Chapter 9 #3
Rebecca waved a hand in confirmation, and Darcy left, determined to shake off the aftershocks that still tingled in her blood.
She reached the fifth door on the left, just as promised.
The room had been quietly prepared. Her easel and brushes waited.
In front of her stood a lovely courtesan in a delicate blue gown, her blonde hair falling in soft waves down her back.
The man beside her wore a black mask speckled with gold, like a night sky.
From the few patrons Darcy had observed, most of the men made no effort to conceal their identities, while many of the women remained masked.
It was interesting that this gentleman had chosen to hide his face.
Darcy sat and observed, waiting for the spark that would push her to capture the scene.
The man touched the courtesan’s cheek with reverent fingers, his gaze tender as he leaned in. Their mouths met in a soft kiss. It was sweet. Gentle. A series of light, testing presses.
Darcy waited for something more. But it never came.
The kiss lingered, paused, then resumed in another soft sweep.
Darcy frowned, puzzled by the absence of something she couldn’t quite name.
There was affection, certainly. A quiet tenderness.
But no heat. No urgency. No spark of surrender or claim.
She went still. That expectation—of something more—had rooted itself in her since the earl’s provocative explanation of a woman’s pleasure.
Darcy had imagined desire would first bloom in a kiss, that it would ignite with a glance, a sigh, a press of mouths that promised more.
But here, she saw none of it. Only politeness disguised as intimacy.
Perhaps she was wrong. Or perhaps a kiss did not kindle hunger.
Darcy’s brush moved with steady purpose, yet her fingers lacked the fever that had seized her in the previous room.
She frowned, acknowledging that the heat had not been born of the couple upon the chaise, but of the earl’s words and the weight of his stare.
After nearly thirty minutes, she set her brush down and nodded. “Thank you. That will do.”
The couple parted with grace and quiet smiles, and Darcy gathered her canvas and carried it to the private room Rebecca had set aside for her. The first painting was there, waiting for her to add the finishing touches. She leaned this new one against the wall and stood back.
The first—Lady Lavinia, writhing beneath Dunmore’s mouth, the expression on her face caught in a brutal ecstasy—was alive with color and tension. It pulsed. It breathed.
The second was… beautiful.
But quiet. Darcy stared at it, a small frown curving her brow.
Something was missing—some spark of life.
Some human edge that would make the viewer feel the ache of longing or the unbearable sweetness of surrender.
Darcy knew the moment she realized it: the scene wasn’t lacking skill. It was lacking desire.
She folded her arms across her chest and stared at both canvases, unease prickling beneath her skin.
A knock sounded. Before she could respond, the door swung open, and Madame Rebecca swept in, perfume preceding her in a decadent wave. She clapped her hands together, her eyes lighting with delight. “Simply ravishing! Red, these are stunning.”
Darcy frowned, reluctant to give voice to her doubts. After a few moments spent studying it beside Rebecca, she released a quiet breath and said, “Do you not feel as though something is… amiss?”
Rebecca blinked, clearly taken aback. She moved closer, examining both canvases. “These are marvelous. The vividness and the tension are wonderful. You captured something raw in this one…”
Her voice trailed as her gaze shifted to the second painting. “Oh,” she murmured, stepping even closer. “This kiss… it lacks something.”
Darcy sighed. “It does. Yet I cannot determine what it is that eludes it.”
“Passion,” she said.
“Is that what it is?” Darcy tilted her head, troubled. “Passion?”
“Yes.” Rebecca tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could work it into Shelby’s expression. Just a hint of desire and want. A trace of surrender, perhaps.”
Darcy nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the canvas.
She barely registered Rebecca’s departure.
Moving forward, she stood before the piece and extended a hand, not to touch, but to feel the air just shy of the painted lips.
She glanced at the first painting, noting the expression of raw ecstasy on the woman’s face, and wondered if it might serve as a point of reference.
Darcy sighed softly. That did not seem the correct way to approach it.
How was she to capture the expressions that conveyed the many shades of desire when she had never experienced them herself?
Any attempt to guess would surely leave the work wanting.
“Passion,” she whispered. “How do I convey something I’ve never known? ”
“Ah…” came a low drawl behind her. “That, Miss Red, I can help you with.”
Darcy whirled around, her hand flying to her chest as though to still the sudden, wild thundering of her heart. “My lord. I had not realized you were present.”
Lord Raine leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, his expression carved into a smirk of carnal promise. Shadows clung to him like a second skin, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes—wicked, amused, and darkly intent.