrod stiff spine and knees primly locked together.
“You’re not at all what I expected,” she admitted.
“What did you expect?” He motioned at her. “Sit back.”
She scooted to the back of the chaise but sat just as rigid, with the same painfully correct posture as before. “Not an Englishman, for one. I thought you were Italian.”
“All artists are Italian.” He gave her a chastising smile and tapped his chest. “In our hearts, where it matters.” Then he frowned. Her posture wouldn’t work. Not at all. “When you were a child, were you scolded for not sitting up straight?”
“Constantly.”
“Forget it. And everything else you were taught about being proper.”
Her mouth fell open in faint shock. Yet he also sensed an excitement rising in her.
Closing the sketchbook with a frustrated snap, he set it down and approached her. “Lie back.”
She did so with a wary expression, only to end up looking impossibly like someone sitting up straight and stiff while lying down.
He blew out a hard breath. A challenge? The woman was proving to be the most trying subject of his career.
So he took a different tack. “Pretend you’re alone in your room, feeling just a bit drowsy and as languid as the warm afternoon, so you decide to lie down for a nap. Show me how it would look.”
She draped herself across the chaise then, letting her head and shoulders go lax. Her body softened against the cushions.
“Tuck your right arm behind your head, and drape the other along your side.”
She did as asked.
The pose was better, her body visibly more relaxed, but aggravatingly, not yet what he wanted to capture. “Now, show me what you would look like if you were interrupted in the middle of that nap by a man who’d entered your bedroom and found you looking like this.”
She clutched at the front of the gown, as if afraid the ties had somehow come loose in her sleep and revealed her bosom, while the other tugged down at the skirt to cover her legs.
But it was the look in her eyes that captured his attention. Not one of bewilderment or fear…but surprised curiosity.
That was the emotion he seized upon.
Squatting down beside her, he brought his eyes level with hers as he balanced on the balls of his feet. “What if you weren’t surprised?” His voice emerged far huskier than he’d intended. “What if you’d issued an invitation for him to come to you, to gaze upon you like this and take his fill of the sight of you? What if you didn’t want him to leave, instead longing to have him shamelessly join you right here on the chaise?”
“Shamelessly?” she repeated, her soft voice breathless.
“In every way. And lacking in repercussions of any kind…except that for a few moments he’s allowed to bask in your beauty and fantasize about how exquisite it would be to have you.” He leaned closer, close enough to hear the quickening of her breath and smell her jasmine perfume. “That’s what’s wanted from a painting of a beautiful woman. A man who sees it wants to feel as if he’s right there in the room with you, alone, able to touch your soft warmth by simply lifting his hand.”
Unable to resist, he trailed his fingers down her arm. Goose bumps formed magically in their wake.
“He wants to believe that you’re waiting for him, longing to give yourself and please him, to accept his pleasures in return.” He dropped his hand away, his point made. “A man viewing that painting wants to be seduced, and our job is to make him believe that he has been.”
“And if a woman is viewing it?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
“Then we make her believe that she’s capable of committing that very same seduction.” He let his gaze travel slowly over her, across her breasts and down her legs, allowing his appreciation for her beauty and the delectable way she was displayed show on his face. The way someone looking at her painting would do. “That’s what art is. Mutual seduction.”
Her eyes grew big and bright as she stared disbelievingly at him. For a moment, he thought he’d thoroughly stunned her, perhaps to the point that she might leap off the chaise and flee.
Instead, understanding seeped over her, and she changed before his eyes.
Like an actress assuming a new role, she softened into the pliant, lithe figure he wanted. The
stiffness in her melted into a relaxed and warm posture. She shifted to turn more fully toward him. The tiny movement was barely noticeable, yet the result was an unwitting invitation as her back arched ever so slightly. The hand at her bosom now tangled in the ties, not to clasp them closed but to untie them at only a word from him, and the hand that rested at her side now clutched at the skirt as if to scandalously pull it up.
Sweet Lucifer.
But it was the expression on her face that had his gut twisting into knots. The surprise hadn’t lifted completely but was now tempered with nervous excitement, and a bright wonder lit the honey-gold depths of her eyes. Curiosity. Vulnerability. Innocence. All of it tantalizingly displayed in a look of yearning that took his breath away.
“Like this?”
“Just like that,” he rasped as he shifted back onto his heels and pushed up to his full height, his eyes never leaving her. Good Lord, exactly like that. “Don’t move.”
He grabbed up his sketchbook from the chair, but instead of sitting, he stood beside her and quickly sketched out her form with the charcoal. He applied line after line to the paper, doing his best to capture her sensual yet innocent look, her vulnerability, her energy. The life exuding from her. He smudged the charcoal with his thumb to soften the elegant line of her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulders and curve of her left hip rising temptingly into the air…Bolder strokes to represent the tension in her fingers, still clutching at the dress, as if ready to bare herself at the slightest encouragement.
“Beautiful…” As he sketched, his eyes moved ceaselessly between her and the paper. The line of her body, the emotions playing on her face…beautiful, indeed.
As her form began to take shape on the page, so did a tempting plan to free himself from the prison he’d been thrust into when he’d inherited the marquessate.
He needed to paint the same way he needed to breathe. Yet since he’d inherited, he’d had no choice but to paint in secret. Revealing himself as Vincenzo was not an option, not with his artist’s libertine—and largely apocryphal—reputation that flew in the face of the esteemed Ellsworth title.
What A Lord Wants Page 3