Chapter 16

The door clicked. She’d come. James felt a long breath escape his body. He hadn’t been sure that she would. His anger and jealousy at dinner had confused her. Her eyes had spoken of her distrust and there’d been no way that he could reassure her. It had been all he could do to admit to himself that it was jealousy he felt.

The door pushed open. Sin’s head peeked about, looking for him. He lifted the candle that he held so he could see her more clearly, the thin white nightdress drifting about her slender body, hinting at the curves beneath, the hair already escaping its braid, and the pale face shining with anxious energy. Even the pale pink toes, peeking from beneath her hem, drew him.

Their eyes met and he felt the spark begin to grow. He didn’t know what it was about her that always had him feeling like something incredible was about to happen.

Her lips didn’t smile, but she did enter the room, letting the door close about her. She wore nothing but a thin white nightdress and a shawl. His mind flashed back to when he’d first seen her at the cottage, standing in her chemise and a blanket. He swallowed.

It said something very clear that she had not bothered with a dress.

“Are you going to show me the paintings?” she asked, turning her eyes from him.

He missed them the moment they looked away, missed their weight upon him. “Is that what you want?”

“I would like to see them, to see where you come from. I know I was in this room years ago, but I was much more interested in how to slide along the floors than on what hung on the walls—except there was one of a woman in a red silk gown. Jasmine said she’d been a princess and we always dreamed about being her. Her dress was so beautiful, her pearls so wondrous. It’s only in the last day as I’ve worn Prudence’s dresses that I’ve realized just how uncomfortable she must have been.”

“I believe you mean my great-great-grandmother. She was an Italian princess. As a young man the duke became infatuated with her and refused to give her up. I’ve always been told it’s why my skin darkens so unfashionably. The family found her quite scandalous, although I never heard of her doing anything wrong. I believe we still have the pearls. Perhaps you can wear them sometime.” And nothing else—but he did not let that thought past his lips, although it formed quite a pretty picture in his mind. Sin’s velvet skin and the Morisini pearls. That would be quite a picture.

“Will you show her to me? I don’t remember exactly where she is.”

“She’s along this way, next to the duke, her husband.” He held out his arm to her, and Sin’s fingers curled about it. He held the candle with his other hand. They walked down the long room as proper as any couple strolling the streets of Mayfair—except for their dress. He’d never walked barefoot in Mayfair, but his boots would have made far too much noise on the wood floors of the gallery.

They came to the painting and, James holding up the candle, examined it together. The dark woman in the deep red dress, her eyes somber and not even the hint of a smile on her mouth. A small dog curled in her skirts.

“Was she a papist?” Sin asked. “She must have been if she was Italian.”

“It was never talked about. I know that her sons were baptized in the Church of England. I know the second son became a bishop somewhere up north—a fate I am glad I was spared. But you are correct that she must have started out Catholic. It may be why she was always considered scandalous.”

“But beautiful. You can see why a duke would wish to wed her.”

“He wasn’t yet duke when it happened.”

She looked at him. “And that matters.”

“It might. Langdon will occasionally play at doing the outlandish, but I think it is because he knows the weight of responsibility that is coming his way. Once a man becomes the Duke of Scarlett the title takes over.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way.” She turned, dropped his arm, and stared back at the painting. “And she became a duchess. Jasmine and I always wondered why she looked so serious. Perhaps that is why.”

“It might also be that she lost five children at birth.”

“Five?” Sin’s voice quavered. Her hands moved toward her stomach, but then she dropped them to her sides.

What had he been thinking to say such a thing? He hadn’t been. It was all too clear where Sin’s thoughts had wandered. “She had already had the two boys, so perhaps she took comfort in that.”

“Do you think so?” Her eyes stayed locked on the princess’s face.

“I don’t know.” He wanted to lie, but the honest words slipped between his lips.

“I don’t think there is any consolation for it; a child is a child.”

“But if they never draw breath…”

“Don’t say such a thing.” Sin stalked and stared at another painting, although it was impossible for her to be seeing much without the light of the candle.

He had to find something to say. “You’re looking at the fifth duke.” He walked over and raised the candle high.

“Is that who he is? Jasmine was never sure, so we called him the prune. Why would anybody have a formal portrait painted at that age? We couldn’t find any other paintings that looked like him.”

The man in the painting did appear remarkably like a prune, a prune done up in silks and stiff satins, his neck seeping about the high, starched collar. “I believe the only other painting he’s in is this one.” He placed a hand upon Sin’s warm waist and directed her over. “He’s the little boy in the rose-colored silk.”

“He was rather cute. But that still doesn’t explain why he waited to old age to have his portrait painted.”

“Ah, that is easy. He did not become duke until he was well into his nineties. His brother”—he pointed to another boy, dressed all in primrose—“was the heir. He never fathered a child, but he lived to a ripe old age.”

Sin’s face focused on the prune. “How long was he the duke?”

“I believe only for a few years.”

She turned to him. “I don’t know how you remember all of it, all of them.” She gestured at the long line of paintings.

“I don’t know, but it’s never been a problem to remember. I spent many long afternoons here in my youth. I suppose I wanted to know who they were, where I came from.”

Looking down the long line of portraits, Cynthia could see exactly where he’d come from, every male face reflected that look of command, that expectation of being obeyed. And was her family any different? Her father might be an earl, not a duke, but he, too, expected that all his directives would be followed—not that she’d ever been good at being obedient.

So why was she so upset now? Why could she not simply do what was expected now?

James moved nearer to her, but she stepped away, putting space between them. “Why did you choose to meet here?” she asked. “It seems a strange place for a seduction.”

“And you think I planned a seduction?”

She turned to him, but kept that space between them. Not a word passed her lips. She let her expression say it all.

He glared a moment and then smiled. “I admit I may have had some thoughts and it was not this room I was thinking of.”

“Then why direct me here?” She turned away again, confused by her own feelings. How could she feel so many things at the same time? She wanted him. She didn’t want to want him. She didn’t like him. She wanted to comfort him. She was infuriated by a callous comment. She wanted to know his every thought. Her mind was veritable cyclone of emotion.

“I couldn’t tell you to go where I actually wanted you.” He took a step away from her, his hand rising to slide over the wood paneling.

“Were you afraid that someone would see me slipping into your bedchamber?”

His eyes widened slightly at her words. “I would have come to your chamber. I am after all a gentleman. But, no, that was not my thought. This was.” He pressed sharply on the panel and a portion pushed open. The candlelight shone into the revealed space.

Curious, she stepped nearer.

He ducked beneath the low opening and gestured for her to follow.

The space was bigger than she would have expected. The room hung with further paintings. Another gallery? A more intimate one? There were several upholstered chairs and a table with an elaborate candelabra. James lit the candles and the room filled with light.

“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. Intimate was right. More than right. She’d never seen such paintings in her life. She knew they existed, had seen the occasional rude cartoon, but this…this…this was beyond words.

“I think I must have had that same expression on my face the first time I slipped in here. I saw Langdon sneaking out and, of course, was curious, as only a young boy can be. I thought it was going to be a priest hole or a secret passage—and perhaps it was once. I was definitely not expecting this.”

“I imagine not.” She took a step closer to the nearest painting, one of the more simple ones. There was only one person in it, a woman. She sat staring right at the painter, her expression cool and formal, little different than any of the portraits out in the main gallery. What was different was that she wore no clothing, not a single stitch beyond the feather that swirled through her hair to lie against one rosy cheek—and her legs were parted.

Did she look like that without her clothes on? Cynthia found herself moving even closer, her eyes locked between the woman’s legs. She’d never even examined herself there and now she was…She should look away, but she could not. Her curiosity aroused—and, yes, aroused was exactly the word. Her feet shifted on the floor.

“I like to imagine she was one of my forefathers’ mistresses. Her face doesn’t match any in the long gallery so I don’t think she was a wife. Her hair and the style of the painting make me think it must have been done early in the last century.”

And what was she supposed to say to that? “She’s rather lovely.”

“Yes, she is, and the subject of many of my early fantasies.”

Now, that she had not needed to know. She turned from the painting, only to find herself confronting something even more shocking. “Are they both…?” It was impossible to finish the question.

“Yes, they are both fucking her. And I must say she looks like she’s rather enjoying it. I think this one has a Renaissance flavor.”

Again, she found herself moving closer, her eyes glued to the rear figure. That was what James had been talking about at the cabin, and at least in the painting it did seem to all fit. Although, despite the woman’s expression of rapture, Cynthia was quite sure that did not look comfortable. And if it had hurt to have one man in her, how much more painful must it be to have two?

“That one never entered into my dreams. I’ve never liked to share.”

No, he had not. She remembered that clearly.

She turned to the next painting. This one was also Renaissance. Zeus and Leda. She’d even seen similar paintings. Graceful Leda with her bare breasts, but never had the swan been quite so endowed, very humanly endowed.

“That’s not one of my favorites either. I much prefer this one,” James said, leading her down two paintings.

This was another single woman. She lay reclining on a long couch, her head thrown back, but her eyes staring out, inviting the viewer to come nearer. This woman was staring at a lover, tempting a lover, begging him to touch her even as she touched herself. One of her hands pulled at a nipple, a hard, ripe nipple, marked with a sheen of sweat, her fingers pulling it even farther.

Cynthia felt her own nipples tighten and had to fight the urge to cup her breasts, to press against their sudden need.

The woman’s other hand was placed between her legs, her long fingers stroking herself, displaying the moisture that seeped there.

James came up behind her, his body heat caressing her. “I’ve fantasized about seeing you like that, of having you pleasure yourself for me.”

“Oh.” It came out almost a squeak.

One of his hands slipped about her, cupping her breast as she had just dreamed of, his clever fingers targeting the nipple with ease. He pinched her slightly, through the thin linen. “Will you take off your gown for me, Sin? Will you let me see you touch yourself?” He said it as a question, but it was not.

Her fingers began to gather up the cloth at her sides, letting it slide up her calves. “There’s not a couch for me to lie on,” she said, as if that were the only reason she would protest.

Stepping over, he turned one of the upholstered chairs. “It won’t be quite the same, but I imagine you can manage sitting.”

She stared at the chair. This was her moment, her chance to have what she wanted even if only for one brief night. It was why she had come, one last taste of the forbidden before she fled, one last night with James. All she needed was to give herself to the moment. Her feet moved slowly toward the chair, her hands rising to the cord at the neck of her simple gown. Today there would be no struggle with laces and ties, one pull, one slide, and she would be free. It was all so easy. The shawl slipped from her shoulders and she placed it over the chair, draping it in the soft wool. Not turning to look at James, she let her fingers wander back to the cord. One swift yank and the bow loosed. Her fingers tangled in the cloth, not letting it fall.

She hesitated and then let it fall from one shoulder and then the other.

The floor creaked as his weight shifted behind her.

The linen slipped to her waist before she stopped it, the skirt beginning to pool about her feet.

James liked her behind. She’d seen the way he looked at it, stared at it. She let the fabric slip a few more inches, heard his breathing grow deep and heavy. Another inch and then another.

She shivered slightly. The room was not warm, no fire danced, the only light that of the flickering candles.

Releasing another handful of fabric, she caught it just as it curved about the fullness of her buttocks.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said in what could only be called a groan. “You remind me of the most exquisite of Greek statuary, but living, warm and breathing, and all mine.” He spoke with absolute authority.

A piece of her thrilled at his words, but another piece grew cold. He’d always been so sure that he was right, and she could hear it in his voice now. He believed that she was his and therefore she was; her feelings seemed to count for very little. Dampness lay behind her lashes and she was glad that he could not see her face, see the sorrow and resolution that grew there.

For the first time she admitted to herself that she had hoped this night would change her mind, would show her that she could stay, could marry James. She glanced over her shoulder at him, keeping her face in the shadows. What must it be like to be that strong, that confident, to believe that the world would move as you wished?

She’d felt some of that before her mother’s death and her father’s marriage to Gillian, but now she knew that she could be little more than a leaf tossed in a tempest. She shut her eyes for one brief second and let herself wish, but then opened them again and took the world as it was. And then she found her strength and courage. She might be a leaf, but this leaf was going to dance upon the wind while it could.

James’s gaze was focused on her behind, as she had known it would be. She let her gown slip lower and lower. She could see the strain in his body, the tendons in his hands as he fought not to move, not to come to her. The nightdress slipped to the floor, a white puddle about her feet. She let her feet slide on the floor, parting farther.

Counting to twenty, she slowly turned, giving him an opportunity to stare at every inch of her. The upholstery of the chair was soft beneath her fingers, the fabric of the shawl she’d draped there even softer. With exaggerated care, she settled into the chair, leaving her legs parted.

James stood as if frozen, hardly a breath leaving him, but his eyes tracked her every moment.

Her eyes moved to the painting behind him. She positioned her hands to copy, but her mind was on the woman’s eyes. They spoke of temptation and power, but still stayed strong. They offered her lover the use of her body, but not her soul. And that was what Cynthia needed, the ability to do this, to enjoy it, and then escape unscathed.

Continuing to stare at the woman, she let her lips curl up in a smile of invitation, let her eyes half close.

“Don’t think of me, think of how your fingers feel as they move upon your body,” James whispered.

Think of herself, think only of herself. Think of the delicious feel of fingers pulling upon her aching nipple. Think of the dangerous feeling between her legs that cried with want and need. Think of…But in truth she could only think of James, of the look upon his face as she touched herself, the hunger. It was how she had always wanted him to look at her all those years ago, even when she’d been too innocent to understand what it was she wanted.

And now she had it—and still it meant nothing. He might want her, but he’d yet to trust her, really trust her, and how could love grow without trust?

Her fingers stilled.

Her body might want, but her mind was less sure.

James stepped forward, jerking her attention back. His eyes burned as they stared at her, she could feel their heat wherever they landed. She swallowed as her body tensed under that look, moisture pooling between her thighs.