Chapter 10
Darcy stared at the earl, unsettled by the sensual awareness and curiosity blooming within her.
The quickening disturbed her, yet she refused to betray it.
Determined to appear unflustered, she lifted her chin.
“Madam Rebecca has given voice to what I had already sensed. Something is wanting in this painting. I captured the scene precisely as I observed it, yet it remains lifeless.”
His gaze shifted to the painting. “I see a gentleman kissing a lady. That, I believe, was the assignment.”
Darcy gestured toward the canvas. “I believe they were merely performing. There was no true feeling when their mouths met. There is, perhaps, a trace of tenderness in the gentleman’s gaze, but Lady Shelby…
” Darcy hesitated, searching for the proper word.
“She seems untouched by it. Indifferent, even. Rebecca suggests it requires passion, but I wonder if it is something else entirely. Surely not every kiss must be governed by passion?”
Darcy was absurdly proud of how steady her voice remained, though her heart struck so violently against her ribs she feared Lord Raine must hear it.
The earl pushed himself from the doorframe and moved deeper into the room, each unhurried step drawing him closer until he stood beside her, his presence palpable. He regarded the painting in silence for a moment.
“I understand what Rebecca intends,” he said at last, his tone low and measured.
“Then tell me,” Darcy said softly.
“Rebecca wishes those unacquainted with such pleasures to look upon the painting and feel something awaken within them. Something they cannot name, yet find themselves helpless to resist.”
“What is that something?” Darcy asked, her voice softening.
The earl’s gaze shifted to her then, lingering in a way that made her pulse quicken.
“A longing,” he said quietly. “A curiosity.”
The words seemed to unfurl slowly, each one deliberate, each one brushing against her senses as though he spoke not of the painting, but of her.
Darcy became acutely aware of him. His nearness made her breath falter and her composure strain, as though something long dormant had stirred within her without permission.
“Rebecca would have the observer beguiled by temptation. She wants them to imagine lips meeting theirs, desire slowly awakening, and want unfolding from that first touch. She wants them to feel it and wonder what it might be like to yield. The expressions here accomplish none of that. When you look upon this painting, Red, do you wonder what it would be like to be kissed?”
Darcy’s breath faltered, her fingers rising unconsciously to her lips. The space between them remained outwardly respectable, yet it felt suddenly too small. “No, it does not,” she murmured after a few beats of silence. “Is that truly Rebecca’s intent?”
“That is precisely her intent.”
Darcy lowered her fingers from her lips, a soft laugh escaping her. “These paintings are meant to be displayed here, in a pleasure palace. Do the innocent truly frequent such an establishment? And if they do, what purpose is served by tempting them further?”
“Are you not here?”
The question caught her unawares. Darcy’s eyes met his. “And are you so certain,” she returned, challenge slipping into her voice, “that I am innocent? I might be a woman of the world, deeply versed in men and pleasure. Perhaps I require no temptation at all.”
A low chuckle left him, warm and entirely unconvinced. “Utterly certain. You wear innocence as plainly as that mask.”
Something willful sparked to life within her at that. Before she could question the impulse, Darcy stepped forward and placed one finger lightly beneath his chin. His eyes flared, only slightly, but enough for her to see. A thrill rushed through her at the reaction.
“I daresay you are mistaken,” she said, her voice soft but edged with defiance. “I am a lady of unfathomable depths, my lord. You have scarcely looked beyond the surface.”
His dark blue gaze deepened, something sharper and more dangerous slipping beneath the amusement.
“I confess,” he murmured, “you possess more daring than I first credited you with, and perhaps a touch of wickedness.” His eyes dipped briefly to her mouth before returning to hers. “It is a most intriguing contradiction, Red, and I find I greatly prefer you this way.”
She lowered her hand, acutely aware of the heat rising in her cheeks, though she fought to master it. “Fortunately,” she replied, striving for composure, “I possess sufficient good sense not to govern myself by the preferences of a charming libertine.”
He laughed, the sound low and rich, brushing over her senses like a caress she could not quite escape.
“There is no need to praise me so.”
“Praise?” she spluttered. “I intended no such thing.” She was entirely unwilling to admit the answering flicker of warmth in her chest.
“Is ‘charming” meant to be an insult?”
A provoking glint entered his gaze as he stepped closer still.
Darcy lifted her chin in response. She would neither retreat nor behave like some fluttering miss overcome by nerves.
She possessed resolve, and she would prove it.
Why it mattered so greatly, she could not say.
Yet the thought only steeled her further as Darcy held his gaze, her chin tipped upward in quiet, stubborn challenge.
“Enlighten me, my lord. What, in your vast experience, does a kiss require?”
“Why should I?”
“Because I intend to render the painting exactly as Rebecca envisions it. I will not risk losing the commission because I failed to understand what she requires.”
“This commission matters greatly to you.”
Darcy’s eyes widened slightly. “Anyone obliged to work for her bread values the opportunity immensely, my lord.”
She almost winced at the edge in her tone, for it carried a quiet reproach, suggesting a man of his rank and privilege might never truly understand the needs and fears of those who were not born to wealth.
Several beats of silence passed as he held her gaze, his own searching, as if trying to understand her.
“You can paint this without knowing passion. Not every kiss speaks of it,” he said at last. “Some offer comfort; others reveal the first stirrings of desire. Some are merely a quiet acknowledgment of another’s presence.
But every kiss,” his gaze dipped meaningfully to her mouth, “should carry some measure of feeling.”
Darcy willed her expression to remain composed. “I see. Please continue.”
“Many women who visit Aphrodite for the first time,” he continued, “arrive with the sensibilities of the untouched but curious, wanting to break free of the mould others would cast them in. They look upon such paintings and see not vulgarity, but wonder. The promise of something more. This painting would be the slow unfolding of seduction. The sort that leads them, step by step, toward a carnal pleasure they cannot yet name but cannot help craving.”
“They do not leave Aphrodite untouched or quite so innocent,” Darcy murmured, a quiet sense of understanding unfolding within her. “They return to their beds and wonder what it is to be touched with care, with reverence, and with desire.”
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Indeed. They do not leave untouched or unmoved. They then allow their thoughts to turn to rakes and libertines, and the pleasures that might be discovered in their embrace.”
A silence stretched between them, taut and charged.
“It sounds dangerously persuasive,” Darcy said, though even those words scarcely conveyed the curiosity tightening through her chest.
“Have you ever been kissed, Red?”
Darcy said nothing. She could not. Her gaze betrayed her, dropping, traitorously, to his mouth. A strange heat unfurled low within her, sharp and startling in its intensity.
His lips curved, slow and knowing. “Perhaps the painting is not the only thing you wish to understand. I think you want me to kiss you.”
“What astonishing conceit,” she said softly, though the rebuke lacked conviction.
“Do you not?” he asked, stepping closer still.
Darcy should have stepped back. She did not. “I only wish to understand,” she managed, though her voice had lost its earlier steadiness.
His expression changed as she watched, the easy charm fading into something quieter, more intent.
There was deliberation in his gaze now, and something else that made her breath catch, for he looked very much as though he desired to kiss her.
How was it possible for him to convey so much with only a look?
“Understand what, Red?”
Darcy stared at him, at a loss for how to shape the words. It felt so difficult to admit to the quiet stirrings of temptation rising within her, as though giving them voice would make them far too real.
His mouth curved faintly. “Are you afraid to say it?”
She lifted her chin. “I am not.”
“Then tell me what you want.”
Darcy swallowed, her throat tightening despite her resolve. “I want to know what it feels like,” she said at last, her voice softening despite herself, “to feel the press of another’s lips against mine.”
“Very well.” His gaze gleamed with provocative anticipation. “Then let me teach you.”
“Are you so willing to sacrifice yourself to my education in such matters?” she asked, a note of dry humor threading her voice.
“I am renowned for generosity and gentlemanly gallantry,” he returned smoothly. “How could I abandon a lady in such urgent need of instruction?”
He reached out with deliberate care, pausing long enough for her to refuse, then lifted one hand to her cheek. Darcy stilled, a flicker of surprise moving through her. His touch was warm, the brush of his thumb unexpectedly gentle as it traced the edge of her mask.
“My lord,” she breathed.
“Considering we are about to become kissing friends,” he murmured, “you must call me Sebastian.”
“Is that a species of friendship you have only just invented?”
“Only for ladies in urgent need of instruction.”