His green eyes gleamed at her. “I know. You said you didn’t want me undressed. But you’ve already drawn me dressed. I thought we could try something different this time.”
She swallowed, completely unable to tear her gaze away from his fingers on the stock. “How different?”
He shrugged. “I’ll stop when you tell me. Yes?”
She nodded jerkily.
“Eve.”
Her name on his lips brought her eyes to his.
He had one eyebrow quirked. “Yes? You need to say it.”
Was this what she wanted? He was big and male and in her sitting room, alone with her—but not touching her. Safely on the other side of the low table in front of the settee.
And, oh, she wanted to see what lay beneath that stock!
“Yes.”
A corner of his mouth kicked up as he pulled at the stock, unraveling it from his strong tanned neck.
Eve exhaled and sat rather abruptly in her armchair, the sketchbook clutched to her chest.
He lifted his eyebrows and reached for the buttons of his waistcoat, flicking one open and then pausing to look at her.
Eve swallowed. “Please.”
That smile flickered around his lips as he unbuttoned his long waistcoat. He hadn’t bothered removing his coat, as if he knew that would be going too far with her. Now he spread the halves of his waistcoat to the sides. Underneath, of course, was his shirt, creased and stained from the day’s exertions.
He looked at her a little challengingly then, his head tilted to the side, his face lined and grave.
She wasn’t a coward. Not at her center. Not at the heart of her.
Eve lifted her chin and said clearly, “Unbutton it, please.”
He grinned, quick and wide. His broad fingers seemed to work so slowly, pushing the small buttons through the tiny holes, gradually widening the gape of his shirt until he came to the last of them, midway down his torso.
He watched her as he pulled the edges wide, exposing a V of tanned skin, liberally scrolled with dark body hair. It wasn’t much. She couldn’t see his nipples, couldn’t see below his chest, certainly couldn’t see his belly. Oh, but it was enough for her. The dip at the base of his throat. The long tendons at the sides of his neck. The horizontal lines of his collarbones, disappearing into the sides of his shirt.
It was more than she’d ever seen of any man.
She should be afraid now. He was a huge, virile presence in the room, sitting so still on her settee, his shirt agape.
But she wasn’t.
She inhaled on the thought.
She wasn’t afraid of him—not a bit—and the realization brought a smile to her own lips.
He caught her eye and nodded, not bothering to speak, but his mouth was already twitching into his wide smile.
She opened her sketchbook, turning pages until she found a clean one. Then she drew, lost in the pleasure, the relief of her art. The only sound in the room was the scratch of her lead on the paper. Mr. Makepeace didn’t even move—he seemed content to simply sit and let her gaze her fill of him.
Eve didn’t pause until the china clock on her desk began chiming.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s gone ten.”
Mr. Makepeace stood and stretched, yawning enormously, as if he’d just awakened from a nap. He began buttoning his shirt as he said, “I’d best be off, then.”
She bit her lip regretfully, but closed her sketchbook and stood as well. “Thank you, Mr. Makepeace.”
He paused, his fingers on his half-buttoned waistcoat, and cocked an amused eyebrow at her. “Might as well call me Asa, luv. You’ve had me half undressed.”
Her eyes widened even as she bit her lip to suppress a smile. “Not nearly half.”
“A quarter, then.” He caught up his stock and stuffed it in his pocket.
She nodded solemnly. “A quarter.”
He grinned at her before snapping his fingers. “I nearly forgot I had word this afternoon. Two castrati will come to the theater to sing—both Italian, naturally. Vogel and I will pick one for our opera. I assume, as Montgomery’s money will pay the castrato I choose, you will want to hear them sing as well?”
She clasped her hands over her notebook, scrambling to put her mind to business. “Yes, of course.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then. Eleven of the clock is when they will come.” He paused a slow wide smile spreading over his face. “Good night—Eve.”
With that he strode from the room before she could comment on the use of her Christian name.
Eve watched him go thoughtfully.
Then she went to her desk, withdrew a small sheet of paper, and wrote a short letter.
She rang for Jean-Marie.
“Mon amie?” He was still dressed, for Jean-Marie didn’t often retire before midnight.
She looked at him, seeing for the first time fine lines at the corners of his eyes.
It had been a very long day.
“Have I ever told you how very much I appreciate your friendship, Jean-Marie?”
“Non, but I ’ear it in your voice nonetheless every time you speak to me, ma petite.” He arched an eyebrow. “And is that why you roused me from my warm fire? To ask this question of me?”
“No it isn’t.” Eve held out her missive. “Send a boy with this letter to the One Horned Goat as soon as it’s light. I have need of Alf.”
Chapter Eight
“Close your eyes, girl,” the king ordered, and Dove saw the glint of a knife in his hand.
Her entire body trembled, but she kept her gaze on him. “I cannot.”
His upper lip lifted in a contemptuous snarl. “Do it now, I command you!”
Tears streamed from her eyes, but Dove refused to look away. “No.”
At this the king screamed, “Avert your eyes so that I may carve the heart from your breast!”
But instead Dove jumped to her feet and dashed from the hut and into the black night.…
—From The Lion and the Dove
The next morning Asa sat listening to one of the most beautiful arias, sung by a wonderfully voiced castrato… and tried to hide a yawn behind the hand propping up his chin. He’d been up until the early hours of the morning helping to clear the stage. The problem with castrati—well, all opera singers, really—was that they were incredibly touchy about their gift. The slightest hint of disregard and they were apt to go stomping off the stage. Asa had once seen a soprano walk out because a patron’s lapdog had fallen asleep during her performance.
There was no stage to stomp off this morning—they’d decided to hear the castrati in the paved courtyard before the theater—but Asa wasn’t taking any chances. Beside him Eve sat very straight in her chair, her expression intent, her eyes shining, and Asa couldn’t repress a small smile. She was obviously enjoying the performance.
“Ach, vill you never hit that note?”
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Vogel. Asa winced at the composer’s sarcastic mutter.
The castrato, a tall man with long teeth and a yellow powdered wig, cut off his song with a very rude gesture. “I have sung in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome before the pope himself!”
“And yet you lumbered through that passage like a cowherd singing to his bovine love.”
The castrato burst into Italian, which was probably just as well, considering the gestures he continued to aim at the composer. After spitting dramatically on the ground the man swept off.
“Well.” Eve blinked for a moment before turning to Vogel. “The first singer, then?”
“He is young and not as famous as that one.” Vogel shrugged pragmatically. “But a better singer, ja. Ve hire Ponticelli. I shall go tell him at once.”
Asa nodded to indicate his consent to the choice.
The composer bowed and strode in the direction of the theater, where the other castrato had gone to wait after giving his performance.
“Oh, thank God,” Asa said, rising and stretching
out a kink in his back. “That’s done and Ponticelli will cause me less grief, I think, than Gio ever did.”
“In what way?” Eve asked as she rose. For once she wasn’t shadowed by Jean-Marie, as he’d asked to help clear the stage.
“Ah…” For a moment Asa stared at her blankly. The fact was that Gio was a terrible womanizer, which had resulted in weeping women showing up at the theater at all hours.
“He did seem very volatile when he left,” Eve observed.
“Yes he did,” Asa agreed, relieved.
“Of course I’ve noticed that many of the people in the theater are volatile,” she mused and looked at him expectantly.
They were at the theater door and Asa widened his eyes in mock innocence before opening the door for her and bowing her inside with a flourish.
“Humph.” She strolled inside.
He grinned, watching the sway of her hips ahead of him as he entered behind. Two small children ran past them and out into the courtyard.
Asa frowned. “What are—”
Eve cleared her throat and stopped to wait for him to catch up before continuing. “So now you have your castrato, the opera should be fine, shouldn’t it?”
“Dear God, don’t say that,” Asa exclaimed, stopping abruptly to knock on the wood framing the door.
He turned back to find Eve watching him with raised eyebrows. “I’d never have taken you for a superstitious man.”
“I’m in the theater,” he growled. “We’re all superstitious.” Taking her arm, he led her toward their office. “My stage fell in just yesterday. We have a little more than three weeks until we open, and all manner of misfortune could befall us before then.”
“And yet you’ve been the one urging me to believe in you and your garden,” she said softly.
“That’s because I don’t intend to quit. Ever,” he replied as he opened the door to their office. “Come hell or fire or floods, my gardens will open and we’ll put on an opera if I have to sing the high notes myself.”
“I doubt you’d approve of what you’d have to do in order to sing those high notes,” she said drily. “But I do admire your perseverance.”
She rounded his table and gracefully sat at her desk, apparently unaware that he’d stopped dead, staring at her.
“You do?”
She was feeding the dove, which for some reason she’d brought with her this morning, but she looked up at his words, her face curious. “Yes, of course. A man who sets a course and proceeds to sail it, no matter the barriers or odds, is very admirable in my opinion.”
“Ah.” He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling unaccountably ill at ease. No one had told him what he was doing was good—that he was good—since… well, since the death of Sir Stanley, his old mentor. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Her reply was entirely solemn, but then her lips twitched and she leaned a little forward. “Now will you tell me why Giovanni Scaramella caused you trouble?”
Damn, and he’d thought he’d gotten away with his vague answer earlier. Asa couldn’t help a twinge of admiration, though, that she hadn’t been so easily put off.
He sighed and sat at his table. “He likes the ladies, does Gio, and sadly they like him as well. He seemed to be particularly fond of setting his paramours one against the other and preening when they fought over him—usually at the theater.” Asa shook his head, thumbing through a stack of letters he’d brought from his rooms. “He’s a bit of a bastard, really.”
“But…” He looked up to see that Eve had her brows knit, a puzzled look on her face. “That is…” Her cheeks pinkened—rather becomingly, really. “I thought a castrato sang with such a high voice because… well, because…”
“He’s had his bits cut off,” Asa finished her sentence for her kindly. “Before his voice had a chance to change to a man’s.”
“Then… ?” Her voice trailed away in delicate question and for a moment he stared at her, trying to figure out what she was asking.
“Ah.” The light dawned. “Er… not all his bits, actually. He’s still got a…” For a split second all the names for the body part Asa was thinking of went through his brain.
None of them were fit to be uttered in a lady’s presence by a gentleman.
Which, he supposed, made it a good thing he wasn’t one.
“Cock,” Asa said, rather louder than he’d first intended to. “A castrato still has a cock. It’s just his bollocks that are cut off.”
She tilted her head, strangely less self-conscious than he was at the moment. “And that’s enough to let him, er…” She waved her hand vaguely. “Entertain ladies?”
He shrugged. “Seems to be? At least it is for Gio. Course for all I know he can’t get it up at all and does everything by hand, so to speak.” He grinned at his own wit.
She tilted her head slowly. “By hand.”
“Yes, you know…” He started to make a gesture, realized it would be unforgivably crude, and diverted his hand to scratching his head, ending lamely, “By hand.”
She shook her head decisively. “No, I do not know.”
He swallowed, feeling his cock twitch at discussing this with her. This, this was a dangerous conversation and she must know it, no matter how innocent she was.
Yet she was staring at him, waiting for an answer.
Well, if she was brave enough to pursue the matter, then far be it from him to withhold the information.
“By hand,” he said quietly, his voice deepening without conscious thought. “When a man slips his hand under a woman’s skirts and touches her between her legs. Touches her slit.”
Her blue eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted, and the pink still hadn’t left her cheeks. He found himself breathing in unison with her, the room quiet save for the faint sounds of the work on the stage. He recalled how she’d looked last night as she’d watched him unbutton his shirt for her: naïvely, sensuously innocent.
They were all alone here, just he and she, and he was having trouble remembering that he’d ever thought her plain.
She licked her lips, the slip of her tongue wet and shockingly red. “What do you mean?”
ASA WAS WATCHING her, his green eyes glinting. “You’ve never touched yourself there?”
Eve should have been offended by such a question, but then she herself had started the topic. She was the one who’d kept pushing him.
She was the one who wanted to know.
She shook her head mutely.
His voice was deep and nearly gravelly as he said, “There’s a bit of flesh, a little nubbin, at the top of a woman’s slit. Some call it a pearl or a button or a clitoris, but it doesn’t matter what it’s called, for it holds the key to a woman’s pleasure. If it’s rubbed or”—he inhaled slowly—“ licked, then the woman feels a wondrous feeling. She’s transported, the very same as when a man spills his seed.”
Eve could feel a warmth at the bottom of her belly at his words, but she wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. She had never felt a pearl in her slit. How could he know more about a woman’s body—presumably her body—than she did?
“You’ve done this?” she whispered. “Rubbed and licked?”
“Yes.” His eyes had gone half lidded, the green nearly hidden.
“Why?” she asked, truly bewildered. “How does it serve you?”
He smiled at her then, not in friendship or joy but as if he revealed a secret. “Because it brings me pleasure, too. To hear a woman’s moans and gasps and whimpers, see her growing wet, to smell her spice rising in the air, and to know that I am the one driving her pleasure. My touch has made her lose her mind.” He shook his head. “It’s powerful, that feeling, that moment.”
She was having trouble catching her breath, as if she’d run pell-mell across a field. His words, his voice, seemed to hold her in some kind of spell. “Do all women react this way?”
“No. Some hold themselves tight. I have to tease open their legs, their sex. They might lie sti
ll and quiet for some time while I kiss them and tell them how beautiful they are and play with their little pearl. My hand might be covered with their liquid, the air heavy with salt and sex by the time they come undone. Others are wanton, in the best sort of way. They hold up their skirts and spread their legs and giggle as I stroke, licking their lips, sighing, and enjoying their own pleasure.”
She watched him intently, wanting to squirm at the forbidden things he was telling her, but keeping herself firmly in check. “Which do you like better?”
He laughed softly, almost a grunt, and she realized he was sprawled in his chair, his head tilted back. “I like them all. Highborn and low, sweet, giggling girls and ladies who have the knowledge of the ways of the world in their eyes. I like short lasses and tall, redhead and dark, big-bosomed women and ones with delicate little teacups. The type who flirt with just a dip of their eyelashes and those that let a man know right away what they want. I like women and I like making love to them. They’re all beautiful to me.”
“But…” Not all women were beautiful. She was not beautiful—he’d made that more than obvious the day they’d met. Did he not even consider her a woman, then? The thought made her unaccountably sad.
She meant to ask, to demand a further explanation, but the door to the office opened. Jean-Marie came in and Asa straightened in his chair.
The spell was broken.
But even as Eve turned to Jean-Marie, she caught a gleam in Asa’s eye, and she wondered: what would it feel like if she let him touch her?
Jean-Marie looked from her to Asa, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he merely said, “Alf waits for you in the garden, mon amie.”
Asa finally glanced away from her at this news. “Alf?”
“A boy who works for my brother,” Eve said, rising. She was pleased to find that her legs held her. “And for me as well sometimes.”
“What’s he doing here?” Asa demanded.
Eve shrugged casually. “I thought he could help me with my work—perhaps do a few small chores and run errands for me.”
She’d never been a particularly good liar, and he stared at her a moment longer before saying slowly, “Very well.”
Sweetest Scoundrel Page 12