Chapter 9
Sebastian allowed the sensation stirring low in his body to spread through his limbs, indulging it long enough to examine its source.
It was rare for desire to take him unguarded, and rarer still for it to take root in curiosity, intrigue, and something darker.
This was the second woman who had ever roused such visceral hunger in him, so swiftly and without invitation.
The first was Miss Darcy Whitley.
He shoved the thought of her aside with practiced ruthlessness.
Yet the thought refused to remain buried.
Red stepped into the long hallway on the second floor beside Madam Rebecca, and the world narrowed to the measured sway of her hips and the glint of lamplight on yellow silk.
Red’s gown was a deep golden hue, rich as the last sunlight of a waning summer day.
The bodice hugged her generous curves with unapologetic boldness, the fabric dipping just low enough to hint at the full rise of her breasts.
Her hair was piled artfully atop her head, streaks of auburn and copper pinned in a loose arrangement that left a few rebellious tendrils to trail down the column of her neck.
The red-and-black mask concealed her brow and nose, leaving only her mouth exposed, plush, parted, and unpainted.
Sebastian’s chest tightened. Red was color and softness and ripe temptation wrapped in silk and mystery.
No debutante at her first ball had ever looked so lovely.
Her steps faltered as her gaze collided with his.
Sebastian caught the telltale motion of her throat working around a tight swallow, followed by a deep, swift flush that painted her throat like spilled claret.
The little artist remembered him, and more tellingly, she blushed at the memory of capturing him on canvas while he stroked his cock before her.
Her innocence was so unmistakable he could all but scent it upon her, and it fascinated him even as it warned him away.
A woman untouched by the world’s wickedness had no business stepping foot inside Aphrodite.
What would she do, he wondered, when she faced the next scenes Madam Rebecca had planned?
What would remain when that innocence was stripped away in oils and pigments, canvas by canvas?
If the act of watching him, one man alone and half in shadow, had rattled her composure and provoked such pretty blushes, what chaos would befall her when faced with a tangle of limbs, the slickness of heat, and mouths locked in carnal worship?
Sebastian straightened from the wall just as they reached him, arching a brow as Rebecca’s eyes danced with mischief and delight.
“I am so pleased you will be able to paint both scenes tonight,” Rebecca said, almost vibrating with excitement. “Are you certain it will not be too much?”
Red smiled. “I am sure.”
“Good.” Rebecca clapped her hands once. “One scene will depict wicked debauchery, while the other will capture something almost innocent. This idea came to me after a few of my best patrons were stolen by matrimony. I want the paintings to tell a story. A young woman whose innocence is first brushed by temptation: a first kiss, the first wicked touch of seduction, her yielding to it, and finally the moment she surrenders completely. Each canvas must carry her from temptation into willing surrender. I want resistance and hunger etched across her face, every raw, aching emotion laid bare. I want to see the curiosity on her face, and the surrender.”
Sebastian smiled faintly. Trust Rebecca to devise such a scandalous progression and speak of it with all the ease of discussing a dinner menu.
He looked at her a moment longer, amused and oddly touched.
It had been seven years since he had pulled her out of the rain, when a brute of a man had chased her through the streets and cornered her like prey.
She had been trembling and soaked to the skin, yet even then a fierce, calculating spark had burned in her.
Since then, they had been friends, with no blurred boundaries and no sexual play between them, only mutual respect and the rare comfort of understanding.
Sebastian allowed his gaze to drift to Red.
When she reached him, she lowered into a graceful curtsy.
“My lord. I had wondered whether I would have the pleasure of seeing you again.”
His mouth quirked. “Had you wondered, Red? How flattering.”
Her eyes widened at the soft mockery in his tone, and a delicate flush stole across the portion of her cheeks left exposed by her mask.
Rebecca smiled. “Raine, I shall leave Red in your capable hands.”
With that, she turned and walked away. Sebastian glanced down at Red, noting that she did not meet his gaze. “This way.”
He indicated the corridor ahead and fell into step beside her, guiding her toward the private chamber where she was to paint her first scene. At the end of the passage, he opened a door and stood aside, allowing her to enter before following her inside and closing it behind them.
The chamber was already prepared. Dozens of candles burned in gilded sconces and silver candelabra, their warm light spilling across walls draped in rich crimson silk and gleaming upon the polished dark wood of the floor.
A magnificent chaise upholstered in deep red velvet occupied one side of the room, its gilded frame carved with curling vines and leaves.
Nearby, the easel had been positioned to afford Red an unobstructed view of the chaise, with a chair set before it and brushes, oils, palettes, and clean cloths arranged upon a small table within easy reach.
Everything awaited only the subjects and the artist who would commit their debauchery to canvas.
Red had only just taken her seat and adjusted the angle of her canvas when Lord Dunmore entered, exuding practiced sensuality. He strolled toward her, his gaze slow and deliberate, an unmistakable gleam of carnal curiosity in his light green eyes.
“What stroke of fortune grants me so beautiful an artist? Pray give me your name.”
She glanced up, startled. “You may call me Red, my lord.”
He tsked. “No, I do not care for that. I shall call you something far more fitting, perhaps—”
Dunmore broke off when he spotted Sebastian standing by the mantel, calmly pouring brandy into a glass.
“Raine?” Dunmore’s brows lowered. “I had understood this evening belonged to me.”
“It does,” Sebastian replied smoothly, swirling the brandy in his glass. “I am merely here to ensure the artist is not troubled by an excess of your charm.”
Awareness sparked in Dunmore’s eyes, sharpening into something less pleased. A muscle jumped in his jaw, but before he could voice a protest, Lady Lavinia made her entrance.
Rebecca referred to all her courtesans as “Lady,” a title she wielded like a dagger dipped in honey, half flattery and half mockery.
Lavinia was striking, her figure slender but sensuous beneath a sheer silk peignoir that clung like mist to her skin.
Waves of black hair tumbled over her shoulder, framing a face painted for pleasure.
She did not spare Red or Sebastian a glance; all her sultry attention was fixed upon her client as she glided to his side.
Red looked over at Sebastian then, her expression caught between apprehension and determination. He offered a small, amused smile.
“They are your subjects,” Sebastian said, his voice deliberately low. He kept his gaze on her, not the couple entwined on the chaise. “Watch them and paint, Red. Rebecca is particularly eager for you to capture the precise moment pleasure overcomes Lavinia.”
She stiffened, color rushing up her neck. “How shall I know when pleasure has overcome her?”
A flicker of surprise, brief but sharp, cut through Sebastian. The question was so honest, so untouched, that something unexpected tightened inside his chest.
“You will know,” he murmured. “Pleasure announces itself, however valiantly one tries to remain silent. It will be a sound of delight.”
Red cast him a quick, startled glance, the reaction unmistakable even beneath her mask. “Delight?”
“Yes.” Sebastian smiled. “You will hear it when her breathing turns ragged and desperate, in the broken moan shaped not by language but by need. Watch her body. It will tremble, her hips will lift, and her hands will grasp for anything that might anchor her. Her lips will part, her lashes will flutter, and her skin will flush as though kissed by flame.”
He tilted his head, watching Red’s throat work around a swallow. “It’s not subtle. When it comes, it’s a storm, Red.”
Red swallowed hard, her hand tightening around the brush before she set it down again with care.
What little of her throat and jaw he could see above the collar of her gown had flushed a deep pink, ripe as summer apples.
She could not hide the quick rise and fall of her chest or the way her legs shifted beneath her skirts as if trying to dispel heat.
Sebastian did not look away. Lavinia and Dunmore had vanished from his thoughts; there was only Red and the fierce desire to be the storm that broke her apart.
It was madness, he thought with some measure of humor, to be so powerfully drawn to a woman whose name and face he did not know.
Nonsensical madness.
Sebastian took a slow sip of his brandy, amused and intrigued.
She was already blushing furiously, and the performance had scarcely begun.
He did not watch Dunmore and his lover, though he typically savored the art of voyeurism, pleasure observed rather than taken, yet deeply felt.
There was something in witnessing desire unfolding that allowed him to indulge without surrendering.
But tonight, his attention was fixed elsewhere.