Chapter 20 #2
Violet nodded along to his words. “I often wonder if he would be proud of us. Our lives were thrown into disarray when he died. I hope he would understand we’ve all done the best we can.
I…I think he would, I don’t know.” She turned toward him, still in that gently wondering aspect, her eyes bright as she tilted her head to the side. “What was Sir Jonathan like?”
“I once heard him described as a circus bear who got into the port.” Alasdair chuckled fondly.
“He could make even the most miserable devil crack a smile. He filled every room he walked into, always drawing an audience for his stories. Yet I know there were sides to him we never saw. He was knighted for his services during the war, and a man can’t walk away from something like that without incurring a few scars. ”
“He would be proud, Alasdair. You’re everything a gentleman should be.”
He smiled faintly. “That may be so, but it takes a toll to wear a mask, to never show your true self to anyone. Until lately, of course.”
“Lately?” She pressed her hand to her throat. “Me?”
Taking her by the waist, Alasdair led her to the sofa curved along the bend of the windows. When she was sitting, he reached down and carefully cupped the elegant line of her jaw. “Who else?”
Alasdair nestled beside her, drawing her into him, stroking his thumb along her lower lip before raising her face to meet his kiss. Her breath fogged his spectacles, and they both laughed before Violet’s eyes snapped wide open.
“Oh no,” she whispered, wrenching her head from his grasp.
“Violet? Was that…Have I misjudged—”
“No! No. I just realized I can’t paint you!” she groaned.
“Why not?”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t do exactly that, or paint any man, really, but that does make this auction business very awkward.” She sighed and shook her head. “I didn’t consider I might one day come to like your company.”
He leaned back on the sofa and scrubbed his face with one hand. “That is grave, indeed.”
“I know.”
“How will we resolve it?” he asked, watching her, enjoying her playful distress. He took one of her dark curls with his forefinger and wound it around his knuckle, letting it bounce back and sway in the blue light.
“We are doomed, I think, to never see you on canvas. Not by my hand, anyway. Perhaps I could paint your horse instead, or your dog. Do you have a dog?”
“I had one, yes, a faithful lad called Barry, but he died two winters ago. I shall have to get another to give you something to paint.”
Violet snorted, viewing him askance. “Maggie will want this for her book—the woman who painted dogs and never a man.”
“Mr. Lavin will still get my fifty pounds, but I will be disappointed.”
She shrugged, leaning toward his touch as he caressed another curl of her hair. “Mm. And I am sorry for that, but one must never break a promise to oneself; those are the most sacred of all.”
“I agree. What if you made another promise to yourself? Something like: I shall only paint a man if he proves himself worthy of the honor.”
The lady considered it for a long moment, bobbing side to side. “That is a promise I would make myself, but I fear it would not solve our current dilemma.”
Alasdair joined in with her sudden laughter, surprising her by leaning forward and taking her in his arms. Smoothly, he pulled her down to the back of the sofa until they were reclining, the cold of the windows a bracing shield against the tops of their heads.
When he brought her face to his this time, she did not resist with any outbursts, and he was grateful for it.
He kissed her, softly at first, searching for permission she gave with a swift little bite to his lip.
He nipped her back and deepened the embrace, crushing her against his body until he felt the sweet pressure of her leg sliding over his, holding him to her.
Violet leaned back, pausing just to remove his spectacles and set them aside. One metal rim had left an impression on her cheek, and Alasdair tried to smooth it away with his thumb.
“I promise,” she murmured, half against his lips as they returned greedily for more. “I promise I shall only paint a man worthy of me.”
Whatever quip he might have returned with was forgotten in his urgency to have her.
Grabbing her outer thighs, he pulled until she was completely on top of him, straddling his thighs.
They both heard a tear in the fabric of her skirts, but neither of them paused to inspect the damage.
He would buy her a hundred dresses, whatever her heart desired, when they were married.
His hands sought the tempting curves of her legs and hips and waist, drawing the most irresistible sounds from her as he did so, his lips similarly seeking down her neck and along her collarbone.
She seemed to like it best when he swept his nose into the hollow of her lightly perspiring throat; he smelled the touches of perfume rising from behind her ear—linden blossom, elderflower, primrose.
Her fingernails clawed into his hair and down his neck, shoving his head into her until he was certain the scratch of his regrown whiskers would leave a passionate red trail.
He groaned at that thought, of marking her, having her, keeping her with him always, carrying her back to Clafton to be flung down on every obliging surface and ravished until they were both too exhausted to go on.
Someone stumbled against the door, whooping with laughter, their companions shushing them before they all went on their way. Violet froze above him, rigid.
“The doors, my God,” she mumbled, tumbling off of his lap and grabbing her head with both hands. “Anyone could have seen us!”
Alasdair cleared his throat and sat up, fetching his spectacles and putting them back on before adjusting the neckline of her gown, restoring her modesty. “Forgive me, Violet. Hardly gallant, as you earlier accused me of being.”
She stood on shaky legs, rotating slowly to face him. Her cheeks, throat, and the tops of her breasts were a heavenly shade of rosy pink. “You are gallant,” she assured him, taking a step back to curtsy. “Shall we meet again in the afternoon, to begin your portrait?”
He stood and took her hand, pressing a firm kiss to the back of it as he bowed. “Worthy, then, Miss Arden?”
“Undeniably so.”