ASHE didn’t know who was more shocked: her at his request or him for her use of the word copulating. Ladies tended to fancy the act up with genteel words like “make love” when he had never in his life made love to a woman. He bedded, he fornicated, he . . . copulated. It was refreshing to be with a woman who was realistic about their purpose in being here.
Still, based on the sudden widening of her eyes, she might very well be prepared to copulate, but pose for him was another matter entirely. Not uncommon. His request generally caused hesitation. “Before you say no, allow me the opportunity to explain.”
“It’s perverted. No explanation is necessary.”
Perhaps her forthrightness was not to be welcomed after all. “I assure you that what I have in mind falls well outside the realm of perversion. Please, have a seat before the fire.” Giving her no chance to decline his invitation, he marched over to the table and lifted a decanter. “I’ve never known a lady not to prefer champagne.” He poured the scotch he’d reserved for himself into two tumblers, lifted them, and faced her.
She’d not moved.
The disadvantage to not knowing her identity was that he had no history of her with which to map out his strategy. It was also a challenge that he embraced. Most ladies wanted to be with him badly enough that they were willing to do anything he asked. But not her. He was taken off guard by the thrill of being in the presence of one who wasn’t so quick to fall into his arms.
Since she knew who he was, she had to run about in his posh circle, which meant that in all likelihood she was an aristocrat. Possibly married. Insufficient light prevented him from determining if there was a fading indention on her finger from the recent removal of a wedding band. Not that it mattered. Her presence indicated that she was either unhappy or curious or bored. Women came here for all sorts of reasons. Men for only one: They wanted a willing partner who was unlikely to be infected with the French disease. Men paid a membership; ladies did not.
With a slight tilting of his head, he indicated the sofa. “Please.”
He watched the delicate muscles of her throat work as she swallowed before gliding over to the sofa and tucking herself into a corner. Every movement was poised and elegant. Her deportment had not been left to chance. She’d been trained. Definitely nobility.
Settling into the opposite corner, he extended the glass, grateful when she took it. He stretched his arm over the back of the sofa. An unfurling of his fingers would have him touching her skin, and he was tempted to do exactly that, but he feared his boldness would make her more skittish, and his desire for the photograph came first. She didn’t flinch or retreat, but her eyes were alert, watchful. He liked that she wasn’t afraid, but neither was she stupid.
“I’m not one to hurt women,” he felt compelled to say.
“I should hope not. My father would kill you. Extremely painfully and very slowly.”
No husband then, or perhaps a bastard who didn’t care. He arched a brow. “You would confess to being here?”
She lifted a pale, delicate shoulder. “I could suffer through his disappointment much more easily than I could suffer through not gaining retribution for being wronged.” A corner of her mouth hitched up. “On the other hand, I might just kill you myself.” She gave a quick nod. “Probably would. I’d find immense satisfaction in it, come to think of it.”
She took a sip of the scotch, a glittering in her dark eyes as though the notion of doing him in pleased her, and for a moment he almost forgot about the photograph, as desire stronger than any he’d felt in a good long while pierced him. He almost asked her to remove the damned mask, to reveal herself. To tell him why she’d chosen to come here tonight. Instead, he honored the purpose of this place to hold secrets sacred.
“You certainly don’t seem to lack confidence,” he mused.
“No, I’ve never been accused of that.”
But he heard in her voice that she had been accused of something, been found lacking in some regard. He almost followed that trail of inquiry, but this place was not a confessional, and he wasn’t here to lighten anyone else’s burdens. Merely his own. To that end, he swallowed a good portion of his scotch, welcomed its fire, allowed it to work its heat through his chest. “There is beauty in the human form,” he said quietly.
Her gaze came to rest on him, and he thought there was beauty in the eyes as well. He cursed the mask that shadowed hers. Brown perhaps. But intelligent. He’d like to see them in the sunlight. He’d like to see them smoldering when she was lost in a vortex of passion, when her body was reaching for the peak, when it flung her off it. “Yet we hide it beneath layers of clothing as though it’s something of which we should be ashamed.”
“Our bodies are personal, private.”
“I won’t take that from you. All I want is your legs.”
As though he were a schoolboy in need of having his knuckles rapped with a ruler, she narrowed her eyes. “A lady’s ankles are not to be shown.”
“And yet at this very moment you’re barefoot.”
“I was told it’s the way it’s done here. Yet you’re not.”
“Would you like for me to be, to even things up a bit?” Before she could respond, he tugged off his boots and stockings, stretched out his legs. “As for your ankles, it’s silly for Society to believe that a little showing of the leg is going to turn a man into an uncontrollable savage, unable to tame his baser instincts.” He leaned toward her, grateful when she didn’t recoil. But then something told him that she wasn’t one to retreat. “The body should be celebrated. Every line, every dip, every curve. Everything comes together so perfectly. It’s a marvel really. I take great pleasure in the beauty of it. There are nude statues considered great works of art. Nude paintings that people can appreciate, that very nearly bring them to their knees because they are so remarkable. Photography can be just as artistic, just as enthralling when done properly. I don’t know who you are. No one will ever know that you posed for me. No one will ever see the resulting image, except for me. It’s for my private collection. You won’t remove the silk. I’ll simply slip it up a bit past your knees. I’ll work with the shadow and the light. Then you’ll be captured in art.”
“That’s not really why I came here.”
“You came here for sex.”
She opened her mouth, closed it. Sighed. “Well, yes, to be perfectly blunt about it.”
“You shall have that as well. A photograph before, perhaps one after if you’re up for it. One in silk, one in sheets. We’ll be telling a story.”
She shook her head. “It seems wrong.”
Not to him. He got up, went to the fire, and stared into the writhing flames. How could he explain to her what it was like to constantly dream of mangled bodies? After twenty years, there were still nights when he awoke in a cold sweat, nights when he heard the screaming winds racing over the moors and imagined that they were his parents’ cries. He hadn’t slept through the night since he was eight years old. He thought if he could just replace the ghastly images of severed and contorted limbs with beautiful perfection, that eventually the nightmares would lessen. Perhaps they would even go away entirely. “What is wrong with appreciating the beauty of a shapely leg, a well-turned ankle, the arch of a foot, the curl of small toes?”
He wouldn’t photograph anything that would make a woman feel awkward or taken advantage of. He just wanted peace.
“I’m sorry, but I’m simply not prepared to be on display in that manner—for eternity.”
He heard the absolute conviction in her voice and was torn between admiring her for standing by her convictions and cursing her for her stubbornness. Turning, he took a step toward her and held out his hand. “All right, then, if you’re not comfortable being photographed, let’s get on with what you came here for. I’ll make do with that.”
Without taking his hand, she stood swiftly and he could fairly see the anger shimmering off her. Why the devil did he find it so damned attractive? Women never expressed displeasure with him, no matter how badly he behaved.
“Make do?” she asked tartly. “I’d always heard you were a charmer. Now I have to wonder what other rumors regarding you are false.”
“A good many of them, I suspect.”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to climb into bed with a man who doesn’t desire me, who is simply making do.”
She spun on her heel. He grabbed her arm to stay her actions. The heated look she directed his way could have felled a lesser man. Damnation, it only made him want her all the more. There was fire in her, smoldering, never before banked. She was here for something that was as important to her as the photographs were for him. He’d bet his life on it.
“A poor choice of wording on my part. I’m disappointed that you won’t pose for me, but trust me, I am not disappointed that we are going to . . . copulate.”
He cursed the blasted mask that prevented him from seeing if she was blushing, cursed the shadows that prevented him from seeing the flush of her skin.
“You don’t desire me,” she announced.
“Not desire you? Are you mad? I’ve never desired anyone as much. I have an artist’s eye, and while the silk may cover you, it still manages to reveal everything about you. That’s why I knew you would be perfect for the photograph.”
“Perfect?”
She spoke the word as though she wasn’t quite familiar with it, as though it had never been applied to her. “Yes, perfect. You are not tall, but you have a good deal of leg. Based on the way the silk folds around them when you walk, I believe I would find your calves to be quite fetching.”
“Fetching?”
Again doubt. He was beginning to wonder if a troll existed beneath the mask. But then, as much as he loved lines, angles, and curves, he’d never judged by appearance alone. She was more than a face or legs or body. Her presence here was testament to that. Shy misses didn’t wander these halls, step into bedchambers. She was a woman who knew her own mind, knew what she wanted, and went after it. In truth, he found that aspect to her more alluring than anything that he might discover beneath the silk, or even the mask.
“I don’t photograph just anyone,” he told her. “Only those I find pleasing.”
“And how many is that, Your Grace? Based on your reputation, I suspect at least a hundred.”
“Not even a dozen.”
She seemed surprised by that declaration. “Did you not think you were special?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, didn’t so much as nod, yet he saw the truth in her eyes. She thought herself lacking. Was that the reason behind her coming here tonight? Because she wished to feel appreciated? Again, he wondered if she was married, if some man failed to give her the attention she deserved.
“Is it possible you might change your mind about posing for me?” he asked.
“I couldn’t do anything so lewd.”
“It’s very tastefully done, I promise you. The most intimate aspects of you will remain covered. Shadows will hide a good deal as well. The focus will be your legs.”
“What do you do with the photographs?”
“I don’t use them for any sort of erotic stimulation, if that’s what you’re thinking. I simply appreciate beauty.”
“Beauty? In my legs?”
Going to one knee, he wrapped a hand around her ankle. “Allow me to show you.”
MINERVA thought she must be mad to still be here, to not have removed herself from this room, this man, as soon as she realized that he wanted more from her than a romp between the sheets. On the other hand, was he truly asking for something so awful when she was willing to give him her innocence, her naïveté? An incredible intimacy was going to pass between them, and she was going to balk at a photograph? And yet to think of herself captured for all eternity . . . He might claim no one else would see it, but how could she be sure? How had the past six years managed to turn her into such a doubting Thomas, to not trust a man’s word?
His hand was so large, so warm, so incredibly gentle as though he feared crushing her bones. No one ever made her feel delicate. She’d been raised to stand up for herself, to know that she was beneath no one. Yet she wanted to be beneath him.
His passion for the human body was evident when he spoke of its beauty. She’d never in her life been made to feel beautiful. At least not by anyone outside the family. She was her father’s precious daughter, could do no wrong. But it wasn’t the same as being looked upon with appreciation by someone who was no relation at all.
She gave a nod, not much of one, but still he saw it, and his mouth formed a slow smile that seemed to target the very core of her womanhood. He patted his knee to alert her that he was going to place her foot there. Of its own accord to balance her, her hand went to his shoulder, to his strong, broad, sturdy shoulder. She shouldn’t have been surprised. He was an adventurer. He’d climbed mountains, explored pyramids, danced among natives. His skin was darkened by the sun.
That became apparent when his hand rested next to her pale foot. Earth beside snow, good soil beside white sands. Her toes wiggled and curled against his rock-solid thigh. Was there any aspect of this man that wasn’t firm? She imagined how it might feel to run her hands over him, to test every muscle, to find no part of him that wasn’t toned to perfection.
“Your foot is flawless,” he said in a reverent voice.
“Not certain that’s something to brag about.”
He looked up at her, and she found herself wishing for more light so she could see the blue of his eyes. “You have a fine arch, exquisite toes. The lines are good, giving you a most attractive ankle.”
“Which you wish to photograph.”
“Yes.” His hand moved up, his other joined it, to circle her ankle and to ease up toward her calf.
If she allowed him to bed her, his hand would be traveling much higher, would travel all over her. Whatever had possessed her to think she could be comfortable with a man in a situation such as this? Grace had been correct, blast her. The intimacy was too much.
She jerked her foot free, stepped back. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m not so bold after all.”
He unfolded his body in a way that was at once predatory, yet unthreatening. “Is this your first time alone with a man?”
She released a small scoff. “It’s that obvious, is it?”
He chuckled low, but there was no joy in the sound. Rather, it seemed to echo with disappointment. “I should have guessed.” Then his gaze homed in on her, sharp and demanding. “Why?”
“Why is it obvious?”
“No, why are you looking to be deflowered in a place of sinners by a man you—” He scoffed. “I was going to say hardly know, but I don’t know if that’s true or not. Who are you, Lady V, that this would be your recourse?”
Confessing to Grace was one thing. To bare her soul, her frustrations to this man who could have any woman he wanted, was beyond the pale. “Because I wanted to know what all the fuss was about. No one faults men for exploring their desires. Why should women not have the same consideration?”
“Because they are so much better than us.”
“Yet the carnal act equalizes us, don’t you think?”
“You are a woman of remarkable notions.”
She released a quick breath of air in frustration. “You talk about how beautiful the body is and how we shouldn’t hide it away. Why should what passes between a man and a woman be shrouded in whispers and only talked about in dark corners? Why must women repress their natural urges?”
Oh, she should be quiet now. He was studying her like she’d said something both profound and stupid.
“Do you have urges?” he asked quietly.
“Of course I do. And I don’t believe it’s wrong to have them. It’s why I’m here.”
He trailed the knuckle of his forefinger along her chin, and she almost removed the mask so he could outline the curve of her cheek.
“If I were any other man, I’d assuage your nervousness and have you on your back in a trice. Unfortunately for us both, I don’t bed virgins.”
Profound disappointment slammed into her. She should have taken comfort from the regret in his voice. Instead, she was somewhat cross. Was even her virginity to be held against her? “Why?”
“Because I prefer it hard and rough. I want women screaming from pleasure, not pain. A woman experiences discomfort the first time. You deserve someone who has a bit more patience. As a matter of fact, it should be someone who has a care for you, someone who would place your pleasures above his own. It should be someone you love; even if that love doesn’t last past the coupling, it should exist beforehand.”
“Your first time, did you love her?” She held up her hand to stay whatever response he might offer. “My apologies. It’s not my business.”
His eyes grew warm, his smile became one of fond remembrance. “I was madly in love with her, for an entire fortnight. A farmer’s daughter, with hair the color of wheat and eyes the shade of a new leaf in spring. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to please her. Nothing she wouldn’t do to please me. The moon was full the night she introduced me to the pleasures of a woman’s body. There was a new moon the night I discovered her in the hayloft doing the same for another fellow. But still, I can’t look at a full moon without thinking of long limbs, warm flesh, and the fragrance of raw sex. The first time happens only once, Lady V. Be a little in love with him.”
Dear God, she thought she might have fallen a bit in love right then. Just a little. She couldn’t help looking over at the bed with a touch of longing.
“Gra—” She stopped. No real names, nothing to give away her identity. “My friend tried to explain to me why coming here was such an awful idea. She wasn’t nearly as eloquent as you.”
“Hardly eloquent.” He returned to the sofa and begun tugging on his boots. “I’ll escort you to your carriage.”
“I took a hansom. Less chance of my adventures being discovered that way.”
He stood. “I’ll have my driver give you a lift home.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I’m not going to have you wandering the streets searching for a cab this time of night, and I’m too indolent to go searching with you.”
“My anonymity will be compromised.”
“I’ll have my driver swear an oath not to tell me where he took you.” He approached her. “I may be a rogue, but I respect the purpose of this place. Your secrets are safe with me.”
It was probably foolish, but she believed him. “What about your camera equipment?”
“I’ll return for it after I’ve seen you safely delivered from here.”
She strolled to the door, very much aware of his footsteps echoing behind her. She turned the key in the lock, wrapped her hand around the knob, stared at the dark wood—
“I don’t suppose you would at least kiss me?” She despised that she’d been reduced to pleading but to leave with nothing at all after all the planning, preparation, and risk seemed doubly unfair.
“Have you never been kissed?”
Mortification swamped her, but it was easier knowing that he had no idea who she was or how old or how unappealing. “Never.”
She was aware of him moving nearer, the heat of his body radiating from him, enveloping her. Swallowing hard, she was on the verge of turning around when his mouth came to rest at the nape of her neck. She barely recalled that she’d wanted his lips on hers, as she became aware of dewy moisture gathering in a small circle on her skin, warmth seeping into her muscles and bones, traveling slowly yet ever so intensely through her, a delicious shiver passing in its wake. If he could create such sensations with only his mouth—
What a fool she was to have changed her mind. How ridiculous she would appear if she changed it once again. But even if she did alter her course, he wouldn’t be the one to satisfy the cravings he was stirring to life. She was still a virgin, not at all his preference.
His hand came around, his fingers brushing over her chin but settling in to turn her face back slightly, then his mouth blanketed hers with unerring accuracy. His other hand cradled the back of her head while his tongue outlined her lips, before urging them to part. He took the kiss deep, so deep, exploring her mouth as she imagined he’d explored a good deal of the world, slowly, thoroughly, giving his undivided attention to every minute detail. He savored. He worshipped.
His guttural groan echoed between them, and she felt it rumbling through his chest, pressed against her back. Moaning, she was astounded by the intimacy of this prelude to something far more primitive. This man took; he gave no quarter. In bed, he would have conquered her, and yet she could not help but believe that she would have come away the conqueror.
She almost wept with longing when he drew back and lightly stroked his thumb over her tingling, swollen, and damp lips. Too many shadows prevented her from reading his eyes, his expression.
“You make me regret that I have an aversion to virgins,” he said, his voice a low thrum that skittered through her.
“You make me regret that I turned cowardly.”
“Not cowardly. You ensured you don’t awaken in the morning with misgivings.”
She questioned if it were possible for a woman to awaken with anything other than triumph after being with him. Reaching past her, he opened the door. “Let’s get a move on, shall we, before we both change our minds?”
She wasn’t convinced that would be such a bad thing. He escorted her to the changing room. When a maid finished helping her dress, Minerva found him waiting in the hallway, his back to the wall, his gaze distant, and she wondered where his thoughts had taken him. Still wearing her mask, she was grateful that he would never know the identity of the woman who had made a fool of herself this evening.
Offering his arm, he led her out to the street where carriages were lined up. They reached the coach bearing his ducal crest. A footman and a driver were standing near the horses. They both came to attention.
“Wilkins, you’ll be taking the lady home. She’s going to give you her address. Should either of you gentlemen ever tell me or anyone where you delivered her, I shall cut out your tongue.” With an ironic twist of his lips, he looked at Minerva. “Sufficient to guard your identity?”
Even knowing it was no doubt an idle threat, and he’d simply sack the man, she said, “Yes, thank you.” She whispered her address to the driver. The footman opened the door. Ashebury handed her up.
“Good night, my lady.”
She paused in settling onto the seat. “How do you know I’m a lady?” Although she wasn’t one who should be addressed as such. Her mother was the daughter of a duke, but her father was a commoner.
“The way you hold yourself, the way you move, the way you speak. And the fact that you came here, hoping for something more than a common tupping. I hope at some point you find what you’re searching for.”
Strange how she was no longer certain that she knew precisely what it was. “I hope you get your photograph. I suppose you’ll go inside and find a willing lady.”
Slowly he shook his head. “No. You were what I wanted tonight. I never settle for substitutes.”
He slammed the door shut. With a jerk, the coach took off. Minerva removed her mask, set it on her lap, and leaned back into the plush padding of the carriage.
You were what I wanted tonight.
She wondered if he would have said the same if he’d known who she was.