Nicholas could barely focus on preparing his Academy submission for transport to London. Barely two hours had passed since he had returned Emma to Pettibone and all ready he missed the soft press of her sweet body, his flesh-and-blood goddess sent to earth. His gaze slipped to Emma’s compassionate smile in his completed portrait. She had accepted his passion without demand or complaint. She had accepted him as an artist, not as a connection to peerage, nor as a means to an unlimited supply of Worth gowns. She brought out the best of him as an artist, as a man, and as a . . . father?

His fingers fumbled the nail that he had positioned on the wooden transportation crate. Was it possible that Emma could even now carry his heir? That thought, as distasteful as it may have been with other women, felt somehow right with Emma. A smile pulled at his lips. He could imagine Emma with a swollen belly. Fumbling on the floor for the dropped nail, he imagined her reading long passages of Wordsworth and Coleridge to their unborn child, and he’d paint her every expression. A deep warmth crept up from his soul. He repositioned the nail, and tapped it with his hammer. She would be a loving mother, just like his own, and he’d be a . . . a vision of his own father slipped into his mind.

The hammer missed its mark and caught Nicholas’s thumb. “Bloody hell!” He slipped the sore finger between his lips. The action reminded him of Emma sucking ever so sweetly on his seed that she’d collected on her fingers. His manhood stirred and his lips lifted in a smile.

“Look at you.” William strode into the studio, his eyes widened in astonishment. “There you sit with a finger in your mouth, grinning like a half-wit. Is this delirium due to the advent of our departure, or a result of your earlier activities in town?” He lifted a brow. “You were plying your talents in the local tavern this day, were you not?”

Nicholas simply smiled and finished pounding the nail home. Best let his brother imagine what he may. In truth, he hadn’t visited that tavern in months. Not since he had found his Artemis.

“I thought as much,” William said, a knowing tilt to his lips. “And I must say I’m pleased to see you back to your old self.”

Nicholas lifted a landscape fitted in a gilded ornamental frame off the easel, then held it up for his brother’s viewing. “Do you think this will be accepted in the exhibition?”

The smile froze on William’s face. His eyes narrowed slightly, and his words slowed as if carefully chosen. “You plan to enter two paintings, then?”

“This is the only painting I’m sending to the competition.”

“Surely, you jest!” William scowled, pointing to the similarly sized, framed painting leaning at the easel’s feet. “Artemis’s Revenge outshines that landscape in depth and substance, as well as in pure artistry and emotion. You can’t seriously intend to submit that, that . . . sheep pasture in its place.”

Nicholas looked with mock horror at the landscape in his hands. “Do you really think it is that bad? I rather thought the inclusion of some of the Pettibone students made an interesting contrast to the rural scene.”

Indeed, he had no doubt Artemis’s Revenge would have secured a place of honor in the juried exhibition, but that was no longer his concern. Emma had already secured a similar placement in his heart. Artemis’s Revenge would serve as a private reminder of the levels to which he was capable. There would be another year, and another painting opportunity for Academy recognition.

“Are you sure, brother?” William dropped his outrage for a confidential inflection. “Artemis would win the respect you’ve struggled years for. She wouldn’t need to know.”

“I would know and that’s enough.” Nicholas hoped his tone conveyed the end of that discussion. “I’ve made my decision, William. Let it stand.”

Nicholas slipped the framed landscape carefully in the crate, then hammered home the carefully placed wooden lid. “There,” he said, once the task was completed. “It’s all ready to be loaded in the morning.”

William shook his head in disagreement, but didn’t say another word.

As an afterthought, Nicholas draped a gray cloth over the framed Artemis’s Revenge destined to stay in his studio. As long as guests tarried at his house, his masterpiece had best remain covered. Emma would never forgive him if Lady Cavendish viewed the painting.

Once Artemis’s Revenge was properly draped, he wrapped his arm around his brother’s shoulder. “Let’s adjourn for a nightcap. My work here is finished.”

Nicholas greeted the dawn with an enthusiasm not often displayed at this ungodly hour. His brother and Lady Cavendish were leaving. The household fairly hummed with the bustling necessary to pack up the guests and send them speedily on their way. Nicholas located William in the dining room finishing his breakfast.

“What is that awful smell?” William asked, wrinkling his aristocratic nose. “It smells like burnt cork.”

“Coffee.” Nicholas replied, immediately drawn to the special pot Thomas had left on the sideboard. “It clears the mind, energizes the spirit.” He wafted his hands over the pot, pretending to inhale a magic elixir.

“It chased Lady Cavendish from the room. She thought she’d suffer an apoplexy and dashed away with linen covering her nose.” William turned to regard Nicholas over his shoulder. “I seem to recall that you usually indulge in another type of spirit in the morning.”

Nicholas poured his dark brew into a cup. “I’m a reformed man, William. Emma has taught me the need to keep my wits about me, even at this abominable hour.”

William harrumphed, then patted his mouth with a napkin. “Lady Cavendish wishes to make her farewells. I didn’t think it wise for her to traipse back to the studio looking for you. I suggested she wait in the salon.”

“Thank you, William. That was most considerate.” And surprising, given his brother’s sentiments last night. Perhaps he was learning to respect his little brother’s opinions. Nicholas smiled. By acknowledging the talent behind Artemis’s Revenge, William appeared ready to forge a new relationship with Nicholas, one based on mutual respect.

William waved him toward the door. “Go on. I’ll see that the crate is properly loaded on the carriage.”

“Thank you.” Genuine affection for his brother’s improved attitude warmed his heart. For an instant, he wished William would delay his departure so they could discover more common ground. But Lady Cavendish waited, and he didn’t want to delay her departure by a single minute. Her constant questions went beyond idle curiosity to barely tolerated nuisance.

“Where that woman finds the energy at this unnatural hour is a mystery to me,” Nicholas said, sipping from his cup. “I don’t envy you the trip back to London. I’ll be back to bed five minutes after you leave.”

And scheming to lure Emma back to Black Oak, he mentally added. Now that his houseguests were leaving, he could instruct her in all the various coupling positions without interruptions.

“While you lay in your bed,” William intoned. “I’ll be listening to the lady’s endless chatter. I’m hoping she’ll talk herself into a nap so my ears can rest.” William waved him out of the room. “Go along now. Allow me to postpone the inevitable prattle as long as necessary.”

Nicholas repaired to the salon to smile and nod at all the woman’s continuous observations and lamentations. His brother’s eventual arrival brought not only relief but also pity for poor William. Together they all walked out in the early dawn, where the horses steamed in anticipation of the long journey south.

After William and Lady Cavendish were settled, his brother called from the window. “Come visit us soon in London, Nicholas. You know Father would be delighted.”

Nicholas offered his obligatory curt nod and waved them off. He walked through the house, hesitating at the door to his studio. The crate was gone; the draped painting leaned against the empty easel. Later he would determine the proper location for Artemis’s Revenge, then he would return to block out a new painting. He had already chosen the title: Seduction.

Hours later, Thomas pulled back the heavy velvet drapes, flooding the bedroom room with rich afternoon sun.

“They didn’t come back, did they?” Nicholas asked in a sleep-laden voice. “I only closed my eyes a few minutes ago. What did Lady Cavendish forget?”

“No sir, they are gone,” Thomas replied with a satisfied air. “Black Oak is once more a haven of peace and solitude.”

“Long overdue,” Nicholas muttered into his pillow.

“You asked last night to roust you at this hour, just in case you were inclined to sleep overly long.” He walked briskly to the hall and returned with a tray.

“That’s right, I recall.” Nicholas rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Thomas, there should be a covered painting in my studio. Could you bring it to me, please? I’m debating the best spot for it here in my room.”

“Very good, sir. I shall return in a moment.”

Nicholas busied himself with his morning rituals. Now that William and that Cavendish woman had departed, he could work on his art without secrecy or avoidance. He would also be able to teach Emma the pleasures to be had in a proper bed. That thought chased the sleep-induced cobwebs from his brain. Just knowing the delights that awaited him made rising a pleasant task indeed.

He counted back to the last time Emma had arrived for a lesson, frowning to discover that she wasn’t due for one today. At least not a scheduled lesson, he reminded himself. All he needed was some excuse to lure her to Black Oak, some reason. . .

“Is this the painting to which you referred, sir?” Thomas asked, struggling with a large, drape-covered rectangle. His nose poked over the top of the frame, while his white-knuckled fingers grasped the two sides.

“Yes, that’s it.” Nicholas walked to the wall across from his bed. From this position, he’d be able to see his Emma first thing in the morning, and the last thing at night. “Careful, now,” he said. “Bring it over here. Gently, gently. . .”

Once directed to the proper spot, Thomas lowered the painting to rest on the floor. Nicholas yearned to rip the covering off his masterpiece but felt a small measure of caution might be prudent. He glanced at Thomas who rapidly shook his hands attempting to hasten circulation back to his fingers. A warm gratitude slipped through Nicholas. “Thank you, Thomas,” he said. “I’d be lost without you.”

“My pleasure, sir.” Thomas nodded crisply.

“Now then.” Nicholas returned his attentions to the draped canvas. “I realize this is not necessary, but before I undrape this painting, I need to have your vow never to share the subject matter with anyone. It’s to remain a secret from all outside the household.”

“Of course, sir,” Thomas replied. “You have my word and that of the rest of the staff.” He paused, biting his lower lip for the briefest of seconds. “I am surprised, however, you feel the need to ask.”

Nicholas smiled. “You’ll understand when I remove this drape.”

With a quick jerk, Nicholas whipped the covering free in one deft movement. He gathered the stiff white fabric into a ball and tossed it aside. Pride in his work filled his heart to bursting. He glanced first at Thomas, surprised to see his lack of reaction. Then he glanced down to where his latest Yorkshire landscape sat amid the dancing dust motes.

Shock rendered him motionless. A faintness caused no doubt by blood rushing from his brain tingled about his temples. What happened to Artemis?

“Well sir,” Thomas said, tightly. “I can see why you’d want no one else to view this painting.”

“He switched it!” Nicholas said as realization dawned. “Bloody hell, my brother switched the painting!”

Barefoot and without the assistance of his stick, Nicholas rushed from the bedroom down to his studio, Thomas close on his heels. Hopefully, William had merely hidden Artemis’s Revenge as a parting jest. Nicholas rummaged through the many clean and partially painted canvases to no avail. The truth settled like five-stone lead on his heart. He sunk onto his stool with a groan. “He doesn’t know the damage he’s done.”

“Beg pardon, sir, but is there anything I can do to help the situation?” Thomas asked.

“The only thing that will help is to retrieve that painting before it goes on display.” Nicholas sunk his head into his hands. The day had begun with such promise, but now. . .

“He’s got a seven-hour lead.” He glanced up at Thomas. “Does the train leave for London this late?”

“Only arrivals come this late, sir, but there should be a departing train in the morning.”

“I don’t think I can wait that long,” Nicholas said. “I’m not sure that I can catch him before London, but I might be able to intercept him before he submits Artemis’s Revenge to the jury.” He slapped his thigh. “Have Henry prepare Lord Byron. There’s no time to waste.”

“Yes, my lord.” Thomas turned to leave.

“Thomas, one more thing.” Nicholas paused, already feeling guilty over his next request. “Mrs. Brimley is not to know that Artemis’s Revenge is en route to London. I intend to retrieve the painting before any harm is done.”

“What if she should inquire, my lord?” Thomas asked.

Guilt stabbed at Nicholas’s heart, but he saw no other option. “Lie.”

By afternoon, Emma remained a bit sore from yesterday’s “lesson,” but otherwise was in high spirits. She supposed she should feel differently, used perhaps, or maybe violated, and most certainly ruined. Unless those words meant floating through the day with little thought other than the exact color of Nicholas’s eyes or the precise way his lips turned when he smiled, she felt none of the things society suggested she should.

By her defiance of the major tenet of The Ladies’ Guide to Proper Etiquette, the tenet in very large bold print, she had joined the ranks of womanhood. Was this how her mother had felt? So much in love with her young man that society’s rules no longer mattered? In her heart, Emma felt a peace and kinship with her mother that she hadn’t experienced while her mother lived. She wished she could talk to her now and tell her that she understood.

Today, the birds sang sweeter, the romantic poets expressed far greater passion, and she, Emma Heatherston, was more worldly and knowledgeable than any preceding day in her life. She was confident, and she was experienced, especially with regard to one talented artist.

In spite of her preparations, one aspect of yesterday’s lesson had completely surprised her. But she had an idea for a remedy. With a little collaboration, her girls would be better prepared for their first night of passion.

She waited till after the evening meal, when the girls had instruction with Cecilia, to seek out Pettibone’s talented seamstress. She found her alone in the parlor.

Beatrice glanced up. “Look at you, dear, you are positively glowing. Our country air has done wonders for your complexion.” Heat rose to Emma’s cheeks. Was it possible that her very appearance had altered as a result of last night? Did they suspect the reason for the change?

“Come sit next to me, dear. I’d enjoy some company while I work on my embroidery.” Beatrice padded the cushion beside her.

“No, thank you. I’d prefer to stand,” Emma added quickly. Sitting on a hard bench earlier in the day had taught her one of the consequences of a sore bottom. She made a mental note to mention that to the girls. Padded seat cushions were a necessity.

Emma drifted her fingers over the lacy antimacassars draped over the backs of the parlor chairs. Studying the handicraft, she tentatively approached her request. “Beatrice, do you recall that drawing I presented months ago of a gentleman’s aroused manhood?”

“Oh yes, indeed,.” Beatrice responded, color rising in her parchment-thin cheeks. Her eyes never left her project, but Emma suspected her attention may have deviated from her brightly colored threads.

“I’ve been thinking . . . that drawing alone may prove insufficient for the girls, when they finally confront the real object.” Emma watched the spinster carefully, unsure of her reaction.

“I thought your drawing most informative,” Beatrice said, her voice rising an octave. “In what way was it insufficient?”

“It doesn’t adequately present size and thickness. . .” Emma attempted to demonstrate with her fingers. Beatrice’s glance drifted upward. Her needle remained poised in half-stitch, while her eyes widened to the size of salt cellars.

“I thought perhaps you could use your sewing talents to craft a suitable model out of fabric,” Emma explained.

Beatrice’s jaw dropped. “Of a man’s . . .” She fumbled for the appropriate term, her voice falling to a whisper. “Sabre?”

Emma fought the temptation to smile. Beatrice had more difficulty with the terminology than the topic itself. Her two high spots of color slowly spread across the rest of her cheeks.

“I . . . I’m not sure how to go about such a thing.” After unsuccessfully attempting to place her embroidery needle in the proper spot, Beatrice abandoned the project in her lap. “I’ve never seen a pattern for a man’s. . . personals.”

Emma closed the distance between them so as to lower her voice. “I thought that if you could form a tube”--Emma rounded her thumb and forefinger to indicate diameter--“and stuff it tightly with cloth till it was stiff. That might suffice.”

Beatrice hadn’t moved, not even to blink, though her eyes remained fixed as if watching a specter dance before her. Emma frowned. “It doesn’t have to look exactly like the item in question, you understand. Just project the appropriate length and thickness.”

“That big?” Beatrice tried to match Emma’s circle with her own fingers.

Emma relaxed. “It’s surprising, isn’t it? That’s why I think it’s important the girls are adequately prepared.”

“They’ll be frightened out of their minds!”

“Ssh,” Emma cautioned, glancing toward the doorway. “Let’s keep this our secret until the project is complete.”

“By all means.” Beatrice nodded. She frowned briefly, then glanced at Emma. “What about the baubles at the bottom. Will you be wanting those as well?”

Emma thought for a moment. “No, let’s stick with the . . . sabre for now.” She kept her smile to herself, imagining Beatrice’s creative use of trimmings. “We can adjust the model later.”

Beatrice squinted her lively eyes. “I have some flowered chintz that might fit the bill. A tube shouldn’t be difficult to fashion. I’ll put something together and let you have a look.”

“Excellent.” Emma beamed. Nicholas had been correct when he had said, “Discussing a subject is different than experiencing it for oneself.” For all their discussions, her recent experience still proved shocking. If nothing else, she now had a better grasp on how to instruct the girls.

Grasp, she chuckled to herself. What an appropriate choice of words. She glanced down at Beatrice, who twitched her fingers, mentally measuring lengths of cloth for their project. Love and gratitude for the older woman seized Emma in an unanticipated surge. Thank heavens above that her uncle’s debauchery had forced her to find Pettibone. She smiled at Beatrice. “Perhaps we can meet after my lesson at Black Oak in two day’s time to discuss the model.”

Beatrice glanced up. “Oh, I doubt that you will have a lesson in two days.”

Surprise stiffened Emma’s spine, followed by a keen stab of disappointment. “Why not?”

Beatrice returned to her embroidery. “I heard Henry tell Cook that Lord Nicholas Chambers rode off for London earlier today.”

“Oh.” Emma relaxed. “Henry must have meant the Marquess of Enon. Both he and Lady Cavendish were to depart rather early this morning.”

“No, Henry said it was the younger brother that left. The Marquess and Lady Cavendish left in the Marquess’s carriage, but Lord Nicholas Chambers took off on his horse like he was racing at Newmarket.” Beatrice glanced up. “According to Henry.”

“That is most strange.” Emma frowned. “I wonder that he didn’t send a note to cancel our lesson.”

“Nothing’s strange at all when you consider it’s Lord Nicholas Chambers.” Beatrice smiled smugly.

“Did Henry suggest why Lord Nicholas Chambers might leave for London?” Emma asked, feeling an uncomfortable lump settle in her stomach.

“Mrs. Brimley, I’m surprised at you. One never inquires of servants as to their master’s business.” Beatrice feigned offense, although Emma guessed she had probably asked Henry that same question and received an incomplete answer.

Emma waited the following day for a note from Nicholas. Henry had to be mistaken, she reasoned. Nicholas hadn’t mentioned a need to leave Black Oak. Hadn’t Nicholas himself implied he wanted to see her again to continue her education? Of course, the sensible thing would be to confront Henry, but a lingering fear held her at bay.

When the time for her art lesson arrived, no carriage waited at the door. As the day was still young and bright, she walked the back path to Black Oak. Troubling thoughts spoiled the otherwise glorious day. Now that Nicholas had taken her innocence, had he lost interest in her? Had he abandoned her just as her father had abandoned her mother?

Thomas provided no further information. His lordship was simply not at home. Emma narrowed her eyes. Either Nicholas had not divulged his destination, or he had instructed Thomas to remain mute. Of the two, she suspected the latter, which only further complicated the mystery.

That night, she took to her poetry books, hoping to focus her mind on the words before her, and not on the man who so very recently had inspired her to verse as well.

She closed her eyes and opened the book, letting the pages fall where they may. Opening her eyes, she read: “Be warm, but pure, be amorous, but be chaste.” Her glance slipped to the poet’s name: George Gordon Byron, otherwise known as Lord Byron, Nicholas’s favorite poet.

She groaned. Was that her mistake? Did he consider her unchaste, and unfit for his continued company? Was he indeed running away from her?

She thought of Beatrice’s lament, that at least Emma had known physical love at least once in her lifetime, but that made for small comfort. The only man who had treated her as a complete woman, one of intellectual pursuits as well as physical needs, had left--injuring both aspects of her being. Her heart cried out in pain, but there was no one to listen.