Chapter 7
Darcy’s heart raced far too quickly. The vibrant, decadent room suddenly seemed very small. She made no sound, only stared. Rebecca’s soft laugh lingered in the doorway like perfume, but Darcy scarcely heard it. The sight before her had cut the breath from her lungs.
The earl remained lounged with decadent ease, as if sensuality were an art he had perfected. The nearly bare courtesan still knelt before him, one hand resting lightly upon his thigh.
Of all men to find in such a place.
Rebecca’s voice drew a silken line between them. “Lord Raine, this is Red.”
He turned his head and regarded Darcy through heavy-lidded interest. “Red,” he drawled, the word lazy on his tongue. “Is this your artist, Rebecca?”
“I am,” Darcy said in a low tone before the madam could answer. If Madam Rebecca noticed the subtle change in her voice, she gave no indication that she had.
“She looks like a frightened little rabbit on the verge of bolting or swooning. Why did you bring this chit here, Rebecca?”
“The sample she sent showed immense talent,” Rebecca replied. At her slight gesture, the courtesan rose from her knees, drew a silk wrapper about her shoulders, and crossed to stand beside the madam.
A low, derisive scoff escaped the earl. “You must select someone else, Rebecca. This chit will not do.”
Darcy lifted her chin. “I am the artist Madam Rebecca wants, and I am very good at what I do, my lord.”
His gaze gleamed. “Oh? And you are aware of everything your work will entail?”
“I am not afraid of seeing naked men and women,” she said, steady enough to surprise herself. “If that is your concern, Lord Raine.”
Darcy’s heart pounded like a drum in her ears. She had the distinct sense that securing this commission hinged upon convincing the earl of her competence. Without his approval, she doubted Madam Rebecca would offer her the post at all. Was he more than merely a patron of Aphrodite?
The earl’s mouth curved, and his dark blue eyes brightened with a provocative light. “Is that all you think you are going to see, Red? Naked men and women?”
His gaze traveled slowly, skimming the line of her throat, the swell of her breasts, the narrow of her waist, the curve of her hips, as if a gloved fingertip traced each secret place.
Heat unfurled low in Darcy’s belly, tight as a pulled ribbon, and she was fiercely grateful for the mask that hid her flush and the quick parting of her lips.
The earl rose with languid, wicked grace. “You will see cocks sucked, women’s arses left blushing beneath a practiced hand, pussies licked until their owners tremble, and bodies writhing from pleasures they have been made to beg for. And, Red, that is merely the beginning of the debauchery.”
Darcy’s tongue felt too large for her mouth. She said nothing, fearing it would reveal her ignorance.
He tipped his head. “Never say you do not even know what a cock is.” The gleam in the earl’s eyes sharpened. “How intriguing. An innocent in a den of depravity. My boredom is lifted.”
Rebecca gave a soft, arch purr of approval at the spark leaping between them.
Darcy kept her spine straight. “My task is to see and to render with accuracy and grace. I am not here to be your amusement and lift your boredom.”
“You are already my amusement,” he said, his mouth curving with humor at his own verdict. “But no matter. Let us see what your accuracy and grace can endure.”
He moved with a predator’s unhurried grace and set his hands to the linen at his throat.
The cravat slid free. He dropped it onto the chaise and unbuttoned his shirt.
Heat rushed up Darcy’s neck into her face before she could prevent it.
He laughed softly, and the sound sent a peculiar shiver down her spine.
“There is the blush I expected,” he murmured as he opened his shirt. “How very interesting.”
The earl’s chest was a study in strength and proportion, the play of light over muscle something an artist might chase through a dozen sketches. The warmth that began in Darcy’s cheeks spread treacherously through her to places that had no business waking.
He watched her watch him, then set his fingers to the fall of his trousers. “Shall we be thorough?” he murmured, opening the flap.
Darcy spun around so quickly her gown whispered. The room seemed to tilt again. She stared at the door panel and willed her breath to behave. Lord Raine laughed, and the chill of mockery in it struck her square in the chest, sharp and unexpected.
Behind her, Rebecca sighed. “If you cannot look at a naked man objectively, my dear, this commission is not for you. A pity. You have such a wonderful talent.”
Miserable uncertainty gripped Darcy. Eight hundred pounds flickered like a candle in a draft.
Oh, God, do not be so missish! She fiercely scolded herself. This is a chance at a better future for my family, one that might free us from dependence upon the pity or charity of others.
Darcy took a breath and turned. Her heart trembled. The earl was already there, close enough that the heat of his body pressed against the coolness of the mask. She stepped back and met the unyielding reality of the door. He followed that step as if it were a dance he had led a dozen times.
“Careful,” he said softly. He crooked one finger beneath her chin, a single point of contact that lifted her face.
Through the mask, she met his eyes and saw the wicked tranquility of a man entirely at ease with sin. A sharp tremor moved through Darcy, yet she refused to lower her gaze.
“This work is not for you, Red. You have failed the assessment. Go home before curiosity carries you farther than courage can follow.”
Desperation threaded through her chest. “I can do it, my lord. Pray allow me the chance,” she said. “I promise I shall not look away again.”
“You will,” he said. “You have already proved it. Your sensibilities do not belong here, Red. Go home.”
“I will not,” she returned, stubborn and acutely aware of his fingertip still beneath her chin. “Please permit me to try again.”
A dark brow winged upward. “Rebecca expects you to paint men and women in the act of congress: cocks sheathed in a woman’s pussy, mouths open in pleasure, backs bowed in surrender. You may see men touching men, women coaxed by clever fingers, bodies that make no pretense of indifference.”
His finger drifted to the edge of her mask, almost but not quite touching the corner of her mouth. “Will you keep your hand steady and your wits about you?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I will keep my hand steady and my wits in order. I shall not faint, and my sensibilities are not so fragile that they require protection.”
“How very interesting.”
“So you have said,” Darcy murmured, forcing herself to hold his gaze.
Every instinct urged her to look away, to retreat from the dark sensuality he wielded without shame, but she did not.
His eyes felt like a touch, deliberate and assessing, and she knew if she wavered now, he would see just how deeply he unsettled her.
Rebecca’s voice drifted over, amused and approving. “Very good. I think you will do, Red. Lord Raine, what do you think?”
“Yes, my lord. What is your verdict?” Darcy asked, alarmed by her own audacity.
The earl’s smile deepened. “I will decide after you look at me, Red. Properly this time. Learn your subject.” He stepped back just enough to let air move between them. “Show me that you can look without flinching or swooning.”
Darcy did not trust her voice, so she let her eyes obey.
She traced the breadth of his shoulders, the clean cut of his waist, the long, powerful line of thigh beneath the open fall.
She cataloged the planes of him as she would light and shadow on marble.
Her pulse seemed to live in every inch of her skin.
“You are wickedly beautiful, my lord, and you will be extraordinary to paint.”
He stilled, a flicker in his eyes as if she had startled him, then the mask of indifference returned. “Is that so?”
“It is, my lord.”
“Rebecca,” he said without looking away from Darcy, “bring the easel and the brushes and the oils you prepared.”
“Of course,” Rebecca replied.
She crossed to the door with the courtesan following at her heels. Her gaze flicked to Darcy, amused. “Do not let him rattle you, Red. He enjoys it far too much.” With a knowing smile, she swept out.
Silence pressed between them for a heartbeat, and Darcy’s pulse seemed unnaturally loud in her ears.
“Will you have wine?” he asked, moving to a sideboard where a crystal decanter caught the candlelight like captured fire.
“No, thank you, my lord.”
His brow lifted. “Are you afraid?”
“Prudent,” she said. “Since I am the rabbit and you are very clearly a wolf, it seems best to keep my faculties clear.”
He laughed, low and startled, the sound warming the air between them. “A sensible rabbit, then. Be easy, Red. You are here to work, and no one in this house will force you to do what you do not wish.”
She found herself believing him. “I am glad to hear it.”
A pair of servants entered with quiet efficiency, carrying an easel, a stool, palettes, brushes, and small stoppered bottles of oil.
They set everything by a tall screen where the light fell most kindly, adjusted a lamp, and withdrew.
Rebecca reappeared just long enough to approve the arrangement with a glance, then inclined her head.
“You have the room,” Rebecca said. “Raine, when she is finished, send for me.”
He gave a lazy salute. “As you command.”
They left, the latch settling with a soft click that seemed louder than it was. Darcy was acutely aware of the hush, of the faint music thrumming through the walls, of the heat in her own cheeks.
He took up a glass for himself and crossed the carpet with unhurried grace, stopping at a respectful distance. “You may position me where you like, Red.”
She moved to the easel, tested its legs for stability, and adjusted the angle. “By the chaise, if you please. The light falls well there.” Her voice sounded almost calm.