Chapter 7
Darcy’s heart was racing too fast. The vibrant, decadent room suddenly seemed very small. She did not make a sound. She simply stood and looked. 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, as he was… appeared shockingly beautiful and sensual as he lounged with decadent ease, his long legs splayed as if idleness were an art he had perfected. Awareness washed through her so swiftly it felt like heat and vertigo together. Of all men to find in such a place.
Rebecca’s voice drew a silken line between them. “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?”
“Yes,” Darcy said before the madam could answer.
“She looks like a little frightened rabbit about to bolt. Do you not see she is about to collapse, Rebecca? Why did you bring this chit here?”
“The sample she sent showed immense talent.”
A low, derisive scoff escaped him. “You will have to select someone else, I’m afraid. This chit will not do.”
Darcy lifted her chin. “I am your artist, and a very brilliant one, I might add.”
“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 with me, sir.” Darcy’s heart pounded like a drum in her ears.
She had the distinct sense that securing this position hinged on convincing the earl of her competence.
Without his approval, she doubted Madame Rebecca would offer her the post at all.
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, languid and unkindly delightful. “You will see cocks being sucked, women’s arses blushing under a good hand, and bodies trembling for what they beg not to be given.”
Her 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 made a small, arch sound, an almost-purr of approval at the spark leaping the space 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, my lord.”
“You are already my amusement,” he said, his lips quirking as if filled with humor by 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.
“She blushes,” he mocked, opening his shirt. “How 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—a future that might free us from dependence on others’ pity or charity.
Darcy took a breath that felt like a decision 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. His finger came under 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 quivered through Darcy.
“This work is not for you. Go home. You have failed the interview.”
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. “Your sensibilities do not belong here. 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. “What Rebecca wants is for you to paint men and women in the act of congress. You will be required to paint cocks sheathed in a woman’s pussy, mouths open on pleasure, backs bowed in surrender.
You will see men touching, fingers coaxing women and perhaps other men.
You will watch bodies that do not pretend 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 will not faint, and I have no fragile sensibilities to protect.”
“How… interesting.”
“So you’ve 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. Raine…what do you think?”
“Yes…what do you think?” Darcy drawled, alarmed at her own audacity.
The earl’s smile deepened, slow as a wicked dawn. “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 you can stand and see without fainting.”
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 beautiful,” she said softly. “You will be wonderful to paint.”
He stilled, a flicker in his eyes as if she had startled him, then the mask of indifference returned. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“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 other worker in her train. 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 for a heartbeat. Darcy’s pulse felt loud in her ears.
“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. “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. Be easy. You are here to work. 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 slid in 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,” she 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 suddenly, 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.
“As my artist wishes.” He went to the velvet chaise and settled with practiced indolence, one arm along the back, his cravat undone, shirt open at the throat. His gaze held hers, steady, faintly amused. “Better?”
She nodded, dipped her brush in oil, and primed the bristles. “Look at me as you did before,” she said, surprising herself. “As if you intend to do something… wicked.”
He obliged, the corner of his mouth tilting, the rake’s mask sliding easily into place.