Chapter 12
The corridors of Aphrodite thrummed with decadence, the air 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.
The air was warm, perfumed, faintly touched with something sweet and heady that lingered on the senses.
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—to indulge in pleasure with such freedom, unburdened by the fear of losing one’s reputation or the regard of society.
Why do I even long momentarily for this?
Darcy touched her cheek. The black-and-green silk mask shielded her identity, while the red wig completed the illusion of Miss Red.
Yet it did little to guard her from the awareness that stirred beneath her skin, the knowledge of what this place was, and what it offered.
And what it awakened. A curiosity that was decidedly reckless and dangerous.
She drew a steadying breath and entered the private salon where Madame 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… they possess life. A quality that will draw the eye and hold it, which is exactly 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 with Lady Shelby, and I shall adjust it to present a kiss that evokes true feeling.”
“Wonderful.” Rebecca smiled, then clapped her hands lightly, as though eager to move forward. “Which brings us to your next piece.”
Darcy stilled, 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 merely stared at her.
Rebecca continued, untroubled by the silence.
“It is a grave injustice, you see, that women are so often kept ignorant of their own bodies, of what they are capable of feeling. I would have that ignorance undone, if only in some small measure. It may astonish you to learn that many of the ladies who visit here are women quietly unfulfilled with their lot. We take care to let it be known that such pleasures are not reserved solely for men. Women may discover them as well. If they can see it rendered before them—captured in a painting—it may answer questions they would never dare to voice, and lead them, perhaps, to surrender to desires they might otherwise never have considered. 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 themselves.”
Darcy inclined her head slowly. “I understand.” Though in truth… she did not. Not entirely. “I will do my utmost to bring it to life for you.”
“Lady Henrieta 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 stirred in ways she could not yet name.
She had not gone far when 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 that same quiet, assessing gaze she had come to recognize.
It was only a few hours since he’d returned them home from the delights of Vauxhall Gardens, and yet his presence struck upon her senses in a way that revealed, most alarmingly, that Darcy had been eager to see him again.
Aghast at the realization, she forced down the smile that threatened to curve her lips.
Heat rushed unbidden to her cheeks as her gaze drifted to his mouth, the memory of it against hers stirring something far too dangerous within her heart. She found herself wanting—quite shamelessly—to taste him again. Startled by the wickedness of the thought, she lifted her gaze at once.
There was an unmistakable spark of sensual awareness in his eyes. He had observed the fleeting spark of desire she had tried to conceal. Another rush of heat flooded her entire body at once.
How mortifying.
A low laugh escaped him, rich with amusement, though there was something darker threaded beneath it as his gaze lingered upon her—slow, deliberate, unmistakably carnal.
“Miss Red,” he said softly. “I am exceedingly pleased you are here tonight.”
“My lord,” she returned, though her composure wavered just enough to betray her.
Darcy rolled her eyes lightly, a gesture meant to reclaim some measure of dignity, though it only seemed to deepen his amusement.
“I am certain there are other ladies who would offer you a far more diverting companion.”
“You do yourself a disservice,” he murmured. “You possess a most… compelling allure. Though I confess, women of your sort rarely succeed in arresting my attention.”
Startled, her eyes widened, and she laughed lightly. “You flatter and mock in the same breath. A woman would be wise to exercise great caution in your presence.”
His mouth curved in a faint smile, and he said only, “Allow me to escort you,” inclining his head toward the corridor ahead.
Darcy hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Thank you.”
They fell into step together. Too close.
She was acutely aware of the quiet strength of his presence, the faint scent of him beneath the heavier perfumes of the house, the steady rhythm of his stride beside her own.
It unsettled her, this awareness, as though her senses had been sharpened in his presence, attuned 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. “Madam Rebecca has informed me that I am to paint Lady Henrietta… in the act of self-pleasure.”
The words felt strange upon her tongue.
There was a pause. Then, slowly, he said, “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 will explain, if you wish.”
“No,” she said quickly. Anything from him that touched upon pleasure felt as though it might work upon her senses like some dangerous enchantment—one she did not trust herself to withstand.
And yet, a quieter, deeper part of her longed to understand it from his perspective, knowing it would shape her own as she sought to create something truly compelling upon the canvas.
They reached the chamber. Lady Henrietta 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 brushed lightly over her materials, more to occupy herself than from necessity.
“My lord,” she said after a moment, her curiosity overcoming her hesitation. “Please explain it to me.”
He did not answer at once. Instead, he regarded her, something more contemplative passing through his expression.
“There are times,” he said at last, “when a person, be it man or woman, finds themselves alone. And in that solitude, a certain… restlessness arises. Not merely of the body, but of the mind. A heightened awareness. A wanting that lingers, seeking expression.”
Darcy listened, her attention fixed upon him.
“And when such a feeling persists,” he continued, “one may seek to quiet it. To discover some measure of ease… without the involvement of 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, and more about the body’s own demand to be understood… and answered.”
“In what way are they constrained?”
“In the way society dictates what is permissible and what is not. Self-pleasure is precisely as it sounds. Bestowing pleasure upon oneself, without engaging with anyone else.”
“This… has been done? By women?”
“Yes.” His gaze did not waver. “A woman is taught that to take a lover outside of marriage is a grave failing. A stain upon her character. While a man…” His mouth curved faintly, though there was little humor in it.
“A man may indulge in such liberties and be dismissed as a libertine, yet remain welcome all the same.”
Darcy scoffed, though the sound lacked its earlier certainty. “Such rules exist to encourage restraint. To preserve propriety. And,” she added, with a faint lift of her chin, “to prevent the unfortunate consequences that may arise from… indulgence.”
“The world will judge regardless,” he said evenly.
“And no child should ever be deemed unfortunate for the circumstances of their birth. It is a rather ludicrous notion that one can be brought into the world on the wrong side of the blanket and be judged dishonorable. I daresay there must come a day when such nonsense no longer holds sway.”
Darcy stilled. A sharp, unwelcome awareness rose within her of the quiet burden her sisters carried without fully understanding its source.
Of the day that full understanding would come, and how deeply it might wound them.
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.”
“Hmm,” he said, almost absently. “For myriad reasons, instead of seeking another’s touch to evoke pleasure, one might rely upon one’s own.”
“Is the pleasure the same?”
“No.” His gaze held hers, steady, certain. “Nothing compares to the real thing.”
The soft opening of the door halted their conversation.
Lady Henrietta entered with unhurried grace, her movements languid.
She was dressed in a sheer peignoir that clung lightly to her form, the fabric so fine it revealed more than it concealed, drifting about her like mist as she crossed the room.
Lord Raine inclined his head in a brief bow. “My ladies.” And then, without further word, he turned toward the door.
Darcy’s shoulders eased, a quiet release of tension she had not wished to acknowledge. She was relieved he was leaving. Only then might she draw a steady breath again, without the distraction of his evocative scent lingering too close about her.
“My lord,” Lady Henrietta called, her voice soft, yet edged with invitation. “Pray remain. I might need…your help.”