Chapter 13
Thalia stared into Maxwell’s face. Her heart pounded, her cheeks flushed and a strange heat started in her belly. His words rebounded off the sides of her head, and she listened to them, her pulse fluttering in her fingertips.
The intensity in his eyes.
What were the things he wanted?
If she asked, he might tell her. He might show her. But—
They were in a crowd of people. And much as she was curious about what kissing him again would feel like, she did not want to disgrace herself.
And not in front of Catherine Andras, someone approaching a hero of hers. The distraction had meant Catherine was now speaking to someone else, but even so.
She stepped back. “We should explore,” she said abruptly.
A small smile, perhaps of resignation, touched his face.
“Lead the way.”
It felt odd to be the one leading. Mr. Plainchett had so many countless artifacts, it felt as though she could spend a lifetime in the house and not see them all. Paintings, miniatures, portraits, landscapes, and still-lifes. Sculptures. Some were from Italy, some from France.
He had collected those before the Unfortunate Events, he told them.
There was a bull made from brass, carved in exquisite detail. The great Horse of Troy in miniature, made from what appeared to be matchsticks.
She even found caricatures in a room designed solely for the viewing of them. Thalia marveled at them all, and Maxwell followed in her wake, seemingly content to breathe in her enthusiasm.
She stopped in a large saloon where a woman stood by a pianoforte, a cigar in her mouth, wearing what appeared to be pantaloons. When she saw them, she nodded her head the way a gruff old man might.
“I believe she composes,” Maxwell said, one hand at the small of her back.
Despite the overt glory of the room, that hand was the only thing Thalia could think about.
“There is so much talent here,” she said in disbelief as another woman came to the composer by the piano and took her hand, turning to glance at Thalia in a way that spoke of defiance, as though daring her to judge. “And…” she said, more under her breath this time, “everyone is so free here.”
“This is a safe space for them to be as they truly choose.”
She inhaled, feeling as though she could sense the paintings on the wall. The pianoforte in the center of the room dominated the space as though it could absorb the talent merely from being around it.
All the people here were so different, but had one thing in common: their passion. Here, in this manor, there was so much collective love for not just the arts but also creating.
“I feel like…” she said softly, “I’ve found the place I truly belong.”
Maxwell glanced at her, as though startled, but she didn’t look at him. Her gaze fixed on a small statue, possibly Greek in origin, mounted on a small pedestal.
“It is like,” she continued, not wanting to break the hush, but knowing she had to let the words free, “I can finally breathe. There’s no shame here. No expectations.”
Maxwell’s hand found the small of her back again, but did not lead her onward. He was just reminding her that he was here, sharing this with her.
She would not have chosen anyone else to be in his place.
They moved from the saloon into a smaller room, lit by a collection of candles all burning low, with clay and water and a selection of small figurines that had evidently been made earlier.
Now, though, there was no one.
Clay was one of Thalia’s favorite mediums; it was so malleable and gave her the option of seeing her vision come to life before her eyes.
Anna’s laughter at seeing she had inadvertently recreated the Duke came to mind, and she had an idea.
“Sit for me,” she said, positioning herself before a lump of clay. “An artist must have her muse.”
Shock appeared to render him mute; he opened his mouth, then closed it.
His throat bobbed. She watched as he brought his fingers to his chin, scraping gently at the stubble gathered there at the end of the day.
When had he last shaved? Just looking at it made her wonder what the short hair would feel like against her fingertips.
She had never touched a man like that, and damp heat bloomed between her legs at the thought of that mouth against hers, the scrape of his stubble against her mouth. Against her neck. Further down—across her breasts, and—
He met her gaze, and her thoughts disintegrated. “Where would you like me?” he asked, his voice low and rasping.
Naked, she wanted to say. Splayed before me so I might see all of you.
Instead, she said, “On the chair, if you please.”
He sat on the stool, legs slightly spread, and after a moment, rested his elbow on one knee and rested his chin on his fist. It was a pensive pose, appealing but restrained.
He shall be a fallen angel, she decided in a rush, wetting her hands to shape the clay. A man who had known heaven and hell and now contemplated them both.
I could want such a man, she thought.
She did want such a man.
Silence fell between them as she worked, eager to capture his likeness before her inspiration faded or he became tired. The clay was a little stiff, a little dried, but she worked with it carefully, bringing her image to life before her.
By the time he rose, stretching out his back, a full thirty minutes later, she had almost finished.
“I took some liberties,” she said almost apologetically when he came to stand behind her shoulder, looking at her work. “And I made some assumptions regarding what you look like without your clothes. I do apologize.”
Fallen angels, she had decided, did not wear shirts and waistcoats and coats. And so, she had carved rough muscles across his chest and stomach, carving him as she had seen when he had been boxing.
Her stomach bottomed out at the thought.
Maxwell was silent so long behind her that she felt sure he was offended.
“It’s still rough yet,” she said quickly. “If I were working at home, I would have time to add details and smooth over some of the lines. I know the wings are not very defined either. I wanted them curved over your back because I felt as though that suited your pose, but—”
He turned her on her chair, turning her face up to his. “Thalia,” he said quietly, intensely. “You are one of the most talented people I have ever met. And that includes every single person in this house.”
She flushed, smiling, absurdly pleased with the compliment. “I… I work hard at my craft,” she said, as though to neutralize the statement.
“So does anyone with any success. But you have far surpassed anyone else.”
“Maxwell—”
“I mean it.” A smile curved his mouth. “But if you had wished to know how I look without my shirt, you might have asked.”
Temptation had her biting her lower lip, but in an effort to keep him from knowing quite how much she had wanted—and still did—that, she teased, “Did I overestimate reality?”
He made a sound a little like a growl, and then his fingers were at his coat buttons, undoing them so quickly, she could do nothing but watch with a dropped jaw. Next came his waistcoat, then his coat, and finally he stood before her bare-chested, his eyes blazing.
“You tell me,” he said.
Skin. Hair. She did not know how to think of hair, but now it seemed ridiculous to picture him without any. The dark hair gathered on his chest and led down the center of his stomach to the waist of his breeches.
Her mouth went dry, heart pounding.
More than anything, she wanted to reach out and touch him, to see if the sculpted muscles felt as hard as they looked. As she watched, they flexed. His chest swelled as he took a deep breath, and she wondered if his heart was pounding the way hers was.
She glanced up and met his gaze, dark with heat that made her feel flushed and fluttery.
Rather than asking what she wanted, he reached out and took her hand, placing the flat of her palm against his chest. Underneath, she could feel his heartbeat, as elevated as hers.
“You may explore to your heart’s content, if you wish to.”
She drew in a sharp breath, unable to help herself from sliding her hand across his body in a proprietary gesture. “For art’s sake?”
“And yours.” He came even closer, branding her with his heat. “And for mine.”
“Yours?” The word was a whisper.
“You know how much I want you, Thalia.” He said the words as though they were nothing, as though she already knew them intimately, but the sound of them made her stomach tumble.
She felt as though she was falling. She never wanted to stop.
“Tell me,” she said. “How much?”
He groaned, one hand coming to her jaw, his thumb on her bottom lip. “You consume me. When I’m with you, I can think about nothing but kissing you. Touching you. I want to hear the way you moan in pleasure. Is it how I imagined?”
Heat sank through her. “I thought you disliked me.”
“When you came into my house to beg me to free you from the burden of my hand in marriage, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.” A brief, wry smile crossed his face, and she wondered what he could have thought to make him look like that.
“But even then, I wanted you. I have never disliked you.”
More warmth rushed through her, and she reached out a hand to brace herself against the back of the chair. Neither of them was discussing marriage, or anything more potent than that at this moment.
Mutual desire. That was all.
Her life was unconventional already; what did a little more matter? If there was any place to give way to those sorts of thoughts, it was here.
Her hand was still on his chest; she felt every breath. Knew he was watching her intently, tracking the path of the blush across her cheeks and the intent in her eyes. Here, they were open books. There was no hiding.
Slowly, watching for his reaction, she slid her hand up to his collarbone, tracing the sharp bones, and then lowered her hand. To his sternum. Lower, reaching his stomach and that tantalizing strip of hair.
Her fingertips grazed his breeches.
His entire body tensed.