Chapter Eleven
One afternoon, Pearce was walking by the family parlor on the second floor when something caught his eye.
He froze and retraced his steps to find Clara seated in a chair positioned before the window.
She held in her lap her watercolor board and paper while the table beside her contained the controlled chaos of her painting implements.
Pigments and water, brushes and little trays for mixing were spread out in joyful abandon.
She was so absorbed in what she was doing that she did not hear him enter the room, nor did she react to the small click as he closed the door behind him.
For years, he’d known she enjoyed painting—Kempton had even hired several tutors for her in her youth—but he’d never witnessed her as she worked before.
In fact, he did not recall seeing any of her completed projects save for once, several years earlier, when she’d snatched away a landscape after she’d caught him eyeing it.
What he’d been able to see hinted at some rather impressive talent.
Years had passed since that instance, so his desire to know how her abilities had improved was great.
The more he learned about Clara, the more he was finding her endlessly impressive to the point where he felt guilty for ever having accused her of being vain or vapid.
She was intensely intelligent with keen observational skills, which he now realized she’d used to move so well throughout Society.
She had played many roles in her life, but the real Clara, disguised beneath the proper facade, was far more enticing to him.
He looked forward to learning more as the years went on.
Standing behind her, Pearce could see her working on a painting of a bird perched in the branches just beyond the glass.
Its black head and beak were tilted in curiosity while its salmon-hued breast was puffed proudly.
How could she manage to use color and water to create something so lifelike?
She’d even captured the glint in its eye.
“That is lovely,” Pearce whispered, not wanting to startle her; however, he needn’t have worried because she did not so much as bat an eye to show she’d heard him.
She was far too focused on capturing the streaks of blue in the bird’s tail feathers.
“You have quite the talent,” he said a little more loudly.
She still did not react to his arrival. He breathed out a little chuckle and shook his head.
Several clean brushes lay nearby, and he selected one, testing the soft hair bristles against his palm and giving himself an idea.
Reaching over, he ran the very tip of the brush bristles against the nape of her neck.
Clara shivered slightly but did not look up from her work.
Reaching forward again, Pearce brushed the lobe of her left ear.
This time, she swatted at it before continuing her painting.
The third time, he ran the brush down the side of her neck as if he were dusting a statue.
Finally, Clara giggled and shifted in her chair. Her eyes widened when she realized he was standing beside her. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded, though there was no bite in her tone.
“I was trying to compliment your beautiful work, but that little bullfinch is hoarding your attention.”
“So, you saw me deep in concentration and thought you would interrupt me?” She arched a saucy brow at him.
“I couldn’t resist,” he said with an unapologetic shrug before tickling the tip of her nose with the brush he still held.
She laughed and swatted at it, but she missed. “You are incorrigible.”
“I am, indeed.” He swiped the brush up from the edge of her bodice to dance beneath her chin.
Clara gasped and carefully set aside her painting. “My brushes are not toys; they are costly tools.”
“I will buy you a thousand more.”
“Hand it back!”
He held it just out of her reach when she leapt from her chair.
She clung to his arm and tried to use all her weight to bring it down so she might take back her brush, to no avail.
Pearce basked in the sound of her laughter as they playfully wrestled for power over the paintbrush.
The battle, of course, was entirely contrived.
Pearce could have won without expending any effort, but he enjoyed the game.
He liked playing with his wife. He cherished the lightheartedness that was just beginning to make its presence known in their marriage.
Even better, he savored how the length of her body felt against his as he tugged her close and pinned her flailing arms at her sides.
Clara’s laughter faded away as their eyes met, and Pearce imagined she could read his desire as easily as he could hers in her widening pupils, the shallowness of her breathing, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts above the lace-trimmed edge of her pale-green gown.
His control extinguished like a flame. He groaned and finally surrendered to his body’s blinding demand to kiss her senseless.
Clara melted in his arms as the paintbrush fell forgotten at their feet when his lips slanted over hers.
Her dainty hands were impressively strong as she held herself to him, as she dragged her fingers down his chest and tested the firmness of his stomach beneath his waistcoat.
She explored the shape of his arms and pressed her body closer to his until he was certain she could feel just how hard he was for her.
He wanted her hands there, too. He wanted to feel how soft those paint-splattered fingers were on his naked flesh.
His need roaring through his veins, Pearce walked her backward until they could tumble together into a heap on the sofa.
He hooked her leg over his hip, tilting her pelvis up into him to provide the pressure he knew they were both craving.
He licked into her mouth, swallowing her sighs and moans, reveling in the scratch of her nails through his hair… until there was a scratch at the door.
Pearce swore. “No, God! I swear I will sack whoever opens that door.” The only answer was silence; Clara barely stifled a laugh behind her hand.
“You find this amusing?” he asked, turning on her, the predatory desire palpable in his eyes.
“Perhaps once you finally know what you’ve been missing, then my desperation will not be so funny.
” He claimed her mouth again for a quick, deep kiss.
Despite his words, Pearce’s last shred of sanity reminded him that Clara deserved better than to be deflowered in the middle of the day in a parlor where anyone might enter. She was his virgin wife, no mistress or courtesan. She meant so much more.
“Must we stop?” Clara whined a little breathlessly when he tried to pull away.
“We should—at least for now.” The words were like shards of glass on his tongue, painful and foreign. To deny her nearly undid him, though he somehow managed. “You deserve more than a quick tup on the floor,” he explained.
She shook her head so vehemently that a couple of dark curls came undone. “No! Tup away!”
He could not help it; he laughed.
Despite her protests, he began setting her to rights until Clara stilled his hands and then looked up into his eyes. “You have shown me pleasure. I would like to do the same for you.” She reached out a tentative hand and cupped the ridge of his arousal through his breeches.
Pearce thought he might die right then and there. Never would he have dared to hope she would be so bold, but he should have known better. This was Clara. She never shied away from an adventure, and her curiosity knew no bounds.
Her touch evolved into achingly tentative, sweet strokes.
Though it was nothing like the fuck he really desired with her, it was still bloody brilliant.
She fumbled a little as she found the fastenings closing his breeches, but he remained patient even though he held his breath in anticipation.
Once she was successful, his cock jutted free and proud.
He bit back a laugh at the small, strangled sound she made at the sight.
“Oh, my,” she breathed.
“Indeed—” The word died on the air when she wrapped her fingers around his girth, testing the slide of velvet over steel, examining the turgid length and tracing the veins with the pad of her thumb.
She tried to stroke him, and he covered her hand with his to show her how, demonstrating technique, pace, and rhythm.
He did not think anything could have aroused him more than seeing Clara eager to pleasure him.
Not only was her earnestness endearing, but she, too, was excited about what she was doing.
A flush crested her cheeks and her pink lips parted on short, breathy gasps.
His hips bucked up into her when she increased the pace, each of them working together to create the perfect blend of push and pull, give and take.
Each motion sent pulses of lightning down to the base of his spine, coiling in his balls.
“Yes…like that…Christ above…so good…” His words were broken and nonsensical, but neither of them cared, as lost as they were in the thrill of this encounter.
When he was close, Pearce wrapped his hand around hers to keep her from stopping. He tightened his grip, his hips lifting from the sofa as he stroked, quick and furious, spilling his hot seed in a fit of blinding white ecstasy until he was limp and spent, breathing heavily.
When he finally opened his eyes, he found Clara watching him intently, her dark eyes wide in excitement and arousal. There was an unexpected wave of tenderness in his chest when she gave him a shy smile.
“There will be no living with you now,” he said with a gentle chuckle and carried one of her hands to his cheek.
“Why is that?” She frowned in confusion.