Emma’s stomach lurched as if she were Blondin, the famous tightrope artist, suspended high in the Crystal Palace with nothing but a thin wire for foothold. One misstep and severe consequences would surely ensue. Behind her, the trodden path led back to the relative safety of Pettibone School. Before her stood the massive, many-gabled manor of Black Oak in all its gothic glory.

The confidence that had effectively carried her away from Pettibone somehow had eroded along the way. Now she questioned the wisdom of what could be an awkward intrusion. She hesitated to catch her breath and quell the uneasiness that roiled in the pit of her stomach. Then, like Blondin, she moved ahead one slow step at a time.

The path approached Black Oak from the back, past shrubs deformed by their heavy burden of snow and jutting skeletons of plants long past seed. The house appeared twice the size of Pettibone, with far more grandeur and far less warmth. No light shone through the windows. If not for the pale ribbons of smoke rising from several chimneys, she would have thought the structure uninhabited. A dog barked and she hurried along lest the hounds be set loose.

Circling around the manor, Emma discovered the front entrance. With one final deep breath for courage, she rapped sharply on the heavy oak door.

She shivered, more from dread than cold. The winter light had rapidly faded; already a pale full moon hovered over the horizon. Making this forbidden call, alone, under the cover of night, broke every tenet in The Ladies’ Guide to Proper Etiquette.

A solemn-faced gentleman opened the door and looked her up and down.

“You’re late.” He ushered her swiftly inside.

Dumbfounded by the reception, Emma let herself be moved along, if only to escape the cold. Fog rapidly appeared on her lenses, making it difficult to see where she was going. “I couldn’t send my card ahead for reasons I can-–”

“No time for that,” he said. “Give me your cloak. Quickly now.”

Her numb fingers fumbled over the fastenings, much to his apparent agitation.

“This is a most puzzling household,” she said, handing over the heavy woolen cloak. “I am given to think you were expecting me.”

“We expected you several days earlier. You may wait there.” He pointed toward a small salon near the front entrance. “I will let his lordship know that you’ve arrived.” The servant left with her outer garment folded over his arm.

Fortunately, the condensation on her glasses had begun to evaporate, or she’d never have been able to negotiate the dim salon with its clutter of furniture. She stretched her palms to the welcoming warmth of an inviting fire hissing beneath an ornately carved overmantel.

She had expected that country living tolerated less formality than the rigid manners of the city, but this reception had lacked even the basics of propriety. “A most puzzling household, indeed,” she murmured to the flames.

“You’re thinner than I recall.”

Shocked by the proximity of a deep baritone voice, Emma spun about, then curtsied by force of habit to the broad-shouldered man framed in the doorway. She squinted, trying to imagine him slouched in the corner of a leather-bound seat. Was this really the man from the carriage? Without the soft slur and poetic refrains of the night before, his familiar voice held more authority and power. The fluttering about her ribcage, however, convinced her this must indeed be her dark angel. No one else had so affected her by mere presence alone. She inclined her head. “My lord.”

“None of that nonsense. Come closer,” he commanded. “Let me take a better look at you.”

She winced. Manners were truly different this far north. Not only did he receive her without benefit of his neck cloth, but he issued orders as if she were a servant. Clasping her hands together, she approached as requested. “My lord, I’ve come about a matter–-”

“Sssh, don’t speak.”

Surprised, she stopped an arm’s length away. She could understand his refusing to receive her due to the lateness of the hour, and her uninvited call, but commanding her not to talk? What manner of custom was this?

He stepped forward. The tips of his fingers reached toward her face and gently lifted her chin, pulling her gaze up to meet his. He was as attractive in the glow from the fire as he had been in moonlight, an image of tantalizing innocence compromised by sinful promise.

Her throat dried to ash as she took in long black lashes framing eyes so dark they reflected the leap of flames behind her. His fingertips must have captured the heat of the flames as well, for they warmed the sensitive underside of her chin.

Mesmerized, she felt as if her whole being were in his power, captured by the touch of his expressive hand. It was the most delicious sensation that she had ever experienced in her life. Her breath escaped on a sigh.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Was I drinking when I hired you? I don’t seem to recall--”

“Hired!” The spell broken, she stepped back, escaping from his touch. “Sir, you did not hire me.”

His brows rose nearly to the defiant lock of black hair curled on his forehead. “Are you not the woman who agreed to model for my painting?”

“No,” she answered, first shocked, then insulted by the absurd notion. “I’ve come to speak to you about a book.”

“Rubbish.” He stalked toward the hall, and she noticed, for the first time, that he leaned on a walking stick that moved in tandem with his left leg. “I haven’t the time or inclination to discuss a book with you, Mrs . . . Mrs . . .” He stopped and turned, his brow furled. “Who are you?”

He’d forgotten their brief meeting in the carriage. She wasn’t surprised. She rarely made a memorable impression on people. He had been well in his cups last night. Still she had hoped. . .

“I am Mrs. Brimley, sir. I’m a new teacher at the Pettibone School for Young Ladies.” Now that he knew she was a fellow intellectual, surely he would listen. She followed him down the corridor. “I need to talk to you about--”

“Thomas, I need you,” he bellowed toward the high ceilings before turning to address her in a more refined manner. “Thomas will show you out.” He spun on his heel and disappeared into another room.

Stunned, she stopped in place, staring at the empty hallway. Disappointment stabbed deep. Even if her unanticipated appearance hadn’t intrigued him, he shouldn’t have dismissed her so rudely. The long cold walk back to Pettibone loomed, with nothing to justify her risk of coming.

He mustn’t ignore her. He is my only hope. Resolve buoyed her. He must be made to listen.

“Wait!” She lifted her skirts and ran down the hall. “At least hear me out.” She followed him into the room, closed the door behind her, then leaned against it to deny him exit.

Her gaze swept the room in astonishment.

It was as if the sun had been harnessed and made to shine exclusively in this magical place. Strategically placed mirrors in ornate, gilded frames reflected light from both the fireplace and numerous lamps. Riotous colored cloths and canvases, some painted, some not, lay scattered throughout. So much color and discord made her head swim. “What is this place?” she whispered in awe.

“You are trespassing in my studio.”

In the midst of the color and confusion stood Lord Nicholas Chambers, rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt like a circus ringmaster preparing to bring order from chaos. As a refined woman, she should have been shocked to observe such an intimate gesture, but the sight of his bared forearms caused her pulse to race. Tensed muscles gleamed with a fine sheen of black hair, rough yet alluring. An ache spread through her. How would it feel to be captured within those arms? She stroked the dowdy black bombazine sleeve that concealed her own forearm, silently wishing he’d roll the cloth back one more fold, expose one more inch.

A pounding ensued on the door at her back, breaking the spell and reminding her of her desperate need. She raised her voice to a near shout.

“I have risked both my reputation and my employment coming here. The least you can do is listen to my plea.”

“Plea, Mrs. Brimley?” One dark brow lifted in question. “As you are new to this area, I should warn you. Women in dire circumstances rarely come to me for assistance.”

Another reference to his terrible reputation, though from his lips, the words sounded more like an invitation than a warning. Although she’d asked for his full attention, now that she had it, she wished it otherwise. His masculine virility was like a physical force, attacking her senses, and now he concentrated it fully on her. She could barely breathe. She crushed her bustle into the door, needing its support.

“It’s all right, Thomas,” he shouted, as the pounding continued behind her. “I’ll call if I need you.”

The pounding stopped, although her insides continued to vibrate.

“All right, Mrs. Brimley. As you appear to hold me hostage, to what purpose do I owe this pleasure?”

She was tongue-tied. What to say? How to begin to explain her awkward, embarrassing need?

He turned to a small table by his side. “May I offer you a brandy? It might loosen your tongue.”

She stiffened her spine, annoyed with herself and her cowardice. “I don’t indulge, sir.”

“More’s the pity.” He began to pour from a crystal decanter. “My model has abandoned me at a most inconvenient time.” He paused, then glanced at an empty canvas across the room. “No, I correct myself. At a time that is worse than inconvenient. At a catastrophic time.”

He raised his arm to a prominent burgundy velvet divan situated on a raised dais in the center of the room. “As you can see, my model has failed to materialize. In her stead, a madwoman with a plea has assaulted my household to discuss”--he glanced back at her--“what was it. . . a book?”

He saluted her with his filled glass. “At this point, a stiff drink is about the only sensible course of action.”

Her breath caught. He moved like a finely crafted poem: strong, fluid, purposeful. Watching him swallow the amber liquid, she was transported back to the intimacy of that shared carriage. Her throat felt as dry as the pages of her books. He swirled the liquid in his glass and looked to her, expectant, waiting. She shook herself from her reverie.

“I’m not a madwoman, sir. I’ve come in search of knowledge.” He was a learned man, she reminded herself. And a talented artist, as evidenced by the dozen or so masterfully rendered landscapes and still-life arrangements scattered about the room. Surely he could help her. She smiled at the thought. Once he understood her need, he would most certainly oblige.

“Then you’ve come to the wrong place.” He grasped the walking stick propped against the table, then carried his glass to a nearby easel. “Ask anyone. I have no knowledge of anything but debauchery.” He sneered in her direction. “Surely a young widow would have no wish to learn about that.”

The smile slid from her face. In one sense, this was exactly the knowledge she was seeking, but only the polite form of debauchery, the sort between a husband and wife. From the anger and disappointment in his voice, perhaps asking for his assistance would be tantamount to an insult. She searched in her cuff for the comfort of her mother’s handkerchief. This was not proceeding according to plan.

“Let me begin again,” she managed, searching for the right words. “This is most difficult to explain.”

She moved deeper into the room, moving closer to the elegant divan, such an odd placement for an extravagant piece. Then she remembered Beatrice’s and his mention of debauchery. Is that where it took place? On a raised elevated platform so others could see. She had heard rumors in London of such practices, but she had never encountered physical evidence. Her heart raced. She had indeed stumbled into the devil’s den.

Feeling familiar warmth coddle her cheeks, she turned her back to the furniture, studying instead a painting of a bowl of fruit until her face could cool. “I. . . I was hoping you might have a book or some drawings that I might study--”

Laughter rumbled from his chest. He exchanged a small canvas at the easel for paper tacked on a board. “Are you a critic, Mrs. Brimley? Is that what you wish to discuss?” The humor left his voice. “I have critics aplenty. I don’t require another.”

“I’m not a critic,” she said, surprised. “How could one criticize your obvious talent? Why I could almost pluck one of the cherries out of this painting and suck its sweet nectar.”

He stared at her. “You think I have talent?”

“I’m not an art critic, my lord,” she said, believing she may have trespassed the proper boundaries of pride. “But I do find this painting quite pleasing.”

She glanced back at the painting. Indeed, his brushstrokes, alternately bold and delicate, were of a master’s hand, obviously rendered by talented fingers. Her gloved hand reached to the very spot where his artist’s fingers had caressed her chin. Heat resurged in her cheeks.

“If you’re not a critic, then what are you, Mrs. Brimley?” His voice shocked her back to reality. She turned toward him.

“I . . .I’m a teacher in need of viewing a portrayal of a special subject,” she stammered. “I had hoped you could direct me to a source.”

He cast her a sideways glance. “What kind of special subject?”

“This is most difficult,” she began, searching for socially acceptable words to explain her need. “The nature of the subject is such that I’m not sure there exists a proper way to address. . .”

His sigh signaled annoyance. Patience did not appear to be his virtue. She took a deep breath and, finding no other recourse, lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I need to see a painting of-–”

“Speak up, Mrs. Brimley,” he intoned in a particularly loud voice. “You are interrupting my work and unless you can articulate your purpose-–”

“I need to see a painting of a man’s genitals.” Cowering in embarrassment at having to shout such a shocking request, she glanced again about the room to verify no one else had witnessed her humiliation.

But for the hiss of the fire, there was silence. Chambers stood deadly still, his face contorted in apparent disbelief. Suddenly, he laughed. Loud raucous laughter that erupted from his chest and shook his entire body in mirth. He laughed so hard, he knocked against the drawing board and it slammed to the wooden floor, but he didn’t seem to notice. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks.

Never had she been so mortified. If only she had had the foresight to slip a fan on her wrist, she could hide behind its folds. Having mentally rehearsed this moment on her trek through the woods, she had anticipated that he’d be shocked, or disgusted, but not that she would be subject to ridicule. Her cheeks burned hot enough to melt wax.

“Mrs. Brimley, you jest!” He tried to drink from his glass of brandy, but he was seized by gales of laughter. His hand shook, splashing the liquid onto a set of charcoal sticks. He abandoned the glass for one of the charcoals and shook the liquid off. “Pray tell me, why do you wish to see such a thing?”

The grin on his lips, combined with her own mortification, did not encourage her to cooperate. She had been the subject of jests before, a cruel experience that she did not wish to repeat, especially with this man. Unfortunately, she suspected her explanation would only provide more fuel for his frivolity. “A gentleman wouldn’t ask such a question,” she snapped.

“Mrs. Brimley, you forced your way into my studio seeking assistance. You will humor me if I insist on an answer.” The laughter eased from his face. He reached for the fallen board and propped it on the easel. “Why do you need to view such material?”

Despite her rigid training, her shoulders sagged. She turned away so he couldn’t see her face, and removed her glasses pretending to clean them, needing time. Think. Think. What to say?

“Mrs. Brimley?”

She heard the impatience in his tone. Exasperated by her lack of courage, she turned to him, shoving the lenses back in place. “I’m to teach the girls at Pettibone how to prepare for their marital duties, and I’m lacking in essential information.”

His hand moved freely over the paper in tiny arcs. His focus on his work and not on her person lessened her embarrassment almost to the point of gratitude. Words came easier without his laughter or his intense stare.

“How is it, Mrs. Brimley, that you lack such basic information? Has not Mr. Brimley provided adequate instruction?”

She removed a small handkerchief from her cuff, worrying it with her hands. She had hoped to keep her circumstances secret and not come to this revelation. However, given the nature of the requested assistance, she saw no escape. She lowered her gaze, as well as her tone. “There is no Mr. Brimley.”

“You are a widow, are you not?”

Even though she could not see his face, she could well imagine one of those dark eyebrows rising.

She shook her head and waited for his reaction. Given her admission, he would be justified in demanding her departure. Without his assistance, she would have to admit her masquerade to the spinster sisters. She’d be back on her uncle’s doorstep in a matter of days.

Chambers’s silence encouraged further explanation. She took a breath for courage.

“In order to procure this position, I pretended to have been married. I had no idea I’d be expected to teach bedroom etiquette.” There. She had admitted her deceit. She should feel ashamed, she supposed, but telling the truth actually made her feel a bit better. She had never anticipated how physically taxing this burden of lies and deceit would be. She lifted her chin but still avoided his gaze. “I suppose you must think me devoid of all honor.”

Chambers chuckled deep in his throat. “You do not wish to know my thoughts, Miss Brimley.”

His voice, low and seductive, brought her gaze round to meet his. A dark, forbidden knowledge smoldered deep in his eyes, fueling a resonant response within her. For the first time, she recognized her vulnerability, alone with this man. Awareness tingled up her spine. She stepped back, gulping a swift intake of needed air.

He chuckled deep in his throat. “Your secret is safe.” A slight smile tipped his lips before he turned his attention back to the drawing board. “The ladies at the school wouldn’t nay-say your instructions. Make something up. They won’t know the difference.”

“But I don’t wish to lie to the girls,” she insisted. “They trust me to tell them the truth.” Granted she had already told more misrepresentations in the past two days than she had in her entire lifetime, but lying to the Higgins sisters was necessary. Lying to children, abominable. She glanced quickly about the room. “Haven’t you a painting or a picture in a book that might assist me?”

He traded his piece of charcoal for his glass, considering her over the rim while he drank. He tilted his head slightly. “I may have something.”

For the first time that evening, Emma felt a stirring of hope that this scandalous foray might yield positive results.

Chambers slipped the knob of the walking stick under his left palm and moved toward a desk pushed against a back wall. He shifted through a clutter of papers.

“I have a friend in Paris, Auguste Rodin, who created a bronze statute of a full-size nude male. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?” He looked back at her over his shoulder. “It caused quite a stir at exhibition.”

She shook her head. Chambers’s awkward posture suggested he’d be more comfortable if he allowed his walking prop to bear more of his weight. His pride, she guessed, disagreed. Her heart softened. She understood a thing or two about pride.

“Some time ago, Rodin sent a letter with a drawing . . . Yes, here it is.” He brought several pages of the letter over to the dais. Shifting through them, he produced the one with a detailed drawing of a male figure. “Just as you requested, a picture of a man as God made him.”

Proper etiquette demanded she couldn’t acknowledge her observation regarding his altered gait. She couldn’t even ask how his condition occurred, although she’d admit to being curious. Accepting the offered paper, she hesitantly pulled her gaze from his broadening smile.

She adjusted her glasses so as to see, then memorize, every detail. Anticipation fluttered in her chest. This, after all, constituted not only the purpose of her visit, but also the culmination of all the speculation of her youth.

The drawing portrayed an athletic man, an Adonis, she supposed. Her gaze skimmed the bare shoulders and slipped past the trim midriff, focusing instead on the forbidden area between the man’s muscular legs--that very spot deemed improper for virginal eyes.

Her lips parted in surprise.

“Why, it’s so small. I believe I could cover it with one hand.” As if to prove her theory, she stretched her hand, base to tip. Although she wasn’t exactly sure what she had expected, this appendage hadn’t the menacing character alluded to in so many poems. Disappointed, she turned to Chambers.

“Why is there so much commotion over two small potatoes in a twisted sack?”

Chambers’s eyes crinkled, his amusement at her inexperience evident. “This man is flaccid. An aroused man looks much different.”

“Can you show me?” she asked.

He nearly choked. “You wish to see my manhood?”

“I thought you might have another picture.” Emma’s cheeks burned at her blunder, although she was shocked to realize a small part of her wished to answer in the affirmative. She pushed her spectacles up her nose trying to think prim, innocent thoughts.

“I need to let the girls know what to expect.”

His lips thinned a moment before he pivoted smartly using the stick and retreated to his easel. Derision filled his voice. “I assure you I have no interest in retaining pictures of aroused men in my studio, in my house, or on my person.”

“You are an artist,” she insisted, not willing to let the opportunity pass. “Perhaps you can create a drawing for me, purely for scientific purposes, of course.”

“A drawing?” He scowled, his gaze skipping from the easel to her face. He must have seen her sincerity, because the scowl softened as he returned his attention to the easel. Was that a twinkle she saw in his eye? A sly smile chased away his disdain.

“Miss Brimley, you may recall that the girl I hired to pose for me has not materialized.”

She nodded. “Indeed, you thought I was she earlier.”

“You have need of information, and I have need of a model.” He smiled, reassuring her that his moment of displeasure had indeed passed.

Her hopes lifted.

“Perhaps we can design an agreement,” he continued, “that will satisfy both our desires.”

“You wish to paint my portrait?” Pleasure rippled through her. Great ladies had portraits painted. She could bend to this arrangement, especially if it required more time in his presence.

“I wish to paint you naked.” A devilish smile played about his lips. “But I’ll settle for painting you in a thin gown.”

“Sir!” Shock paralyzed her. “Surely, you don’t mean it!”

He positioned himself in front of her. “In exchange for information,” he added.

“I’ve never been so insulted.” She tried to step around him, but he continued to hinder her exit. Again she regretted the absence of her fan. She would have thrashed him with it.

“What kind of woman do you take me for?” she cried, frustrated at his efforts to thwart her.

“A comely one, I suspect, beneath all that black.” Using the tip of his walking stick, he lifted the hem of her skirt an inch off the ground.

“Sir!” Shocked, she slapped the material back in place. The man was incredulous.

A bemused grin played about his mouth. He was playing with her, she realized, feeling the stab of disappointment. She had fooled herself into thinking this dandy was different, yet it was all mockery. Pain burrowed deep.

“I refuse to be the subject of your jest.” Her lips tightened, her eyes burned. She tried to push by him, but he caught her arm.

“There is no jest.”

If only that were true! She looked away, afraid he might see the yearning in her eyes. Her throat tightened making words difficult. “If you meant to compliment me, I assure you-–”

“I meant no compliment.”

Her head swung around, capturing his gaze. His brow lifted, “I was merely stating facts.”

His ridiculous statement confirmed the joke. She jerked her arm from his grasp and turned her face from his scrutiny, before beating a hasty path toward the door.

“Think of the girls,” he called behind her. “How are you going to prepare them for their marital duties without my assistance?”

She paused. Logic slowed her retreat. The headmistress was to observe her class in the morning.

“Do you have so many resources that you can abandon the one readily available to you?” His voice wove through her thoughts like rhyme through a stanza.

Indeed, that very lack of resources had inspired her visit in the first place. If she couldn’t turn to him for answers, where could she go? She kept her back to him but listened to his calm, insistent plea.

“How can you mislead those young, trusting girls at this crucial juncture?”

She ignored his light mockery. He may not believe her dedication to her students, but then he wasn’t familiar with the events that had brought her to this wilderness. Now that she was here, she could never go back. First, however, she must prove to the Higgins sisters that she had knowledge of a carnal nature. . .

“You would answer all my questions about intimacy?” She asked over her shoulder, hesitant to be reminded of his handsome visage. “No matter how difficult, and with complete honesty?”

“The difficulty, I suspect, will be yours in framing the questions.” His voice moved closer, the exposed skin on the back of her neck prickled in response. She imagined he was an arm’s span away. “Yes, I will answer all your questions,” he said, “completely and truthfully.”

She turned to face him, surprised to find him even closer than she had estimated, uncomfortably close. She studied him anew, mentally assessing her adversary. The London popinjays had always underestimated her intelligence. Although it pained her to place him in that category, she suspected he would do the same.

“If you will answer my questions first”--she hesitated to emphasis her sacrifice--“I will pose for you.”

“You must think me daft.” A smile tilted his mustache. He raised one brow and shook his head. “After I fulfill your needs, what assurances do I have that you will fill mine?”

“You have the word of a lady,” she said decisively, although in truth she suspected she could avoid meeting his demands.

“No, I don’t think so.” His eyes narrowed. He tapped an idle rhythm with his prop on the wooden floor.

She bit her lip, suddenly wondering if she had been the one to underestimate him. She studied him anew.

“Let us strike a bargain,” he said, overlapping his hands on the top of the silver-knobbed cane. “My needs are for a model to pose in the Grecian fashion. You, on the other hand, require answers to questions of a personal nature.”

He stepped closer, engulfing her in a subtle atmosphere of forbidden magnetism. She could almost taste his determination in the shared air between them, but she refused to give ground.

“I propose that I will answer one of your questions”--his raised finger almost touched her nose--“for every item of clothing you remove as my model.”

Her knees threatened to buckle. Surely, he could not desire her, by her uncle’s estimation a scrawny scarecrow devoid of a woman’s charms, as a model. She was no beauty. To suggest otherwise was cruel.

“I will pose,” she said, pushing her spectacles further up her nose. “But only fully dressed.”

“I can not paint what I can not see.” A dimple flashed in his smile. Sheer willpower kept her from smiling in response.

Chambers’s intense gaze raked her form as if fact belied his words. Never had a man regarded her with such intent, certainly not one as handsome and refined as this. His voice, soft and seductive, surrounded her with the rich scent of warmed brandy and his own unique essence. He lured her much like the famed mythological sirens. Lord help her, she could happily drown in this assault.

“I need to see how light and shadow caress a woman’s curves.”

Immediately, she imagined a physical heat, flowing down her chest and swirling around her waist and hips. Her mind insisted that modesty called for distance between them, but her feet refused to move.

“I need to judge how proportion is modified by the angle of the pose.”

Emma thought of the paintings she had viewed of women languishing in forest bowers, bending in some trivial task. Even if she were fully attired, those poses would be too risqué to consider. Still, her insides quivered at his indecent proposal.

Chambers turned abruptly, releasing her from his enchantment. She slumped slightly, catching her breath while he strode toward his easel. “I will draw a picture of an aroused man’s private regions, if you will remove just one article of clothing.”

She should run. She should escape now while she still had her dignity, and yet . . .

“I have already removed my cloak.” She said a bit short of breath.

He smiled, a subtle gesture. “And I have already shown you a picture of a naked man.”

She considered a moment, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of compliance. “A boot,” she announced. “If I had a buttonhook, I would remove a boot. However, as it is unlikely that such an instrument would be readily available in an artist’s studio . . .”

Chambers stepped over to his desk and returned with a long hook fashioned from a metal replica of a woman’s leg, complete with garter. “Perhaps this will help?”

Her bluff called, Emma hesitantly accepted the bachelor tool then sat on the only seat available, the velvet divan. She worked on her side buttons. Who would have thought the man stocked his studio as another would equip a boudoir? Beatrice’s voice slipped into her thoughts. Women come and go all hours of the night. Emma’s hands froze in the effort to remove the loosened boot.

Chambers placed a fresh piece of foolscap on the board and drew some quick lines on the page with his charcoal. “When a man is aroused, his manhood grows long and hard.”

“Hard?” The word interrupted her thoughts. Her boot fell to the floor with a resounding thud. From her vantage on the dais, she couldn’t see Chambers’s face until he leaned to the side of the board. A knowing smile teased his lips.

“He must be hard to penetrate the woman.”

She may have doubted his answer, but he had promised to be truthful. A shiver danced up her spine at his words. Penetrate. One being inside another.

“Is it painful?” Her voice quivered.

He looked pointedly at her other still-shod foot. Resigned, she began to unhook the buttons.

“Not if the man properly prepares the woman,” he said. “With preparation, the act is most pleasurable.”

Emma removed the boot, then rubbed her stocking-clad foot, debating whether to pursue the concept of preparation.

“Some men find a well-turned ankle very alluring.” His voice punctured her thoughts. “Yours are especially so.”

Her lips tightened to hide the effects of his compliment. She dropped the hem of her skirt removing the sight of her ankles from his view, then stepped off the platform to view his drawing.

“That . . . that’s grotesque!” She quickly covered her gaping mouth with a gloved hand. “That thing would frighten my poor girls to death.”

“And what of you, fair lady?” The heat of his breath stirred the tiny hairs on the back of her neck and slid all the way down to her clenched toes. “Does the sight of an aroused man frighten you?”

She forced herself to focus on the charcoal rendition and not the delicious tremors his words initiated. Truth be told, the turmoil created by his close physical proximity frightened her more than some paper image of an object she would likely never encounter. She edged a few steps away.

“Don’t run away, Miss Brimley. This is what you are preparing your girls for, but it is not something to fear.”

“I am not afraid, sir!” She offered with false bravado.

“The union between a man and a woman is pleasurable beyond imagination,” he said, his knowing smile spreading to his captivating eyes.

“Perhaps for the man,” Emma pointed to the daggerlike drawing. “That. . . thing . . . appears as pleasurable as a birch rod.”

His soft chuckle held an intimate quality that heated her cheeks. “I promise you, the union is pleasurable for the woman as well, if she has the knowledge to handle the man.” He stepped closer.

“Isn’t that why you came here, Miss Brimley?” He stood behind her. Fissions rippled throughout her body. “For the knowledge?”

Emma knew undeniably that she was in dire trouble.

His lower lip dragged across the tip of her ear. “Let me teach you.”

The tips of her breasts tightened. He had touched her! With his lips! Panic blasted through her shock. Without further hesitation, she grabbed two fistfuls of skirt and dashed to the door.

“Will I see you again, Miss Brimley?” His question chased her across the room.

Her unshod feet beat a fast retreat down the wooden hallway in response.

So he hadn’t merely imagined her intelligent and determined spirit on that ride home in the carriage. He was so foxed, he wasn’t sure if his initial impression of the new teacher was dream or reality. Probably a little of both. He smiled, feeling more invigorated now than he had before her visit.

Miss Brimley’s curiosity amid frequent bouts of blushing had proved surprisingly refreshing. Her cheeks colored quite nicely, a bit of rose madder mixed with pale cream. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed time spent merely talking with a woman. He chuckled a moment before summoning Thomas with the bell pull. The servant appeared immediately.

“I suppose you’ve realized that she was not the one we anticipated,” Nicholas said, walking to the dais to retrieve her boots.

“I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t aware you were expecting anyone else but the model.”

“I wasn’t.” His fingers slipped inside a boot. He frowned, noting it was still damp. “Is her rig outside?”

“No sir, she arrived on foot.”

“The fool woman must have walked through the snow.” He shook his head. Most of the women in London society wouldn’t cross a street if it meant their slippers might be muddied. It required courage to call on him as she did, and desperation to come through the woods and snow. He glanced toward the hallway. A bit of guilt deflated his pleasure. Perhaps he shouldn’t have teased her as he had. “See that she gets home safely, Thomas.”

“I’ll alert Henry.”

“Tell Henry she’s to be delivered discreetly,” Nicholas added. “No one is to know she’s been here.” He handed the boots over to Thomas. “I’ll warrant the old biddies would have a fit if they knew she’d been consorting with the likes of me.” That returned the smile to his face. “And see that she gets something to eat. She’s too thin by half.”

“Will we be entertaining the young woman again, sir?” Thomas asked.

“I believe I scared her half out of her wits. I doubt she’ll return.” That realization drained his high spirits. Even though he had suspected he was challenging the teacher’s sensibilities as never before, he found he could not stop. There was something unaffected about her that pulled at his baser instincts.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Thomas said. “I know you hoped to start on The Seduction of Antiope for the spring exhibition.”

“Antiope?” His brows lifted. “Not for that one.” He looked back at the empty dais and reflected, almost to himself. “No, I think Artemis, the virgin goddess, would be a better suit.”

His fingers twitched with creative energy. Miss Brimley would be perfect for Artemis. Her rich brown hair loosened from that prim braided bun softly curving past the firm mounds of her breasts. Her sweet, wide-eyed expression in perfect contrast with the sensuous lines of her feminine curves. Her winsome body positioned at his every command. His groin tightened, much as it had when he had urged her to stay.

Of course, that was before his rash actions caused her to flee. Perhaps his father was correct. He always managed to sabotage his opportunities for success before they could be realized. Bloody hell, he should never have gotten close enough to smell her winter-apple scent of wholesome innocence. He ground the tip of his stick in the floor in self-reproach, then glanced to Thomas. “I suppose if she does not return we shall have neither.”

“I’ve always found your Yorkshire landscapes quite pleasing to the eye, sir.”

Chambers glanced at a primed empty canvas leaning on the far wall. “I appreciate your assessment, Thomas, but it’s common knowledge that the Academy is only interested in paintings of Greek mythology. Another landscape is tantamount to another rejection.” He grimaced. “I’ve collected enough of those already.”

“Will you return to the tavern to find a model, sir?”

Chambers paused. He doubted he would discover a suitable model at The Bleatin’ Ram. Now that he had found and lost the one model who awakened his creative juices, he had little interest in settling for less. The time spent with Miss Brimley, however, had resulted in a need of a more physical nature. The tavern women would welcome him with open arms and provide the needed relief. He tapped the floor with his stick.

“That is an excellent plan,” he said. “Let Pettibone lock up their young innocents. An experienced woman looks the same and talks far less.” Thomas looked confused, but Chambers saw no reason to elaborate. “I’ve had enough challenge this evening. Tell Henry I will need him once he returns.”