He had wanted to kiss her.
When Charlotte had said his name, her cheeks flushed and eyes fixed on his, he had almost lost his head. He squeezed his eyes shut. For the love of God, two hours prior to that moment he had still believed her to be a boy. As a boy, Charlotte’s genuine friendship and beautiful heart had left him humbled. His steady wisdom and gentle acceptance had left him healed.
As a woman, all of that had left him reeling, his sudden desire to kiss her the only thing that had emerged clearly.
He cursed softly to himself. Was there anything in this world that was less romantic than kissing a woman who lay helpless in a bed, pale and bruised, her shoulder a painful mess of stitches? Was there anything less honorable than fantasizing about kissing a woman who was there as his equal—his colleague? Charlotte was not some loose tavern wench hoping to catch his eye for an evening’s entertainment. In fact, she had gone to extreme measures to ensure that that sort of idiocy would never happen. The least he could do as a professional, as a man—as a bloody human being—was respect that. He hadn’t even sought Lisbon out to tell him what had happened as though, by avoiding the architect, Flynn could pretend that nothing had changed and they could proceed with business as usual.
Flynn leaned forward and banged his forehead against the edge of the scaffold gently, wondering if he was losing his mind. Because, despite the stern logical lecture, he still wanted to kiss her.
“Could you imagine if we had to use ultramarine? How ghastly expensive that would be?”
The comment snapped his head up and he spun, finding Charlotte standing behind him. She was studying the deep blue of the heavens he had added to the background until he had lost his daylight. The same deep blue that she would eventually start adding to hers once she was ready.
“You shouldn’t be up,” he grumbled.
“And you shouldn’t have to wait on me hand and foot any longer while I stare at the rafters. I’m perfectly capable of seeing to myself.”
Her color was much better than it had been two days ago, though she was still a little pale. She had dressed herself in her trousers and another one of her oversize shirts, though the laces were loose to allow room for the bulky bandage he had wrapped around her shoulder.
“Sit then,” he said, fetching a chair and setting it at her side.
She made a face but obeyed readily enough. “I can’t abide not working. It’s not as though the stitches impede my painting hand.” She held up her right hand and waved it around.
“Tomorrow,” he told her. “One more day.”
“But—”
“One more day, Charlotte.”
She sighed. “If this whole art thing doesn’t work out for you, a career as a surgeon might be an excellent option. A tyrannical surgeon, but a surgeon nonetheless.”
He smiled despite himself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
“Would you prefer that I did not sleep here?” he asked suddenly. It had been weighing on him since that night he carried her back here, bloodied and broken.
“What?”
“Would you prefer that I seek other lodgings? I just thought that perhaps you might wish to be alone—”
“Does my being here make you uncomfortable?” she asked, her brows furrowed.
Yes, he wanted to say. Because now I lie awake at night imagining what it would be like to have you beneath me. And above me. And that makes me hot and hard and restless and very uncomfortable.
“Of course not,” he said instead. “I just didn’t want my presence to make this awkward…”
“Now that I’m Charlotte and not Charlie?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate your honor, Flynn Rutledge,” she said, smiling softly at him and making something deep in his chest ache. “Thank you for asking.” She dropped her eyes, her cheeks pink. “But I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want you to go anywhere.”
Warmth flooded through him, and it threatened to ignite into a different sort of heat. “Good,” he said. “I don’t want to go anywhere either.”
She nodded, her eyes still fixed on her hands clutched in her lap, her teeth worrying her lower lip. Wide, impossibly kissable lips. Lips that had featured prominently in his recent fantasies. Flynn had to look away before he did something that was not honorable at all.
“How do the stitches feel?” he blurted.
“Itchy,” she said.
“Good. Then it’s healing.” He took a deep, steadying breath, bringing his gaze back to hers. “Let me take another look.”
She opened her mouth as though she might argue.
“You will not win an argument with a tyrannical surgeon.”
That was met with an eye roll. “Oh, very well.” She loosened the laces at her throat a little more, and Flynn had to look away again, realizing that this was the height of folly. Last time he had examined her shoulder, she’d been half asleep and covered in blankets. She had not been restless and alert, her eyes following his every move.
He stepped around the back of her chair so that she couldn’t see his face or anything stamped across it that might betray his thoughts. Carefully, trying not to touch her skin, he lifted her shirt away from the side of her neck, easing the loosened collar over the bandage on her shoulder. She had beautiful skin, he thought, his eyes tracing the graceful curve of her shoulder where it met her neck. Smooth and soft, begging a man to run his fingers over it. Or press his lips to the sensitive spot just below her ear. It was a crime to conceal such beauty under layers of rough homespun. It should be showcased in silk and satin.
Or better yet, nothing at all.
Flynn gritted his teeth against the arousal that surged through him. His job, at the moment, was only to examine her wound to ensure her health. Not to fantasize about what she would look like sprawled in his bed. Not to imagine what it would feel like to curl his fingers through her thick hair and taste all that gorgeous skin.
He went to work on the bandage he’d secured and gently unwound it. He removed the pad of clean linen he’d placed over the stitches and peered at the cut.
“What does it look like?” Charlotte twisted her head, trying to get a glimpse and blocking his view in the process.
“I can’t see with you in the way.” Flynn slid his hand along the side of her head just above her ear and tilted it back, her hair as soft as he had imagined it would be under his fingers. Unable to help himself, he placed his other palm against the exposed skin at the back of her shoulder blade. It, too, was as soft as he had imagined it would be.
He, on the other hand, was as hard as a rock.
Beneath his touch, he felt her shiver. “Are you cold?”
“No,” she whispered.
It would be so easy to bend his head and place a kiss at the side of her neck. It would be so easy to slide his hands beneath the loose fabric of her shirt to explore more of her glorious skin. To pull away the bindings and trace the slight curve of her breasts. To run his palms over the span of her rib cage to the waistband of her trousers. And in doing so, he knew he would not stop there.
But he would stop now.
Because Charlotte Beaumont deserved better than his libido. She deserved his respect. This wasn’t a game to either of them.
“It looks good,” he said as evenly as he could. He replaced the bandage and rewrapped it to keep the stitches from catching on her shirt, casting about for a topic of conversation that would distract him from the feel of her body beneath his hands. “Why this commission?” he asked as he finished, stepping away from Charlotte and all the temptation that she was.
“I beg your pardon?” She straightened her shirt and began to tug the laces tighter.
“Why did you come here? Why not take something in London? Something that might gain you more recognition?” He had thrown out the original question without much thought, but now he found himself waiting intently for her answer.
She finished with the ties. “Recognition,” she repeated with a slight scoff. “Recognition for whom? Charlie Beaumont?”
“There are women who are successful artists, you know,” he said with a slight frown. “Clare Wheatley Pope, for one. She’s a very accomplished miniaturist. She’s even taught members of the aristocracy. And Maria Cosway has painted—”
“And would the clergy and directors of St. Michael’s have consented to having either of those two women on this commission?” Charlotte asked.
Flynn’s frown deepened. “Probably not,” he admitted.
Charlotte turned in her chair to gaze up at him. “I don’t want to paint miniatures. I don’t want to teach the aristocracy how to execute watercolor renditions of damask roses. I want…” She trailed off.
“What?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
“I want to create something that is greater than myself. Greater than all of us. I want to leave something behind for those to come. Something that has the power to elicit inspiration and contemplation that will endure the test of time.” She paused, her eyes sliding to the panels behind him. “I’ve spent a great deal of time copying the works of others, and it has taught me everything I know. But now, I want to write my own story.”
“Which is what?” Flynn’s throat had gone dry at the passion and the fire in her eyes.
“Redemption. Reinvention. And this commission is both of those things.” Her gaze came back to his. “Tell me what this commission is to you.”
“Reinvention. Redemption.” He hadn’t understood that until this very moment. And without Charlotte Beaumont, he wasn’t sure he ever would have.
He saw her raise a brow.
“I’ve spent too long chasing the wrong things.”
“Like what?”
“The chance to exhibit my work on the walls of the Royal Academy.”
“Any number of artists have realized substantial success from that sort of exposure. Portraitists in particular.” A furrow had appeared in her forehead. “There is nothing wrong with wanting that, especially when your work deserves a place on those walls.”
“Not if it requires me to be a version of myself I no longer recognize. Not if it requires me to be something I’m not.”
Charlotte abruptly stood from her chair and went to stand in front of his panel. “Sometimes that is necessary,” she said quietly. “If you recall, you addressed me as Mr. Beaumont for a good while.”
Flynn shook his head. “You misunderstand me. You have only ever been you, even if you’ve dressed as a boy. You once told me that who we are and the experiences that go with that are what gives our work life. You were right.” The words were tumbling out in a rush in his need to make her understand.
Charlotte turned to look at him, a strange expression on her face. “Flynn, there is something that I should—”
“Please, let me finish,” he implored, afraid that, if he didn’t say this all now, he never would.
Charlotte fell silent.
“When I met Lady Cecelia, I was blinded with her beauty and infatuated with the ease in which she moved through a world that I thought I needed to conquer. She promised me that with her by my side, I would gain both recognition and respect from the members of the Royal Academy and their wealthy, titled patrons. And she made me believe that she loved me, right up until the day that I proposed to her.”
“You asked her to marry you?” She sounded stricken.
Flynn flinched. “Very publicly. And just as publicly, she laughed at me, as did every one of her titled friends. The subsequent scandal sheets and gossip rags reminded everyone that the sons of whores do not marry ladies. That any exposure I had gained as Lady Cecelia’s lover should simply be considered compensation for services rendered. The son of a whore should know how that worked better than anyone.”
He heard her suck in a breath.
“In the blink of an eye, I went from being considered a serious artist to a plaything for the Lady Cecelias of the world. I was forced to seek commissions outside of London where bored, titled ladies did not propose contracts of a more carnal sort.”
“Flynn—”
“I should have known better from the very beginning,” he said with a sigh. “Because in all the time that I was with Cecelia, she never let me forget where I came from. She maintained that my past was something that I needed to overcome if I ever wanted to be an individual of importance.” He took a deep breath. “But growing up, there was goodness beside the awfulness, love beside the hate, and the sum total of all of that is a part of me. I refuse to sacrifice my sense of self on society’s altar of smug self-importance. I don’t want to forget where I come from.”
“Nor should you ever.” She pivoted away from him again. “I feel sorry for her.”
“For who? Cecelia?”
“Yes. She must have deeply rooted insecurities of her own to be unable to understand that. To be unable to admire you for you. To admire how far you’ve come.”
Flynn blinked at Charlotte’s back. He’d never considered it like that. “Well, she has an Italian count who claims to be an aspiring artist in her bed now to distract her,” he said, and then winced at his crudeness.
“Her loss,” Charlotte said, gazing up at the stars that were still only chalked suggestions amid the blue heavens.
Flynn scoffed. “Did you not hear me? I said she has an Italian count—”
“Who isn’t you. She’s an idiot.”
Flynn froze. She was still facing away from him, and he couldn’t see her face. Couldn’t tell if she was simply trying to make him feel better or if she meant more. Afraid that he was making a horrible mistake, he closed the distance between them, coming to stand directly behind her, giving her a chance to move away.
She didn’t.
Very gently, he put a hand at the small of her back, again giving her a chance to step away from him. Still, she didn’t move, but he could see the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders beneath her baggy shirt. “What are you doing?” she asked so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.
“I have no idea,” he answered. Gently, he tugged her around so that he could see her face. She was staring at the toes of her stockinged feet, the wool bunched around her ankles. “Look at me,” he said.
She kept her eyes on her toes for a moment longer before she lifted her gaze to his. In an instant, Flynn saw the want reflected in her eyes. It sizzled through him, leaving him unable to remember why this couldn’t happen. His eyes dropped to her lips, tantalizingly close to his. He imagined that they would be just as soft and warm as her skin. If he moved, simply leaned forward, he could find out. He could taste those lips, and when he had his fill of that, he would taste everything else.
It was Charlotte who moved then, her right hand coming up as if to caress his face. Her fingers stopped a breath away from his cheek, and he nearly came out of his skin, so badly did he need her touch. Without considering what he was doing, he turned his head, pressing the side of his jaw into her palm. Her breathing stuttered, and her fingers slid up over his cheek and higher, to smooth the edge of his brow.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I first saw you,” she whispered. “When you were burdened by so much unhappiness.”
“You should have,” he croaked.
The corner of her mouth curled. “That might have been…presumptuous.”
“Perhaps.” He caught her hand with his. “What else? What else did you want to do?”
Her eyes widened even as they went hot, the caramel depths now like molten gold. He saw her throat work as she tried to find words.
“Don’t tell me,” he murmured. “Show me.”
Her lips parted, and her eyes dropped to his mouth. Her hand slid from his, and now she was tracing the edge of his lower lip with the pads of her fingers. He closed his eyes, every muscle in his body fighting the need to simply take her right there.
He felt her shift, felt the butterfly-light pressure of her fingers vanish. In the next instant, her lips brushed his, soft and unhurried, and that simple touch sent a primal desire crashing through him with enough force to leave him shaking.
“When I first saw you,” she whispered, “I thought you looked how an angel ought to. Fierce. Strong.”
His eyes opened. “I’m not an angel.”
“No,” she agreed. “You’re real. Fierce and strong and real.”
“Charlotte…”
“I imagined how it would feel to be kissed by a man like that. Like you.” Her color had risen again, though her voice didn’t waver.
Flynn didn’t remember moving, but in a heartbeat, he had caught her head with his hands and covered her mouth with his. In an instant, all the hunger and want that he’d been trying to keep banked roared to life. He pushed her back a step, until her back was against the wall, and leaned into her, kissing her as though his life depended on it. And maybe it did. Maybe this woman beneath his hands and his lips, who had given him back what he had feared lost, really was his savior.
All he knew was that in this moment she was his. And that he was hers.
And that she was real and beautiful and perfect.
He felt her melt against him, one of her hands sliding around the back of his neck, her fingers threading through his hair. The other, the one hampered by the stitches on her shoulder, was tucked between them, her fingers splayed over his heart. Flynn tried to pace himself, tried to explore sweetly and softly, but she was opening beneath him, demanding more. He followed the outlines of her lips with his, every erotic fantasy he’d had pounding through his veins and making him groan. He slid his hands down the sides of her neck, taking care to avoid her shoulder, instead letting them trail along the sides of her bound breasts, to her waist and then to her hips. Forget silks and satins. These damn clothes that made every part of her body so touchable and yet so inaccessible would kill him.
He dropped his hands to the back of her buttocks, every glorious curve beneath her shapeless trousers fitting perfectly into his palms.
Charlotte shifted, her hand tightening around his neck, her teeth catching at his lower lip, teasing and tasting. He growled, pulling her hard against him, and was rewarded by a breathless gasp. He caught the sound against his lips, and his tongue explored the heat of her mouth, making this kiss a sexually explicit promise.
Flynn squeezed his eyes shut against the waves of desire that were crashing through him. She fit so flawlessly against him, her body strong and hot and pliant against his. But it wasn’t enough. His hands moved from her backside to the waistband of her trousers. He yanked her shirt up, sliding his fingers over the smooth, heated skin of her back. She arched against him, another breathless gasp escaping, and Flynn caught that one too.
She kissed the way she painted, he thought through a haze. Passionately, freely, honestly. She would make love the same way, he knew. And he would give her back everything twofold, watching those caramel eyes as she came apart beneath him, his name on those sinful lips.
“Flynn,” she whispered against his mouth.
He dipped his head and traced a path along the edge of her jaw to the hollow of her throat.
“Flynn,” she said again more urgently, and he raised his head, a sharp rapping on the door finally penetrating his lust-fogged mind.
“Mr. Rutledge?” Accompanying his muffled name was another round of rapping, more impatient this time. “Mr. Beaumont?”
He released Charlotte and staggered back. “Bloody Lisbon,” he cursed under his breath. His eyes flew to Charlotte, who looked back at him, flushed and breathing hard. “A moment,” Flynn shouted in the general direction of the door. He put a hand against her cheek. “We’re not done,” he whispered harshly.
Flynn dropped his hand and stalked to the door. He took a second to smooth his hair back, adjust his trousers, and rearrange his features into what he hoped was bland neutrality, and yanked the door open.
Lisbon pushed past him, rubbing his hands against the chill. “About time. It’s freezing outside.”
“You could have just come in,” Flynn muttered even as he recoiled at the potential consequences of that and feeling, for the first time, a stirring of misgiving. What had he just done? What if he had taken advantage of circumstance and her vulnerability? What if she would come to despise him for it, given the time to reconsider?
The architect shook his head. “I try to retain some level of courtesy, Rutledge,” he said crisply, “and leave my artists alone to complete their work in peace. Though I do expect, on occasion, an invitation so that I might gauge how far you’ve—” He stopped abruptly as his eyes fell on Charlotte.
She had reclaimed the chair that Flynn had provided for her and was sitting back in it, her stocking foot crossed over her knee, her expression admirably vague. What wasn’t vague, however, was the large lump at her shoulder where her bandage sat under her now untucked shirt.
Lisbon’s eyes slid between them, eventually settling on Charlotte. “What happened to your shoulder, Mr. Beaumont?” he asked.
“You may dispense with calling me Mr. Beaumont,” she said, sounding almost resigned, as though this moment had always been inevitable. “I required…medical assistance, and Mr. Rutledge was kind enough to provide it. Subsequently, the truth was difficult to avoid.”
“What happened?” The architect’s words were like cut glass. “And why wasn’t I informed that one of my artists had been injured?”
“We encountered a bit of trouble on the streets two evenings past,” Flynn answered before she could. “And it was my decision not to worry you with something that you could do naught about.”
“It’s but a mere cut, and Mr. Rutledge has been quite thorough in his treatments and precautions,” Charlotte added hastily. “I’m very much on the mend, and I can assure you that it will not hinder my work.”
“Trouble?” Lisbon’s sharp eyes swiveled back to Flynn.
“Two gentlemen who sought to take something that was not theirs.”
He could see the architect’s features harden. “I see. I must assume that you also chose not to involve a magistrate? Or any other authorities?”
Flynn inclined his head. “The situation was resolved to my satisfaction. Save, of course, for Miss Beaumont’s unfortunate injury.”
“I see.” Lisbon crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “Will this be a problem, Mr. Rutledge?” he asked.
“Will what be a problem?”
“My decision to hire her. And my insistence that she will finish this commission.”
Lisbon’s decision to hire Charlotte Beaumont had already caused him all sorts of problems, the least of which being that he was suffering from an overwhelming desire for the woman who was sitting in that damn chair. He was tormented by a possessiveness that seemed to be getting worse with each passing minute. And he was plagued with the knowledge that he was both unable and unwilling to keep his hands off her.
None of which he would share with Henry Lisbon.
“Of course not,” he said, hoping he sounded suitably offended. “She is here on her own merit. Her gender and station in life are inconsequential.”
“I see.” He turned to Charlotte. “I must ask at this juncture if you would prefer other living arrangements?”
“Mr. Rutledge has already very gallantly offered. And like I told him, no, I do not wish other arrangements.” She still hadn’t looked at Flynn once. “This…unfortunate event will affect nothing.”
“Fine,” Lisbon said, glancing in Flynn’s direction briefly before returning his attention to Charlotte again. “I will honor your decision. However, I must stress that, as long as you are here, you will continue to be addressed as Charlie Beaumont. No one outside of this room shall be privy to the truth. I, for one, do not have the time to begin a search for a new artist with your skill should our clients object to your presence. I have promised that these paintings will be completed and mounted in time for the Christmastide services. Is that understood?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said. “Again, nothing has changed, I assure you. I simply won’t allow it. It will be like nothing ever happened.”
Flynn looked down at the toes of his boots, a deep disquiet settling into his gut, suddenly unsure if she was speaking of their work or their kiss.
“Excellent.” Lisbon moved farther into the room toward the panel, reaching for a lantern. “Now show me what you’ve done.”