Chapter 12
The corridors of Aphrodite thrummed with decadence, every gilded passage rich with the promise of debauchery.
Soft laughter drifted through the gilded halls, low and indulgent, mingling with the murmur of intimate conversation and the distant strains of an orchestra.
Candlelight flickered against polished surfaces and rich tapestries, casting everything in a golden glow that softened edges and invited indulgence.
Warmth and perfume lingered upon the senses, sweet and faintly heady.
Darcy moved through it all with measured steps, her spine straight, her chin lifted, though she felt anything but untouched by the atmosphere.
Her simple green gown marked her apart from the other women who passed her, ladies draped in silks that clung too closely, bodices cut daringly low, laughter spilling freely from painted lips.
Their glances were knowing, curious, and assessing.
She felt their world press against her own, and found herself wondering what it might be like to inhabit it, if only for a moment, and indulge in pleasure with such freedom, unburdened by the fear of losing one’s reputation or the regard of society.
Why should I long, even for a moment, to know such freedom?
Darcy touched her cheek. The black-and-red silk mask shielded her identity, while the red wig completed her transformation into Miss Red.
Yet neither disguise guarded her from the awareness stirring beneath her skin, or from the knowledge of what this place offered and awakened within her: a curiosity that was decidedly reckless and dangerous.
She drew a steadying breath and entered the private salon where Madam Rebecca awaited.
“Ah, there she is,” Rebecca declared, rising at once, her eyes alight with pleasure. “My darling Red, you grow more exquisite each time I see you.”
Darcy flushed and inclined her head politely. “Madam.”
Rebecca smiled. “There is no need for such formality between us. Pray, call me Rebecca. You have done well,” she said, her tone rich with satisfaction. “Those paintings possess life, a quality that will draw the eye and hold it. That is precisely what I wanted.”
A flicker of warmth stirred within Darcy, though she kept her expression composed. “I am pleased they meet your expectations. I believe I know how to correct the painting of Lady Shelby), and I shall adjust it to present a kiss that evokes genuine feeling.”
“Wonderful.” Rebecca smiled and clapped her hands lightly, eager to move forward. “Which brings us to your next piece.”
Darcy stilled and waited, wholly attentive.
Rebecca’s gaze sharpened, intent and unapologetic. “I wish you to paint a woman in the act of self-pleasure.”
For a moment, Darcy could only stare at her.
Rebecca continued, untroubled by the silence.
“It is a grave injustice that women are kept ignorant of their own bodies and what they are capable of feeling. I would have that ignorance undone, if only in some small measure. Many ladies who come here are quietly unfulfilled by their marriages, yet lack even the language to name what is missing. I would have the painting answer questions they dare not voice. Let them see that pleasure is not a privilege reserved solely for men, but something a woman may discover and command for herself. And,” she added, a faint smile touching her lips, “it may even enlighten a few husbands who have no notion that their wives are capable of feeling as much, if not more, pleasure than they do.”
Darcy inclined her head slowly. “I understand.” In truth, she did not understand entirely. “I will do my utmost to render it truthfully.”
“Lady Lily has agreed to sit for you,” Rebecca added. “She will meet you in chamber five.”
Darcy murmured her thanks, then turned and made her way back into the corridor, her curiosity fiercely stirring.
She had not gone far when her steps faltered, and her heart gave a sudden, sharp jolt.
Lord Raine stood just beyond the curve of the hall, as though he had been there some time, watching the ebb and flow of guests with the quiet, assessing gaze she had come to recognize.
Only a few hours had passed since he returned them home from Vauxhall Gardens, yet the force with which his presence struck her senses revealed, most alarmingly, that Darcy had been eager to see him again. Aghast at the realization, she suppressed the smile threatening to curve her lips.
Heat rushed unbidden to her cheeks as her gaze drifted to his mouth, the memory of it against hers provoking a far too dangerous desire within her heart. Darcy found herself wanting, quite shamelessly, to taste him again. Startled by the wantonness of the thought, she lifted her gaze at once.
Sensual awareness gleamed unmistakably in his eyes. He had observed the fleeting desire she tried to conceal, and another rush of heat flooded Darcy’s body. Mortification burned through her with the heat of her blush.
A low laugh escaped him, rich with amusement, though something darker threaded beneath it as his regard lingered, slow, deliberate, and unmistakably carnal.
“Miss Red,” he said softly. “At last, the evening offers me something worth anticipating.”
“My lord,” she returned, though her composure wavered just enough to betray her. Darcy gave him a look of mild reproof, intending to reclaim some measure of dignity, though it only deepened his amusement. “I am certain Aphrodite contains ladies far better suited to your diversions.”
“You do yourself a disservice,” he murmured. “Women who blush at their own desires seldom arrest my attention. You are proving a most compelling exception.”
Her eyes widened, and a startled laugh escaped her. “You flatter and insult in the same breath. A woman would be wise to exercise exceptional caution in your presence.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Allow me to escort you before that caution persuades you to flee.” He inclined his head toward the corridor ahead.
Darcy hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “I have not yet decided whether that would be prudent, but you may.”
They fell into step together, far too close.
She was acutely aware of the quiet strength of his presence, the faint scent of him beneath the heavier perfumes of the pleasure palace, the steady rhythm of his stride beside her own.
Lord Raine’s presence sharpened Darcy’s senses and attuned them to every small detail she ought not to notice.
He glanced at her. “Who do you intend to paint this evening?”
Darcy kept her gaze forward. “Rebecca has informed me that I am to paint Lady Lily in the act of self-pleasure.”
The words still felt strange upon her tongue, however calmly she had spoken them.
After a brief pause, he said slowly, “You do not know what that is, do you?”
Darcy scoffed softly, lifting her chin. She offered no reply, unwilling to confess ignorance so readily. They walked several steps in silence. Then, against her better judgment, she glanced up at him. “I do not,” she admitted quietly.
“I could explain it, should you wish to understand before you begin.”
“No,” she said quickly.
Anything he said of pleasure seemed likely to work upon her senses like a dangerous enchantment, one she did not trust herself to withstand.
Yet a quieter, deeper part of her longed to understand it from his perspective, knowing his explanation might shape what she sought to capture upon the canvas.
They reached the chamber. Lady Lily had not yet arrived. Darcy crossed to her easel, grateful for the small distance it placed between her and the earl, and seated herself upon the stool. Her fingers moved over her materials, less from necessity than from a need to occupy herself.
“My lord,” Darcy said after a moment, curiosity overcoming hesitation, “explain it to me.”
He did not answer at once. Instead, he regarded her in silence, his expression turning contemplative.
“There are times,” he said at last, “when one finds oneself alone and, in that solitude, a certain restlessness arises, not merely in the body, but in the mind: a heightened awareness, a wanting that lingers and seeks expression.”
Darcy listened, her attention fixed upon him.
“When such a feeling persists,” he continued, “one may seek to quiet it and discover some measure of ease without involving another.”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “Because they must?”
“Because they are constrained,” he said, “or because they choose not to invite another into so private a need. There are moments when desire is less about another person than the body’s own demand to be understood and answered.”
“In what way are they constrained?”
“Society dictates what is permissible and what is not. Self-pleasure is precisely as it sounds: the act of bestowing pleasure upon oneself without engaging another.”
“Women truly do this?”
“Yes.” His gaze did not waver. “A woman is taught that taking a lover outside marriage is a grave failing, a stain upon her character. A man may indulge in the same liberties, be dismissed as a libertine, and remain welcome everywhere.” His mouth curved faintly, though there was little humor in it.
Darcy scoffed, though the sound lacked its earlier certainty. “Such rules encourage restraint and preserve propriety. They also prevent the unfortunate consequences that may arise from indulgence,” she added, lifting her chin faintly.
“The world judges regardless,” he said evenly. “No child should be condemned for circumstances over which they had no command. The notion that one may be born on the wrong side of a blanket and thereby be dishonored is ludicrous. I hope to see the day such nonsense loses its hold.”
Darcy stilled. A sharp, unwelcome awareness rose within her of the quiet burden her sisters carried without fully understanding its source, and of the day that understanding would come and wound them deeply.
She looked at him. He did not think of his sisters as dishonorable or soiled.
Warmth stirred, unexpected and unwelcome, within her chest. “I see.”