“You’re quite talented, Honoria. Please tell me this will be hung somewhere for the public to enjoy.”
“The plan is to secure a spot for it in a gallery,” Honoria replied, working maniacally to focus on the present set of questions and not the past-posed question about pleasure that was still sending rivulets of sensations down between her legs.
“A large one, I hope?” Phoebe asked encouragingly.
“Well—”
“Whichever gallery Honoria wants it in, I’ll see it done.”
“You will?” Both girls looked at Dermont incredulously.
“Yes.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, then must have thought better of it and shooed Phoebe out of the room. Well, not so much shooed as pointed to the door and canted his head in its direction, expecting her to heed his silent command. As only a duke could do, Honoria noted.
“Fine. I’ll leave,” she huffed. “But I must see it when it’s complete.” Then, mumbling to her ferret she said, “Come along, Ferris. We’ll leave these two. Alone.”
Honoria watched as Dermont used his body to usher his sister out the door and swore she heard Phoebe mumble something to the effect of, “Don’t do anything I would do,” followed by a little snicker.
And then the door was closed again. And she was almost positive she heard the lock click into place. And she was just shy of absolutely certain that she did not feel relief over having missed out on a kiss earlier.
“Where were we?” He stood there in the middle of the room, eyes scanning the settee where he had posed, then landing on her—still seated in front of the easel. Waiting.
She had a choice. Both of which had potentially damning consequences. Pick up the paintbrush and continue her work, thus forgoing the kiss.
Or.
Kiss the duke.
A smattering of paint launched itself in her mind like a veritable explosion. None of which she could make sense of.
But the pull on her heart was strong. And hadn’t that been at the spirit of the task from her father anyway? Follow your heart. Pursue your passion. Live your life. Be free. Experience the world around you.
But who was she to claim that for herself?
“W–we were painting,” she mumbled in frustration at herself. She thrust a hand toward her paintbrush ready to recommence her work.
But then he was standing behind her before she had a chance to settle her nerves. And his voice startled her, “Show me.”
Her paintbrush flew back, coating a long smear down his cravat and his jacket.
“Oh!” One hand flew to her mouth.
In shock, they stared at each other through thick, charged air.
Without a word, Dermont tugged on his cravat, slipping it from around his neck, exposing a small v-shape of his chest to her.
And she did the first thing that came to mind. It was wanton. Wicked. Delicious.
She took her paintbrush, paused with a long inhale, and then drew paint on him with one long, languid stroke. Down.
His breath hitched before he responded by unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his full chest and abdomen. Muscles stacked on muscles. A small curly tuft of hair led downward and she lost sight of the trail as it was hidden by his breeches.
With a steadying breath, she pulled the paintbrush further down his body, eliciting a small tremor and a fluttering of his eyes.
Down.
Down.
Down.