Chapter 10
Darcy stared at the earl, bemused by the unexpected bloom of sensual awareness and curiosity unfurling within her.
It unsettled her, that quickening, yet she refused to betray herself.
Determined to appear unflustered, she lifted her chin.
“Madam Rebecca gave voice to what I had already sensed. There is something wanting in this painting. I captured the scene precisely as I observed it, yet…”
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 ruled by passion?”
Darcy was absurdly proud of how steady her voice remained, though her heart jerked so violently she feared Lord Raine must hear it.
The earl pushed himself from the doorframe and moved further 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.
“Tell me,” Darcy softly said.
“Rebecca wishes those unacquainted with such pleasures to look upon this painting and feel something stir within them.”
“What is that something?” Darcy asked, her voice softening.
His 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 unsettled her in a way she could not easily name, for it made her breath falter, her composure strain, as though some deeper awareness had stirred within her without her consent.
“Rebecca would have the observer drawn into the illusion of temptation… to be beguiled by what they see. To imagine the sensation for themselves—the press of lips meeting theirs, the slow rise of desire, the ache of want unfolding simply from that first touch. To feel it,” he continued, more softly still, “and to wonder… what it might be like to yield to such pleasure. The expressions here do not accomplish that. Does looking upon this painting make you wonder what it might be like to be kissed?”
Darcy’s breath faltered, her fingers rising unconsciously to her lips. The space between them, while it could be considered respectable, felt suddenly too small. “No, it does not,” she murmured after a few beats of silence. “Is that truly Rebecca’s intent?”
“Yes.”
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 those who are… innocent… truly frequent such an establishment? And if they do, what purpose is served in tempting them so?”
“Are you not here?”
The question caught her unawares. Darcy’s eyes met his. “And are you so certain,” she returned, a note of challenge slipping into her voice, “that I am innocent and not a woman of the world? One well-versed in the ways of men… and pleasure? Am I a woman who needs to be tempted?”
A low chuckle left him, warm and entirely unconvinced. “Yes.”
Something willful sparked to life within her at that. Before Darcy could question the impulse, she stepped forward and lifted a finger, placing it lightly beneath his chin.
His eyes flared—just slightly, but enough.
A thrill rushed through her at the reaction.
“I daresay you are mistaken, my lord,” she said, her voice soft but edged with defiance. “I am a lady of unfathomable depth. You know nothing of me.”
His dark blue gaze deepened, something sharper and more dangerous slipping beneath the amusement.
“I confess,” he murmured, “you now possess the boldness of someone… daring. Perhaps even a touch of wickedness.” His eyes dipped briefly to her mouth before returning to hers. “It is a most intriguing contradiction, Miss Red. I like it and most assuredly prefer you like this.”
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 concern myself with 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, 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 not retreat.
She would not behave like some fluttering miss overcome by nerves.
She had 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.
“Share with me your… insight and experience with kisses, my lord.”
“Why?”
“I wish to render the painting exactly as Rebecca envisions it. I would not have her displeased, nor risk losing the commission if I fail to capture what she requires.”
“This position matters to you.”
Darcy’s eyes widened slightly. “Anyone who must work to eat and live values their position immensely, my lord.”
She almost winced at the edge in her tone, for it carried a quiet reproach—one that suggested 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 do this painting without knowing passion. Not every kiss speaks of passion,” he finally said.
“Some offer comfort… others reveal the first stirrings of desire. Some are nothing more than a quiet acknowledgment, a way to feel the presence of another. But all—” his gaze dipped meaningfully to her mouth, “—all 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 away from the mold others wish to 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… yet cannot help but crave.”
“They do not leave untouched… nor 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… nor 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 interesting,” Darcy said, though the banal words scarcely conveyed the sense of curiosity twisting 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. “Ah…I think you wish me to kiss you.”
“Rubbish,” she said softly, though the word lacked conviction.
“Don’t you?” 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 a deliberation in his gaze now…
and something else—something that made her breath catch, for it looked very much like a desire 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. “Afraid?”
She lifted her chin. “No.”
“Then tell me.”
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 lips against mine.”
“Very well,” he said, his gaze gleaming with provocative anticipation. “Then allow me to show 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 have always been the very soul of generosity and gentlemanly gallantry,” he returned smoothly. “How could I refuse a lady in need of instruction?”
Before she could gather her thoughts, he reached out—not with urgency, but with deliberate care—and lifted a hand to her cheek. His touch was warm, the brush of his thumb unexpectedly gentle as it traced just beneath her eye.
Darcy stilled, a flicker of surprise moving through her. “My lord…”
“Considering we are about to become kissing friends,” he murmured, “you must call me Sebastian.”
“Kissing friends?”
“Yes.”
A soft, incredulous laugh escaped her. “I would not presume any sort of friendship between us, my lord.”
“That is because,” he said, his gaze lingering upon her mouth, “you are wholly unacquainted with the sort of wicked satisfaction that may exist between… friends.”