Chapter 7
Dermont
“Remind me why I agreed to this asinine idea,” Dermont grumbled from his perched seat as Honoria added more strokes of paint to the portrait on her canvas.
He should have done this during the day.
With people around. With sunlight. But no.
He had invited her to return to his private study.
Alone. At night. It was like he wanted to be tortured.
He simply could not get her drenched frame out of his mind.
He hadn’t meant to study the shape or her nipples after yanking her out of the Serpentine, but it had happened all the same.
Shape, color, size. All of it was embedded in his mind.
And speaking of beds, he had pictured that, too. Her in it, more specifically.
“You owed me a favor,” she chirped sweetly. Too sweetly for his ears. It was irritating how easily a smile graced her face. “You can sigh all you like, but now that you’ve agreed to this, I will paint your portrait.”
“And why are you doing this?”
“Well, now…that is an interesting question.” She touched her finger to her chin, leaving a mark of paint on her face. “It’s quite personal. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
He shrugged. Better to have her speak than sit in silence with an ever-thickening…air.
“My father asked me to do it. It was one of his dying wishes that I pursue my passion in life.”
He grunted, “I’m sorry for your loss. Your father was a good man.”
“He was, wasn’t he?” She radiated a smile up at him, placed a few more soft strokes on the canvas, and looked up at him. “It’s sad though.”
“What’s that?”
“That he won’t get to see me following my heart.”
And maybe a few days ago, Dermont wouldn’t have pressed the conversation, but the last few days had challenged his judgment of Honoria, and he found himself wanting to know more. “Why didn’t you do it earlier?”
“I did. But only in private. Happiness…was…well, it wasn’t really encouraged.
Certainly it was a lesser priority than obligation, responsibility, and,” she bit her lip—a lip he watched with great intent, “marriage.” She rushed on with a wave of her brush, a small smattering or paint droplets flew onto her frock.
“Anyway, my father wanted us to have more experiences and not be so sheltered. Not that shelter is a bad thing. It’s a good thing, really, but it also led to me having no experiences.
Not that a woman should have experiences.
Well…anyway, I do remember growing up that pleasure was frowned upon. Dessert was a rarity in our house.”
“Why is that?”
She answered with a chuckle and a gesture that spanned her body. “Have you seen me?”
He could only nod. Because, yes. Yes, he had seen her. He’d seen a lot of her, actually. And much to his frustration, he only wanted more.
“And have you seen my mother?” She held up her paintbrush, her hand sweeping parallel to its handle.
“Anyway, it was the oddest thing that I felt almost guilty for being happy. Isn’t that bizarre?
” Her eyes met his. Locked in place. As if she just realized she had been babbling.
“Of course, that’s not what you asked.” She scrunched up her face. “What was the question, again?”
“You answered it.” He shifted his position, still eyeing the paint mark on her chin. Did she not notice it?
“Can you tilt your head more toward me?” she requested, propping the wet paintbrush against her cheek and leaving another mark. “Oh don’t stand yet. I just need a few more minutes. What are you doing? You can’t come over here. You can’t look at it yet.”
But his feet had already met their mark, his thumb was in his mouth, and his hand reached down to her cheek. “You have some paint…here.”
Her skin was so soft. Like silk. Silk he wanted to rub between his fingers. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, just staring at her.
“Dermont?” Her raspy voice cleared the fog surrounding him.
“Hmmm?”
“Is it gone?” she asked, licking her dry lips and peering up at him under a flourish of lashes.
“Just one more.” His thumb dragging slowly down her face languidly reaching her chin, tilted her face up to him. “There. Better.”
She was quite beautiful. Pale blue eyes with a soft spark lit from within. Golden sunshine for hair. And a body that any man could get lost in. Could grip onto. Not a waif of a thing that would break under any small amount of pressure.
“So you’re painting for pleasure then?”
Her head barely bobbed in his soft grip, but it was enough of a movement to indicate an answer in the affirmative.
“Are you seeking any other pleasure?” What had come over him? What was he doing? Seducing an innocent? In his study? Where was even going? Their faces were scant inches from each other. He could lean down and take her mouth in his so easily. Flip up her skirts and take her.
Her eyes dropped to his chest and her breath hitched in her throat, but as his fingers slid outward, down her neck, he could feel a strong, steady pulse.
The thrumming inside of her wasn’t so unexpected as the fact that it matched his own.
It was so loud it was practically knocking on his chest.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
“Dermont?”
“Yes?”
“There’s someone at the door,” she said in an altogether too husky voice.
Damn.
KNOCK. KNOCK.