Chapter 19 #3
“No.” Rebecca’s answer was quiet but absolute.
“The moment I desire a patron for myself, I cease to see him merely as a patron. I might forgive what I ought not, overlook what should concern me, or make decisions for reasons that have nothing to do with business. Worse, he might begin to believe that what I have built gives him some claim upon me.” Her gaze held Darcy’s.
“Aphrodite is mine because I have never allowed pleasure to become the price of keeping it.”
Darcy tilted her head slightly. “So you have never…?”
“I have never taken a client to my bed,” Rebecca said plainly. “Not once.”
Darcy caught her lower lip between her teeth, unable to prevent her thoughts from turning to the Earl of Raine and how thoroughly the boundaries between pleasure and everything else had blurred where he was concerned. “That cannot have been easy.”
“It was not,” Rebecca replied evenly. “But it was necessary.”
“Why?”
For the briefest moment, Rebecca’s gaze drifted away. Something distant and shadowed entered her expression, a glimpse of an old hurt swiftly concealed, before she returned her attention to Darcy.
“Because intimacy and love,” she said quietly, “are the surest ways to ruin a woman.”
There was no bitterness in her voice. Darcy felt a faint ache stir within her as she regarded the other woman. “You speak this from experience.”
Rebecca did not answer at once. Instead, she lifted her glass and took a slow sip, as though considering whether the past was a thing worth revisiting.
“At one time,” she said at last, her voice softer now, “I believed otherwise.”
Darcy did not press further. She did not need to. Whatever lay behind those words had carved itself deeply into Rebecca.
Rebecca regarded her for a long moment, then said, “I have firmly decided upon the next scene I wish you to paint.”
Darcy inclined her head. “Is it the one you mentioned in your note?”
“Yes, a grand composition,” Rebecca continued, her tone thoughtful. “One that will rival the most daring works ever set upon canvas. I wish you to paint an orgy.”
Darcy hesitated. The word was unfamiliar, though its implications were not entirely obscure. She found herself more at ease now in Rebecca’s presence, less guarded than she had once been.
“What, precisely, is an orgy?” she asked, her curiosity overcoming any lingering reserve.
Rebecca’s lips curved faintly, though there was no mockery in her expression. “It is a gathering in which many bodies pursue pleasure together, without the boundaries of a single couple. Desire passes freely among them. It is excess in its most unapologetic form.”
Darcy absorbed that in silence, her thoughts moving swiftly, images forming that both startled and intrigued her. “And you wish for me to capture that?” she asked quietly.
“I do,” Rebecca said. “Not merely the acts themselves, but the abandon, the surrender, and the loss of every pretense.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the commission settle upon her, along with a flicker of anticipation she could not entirely deny. “I will be ready,” she said.
Rebecca studied her, then nodded. “It will not be immediate. I shall require perhaps a fortnight. I must speak with those who will participate, arrange the composition, and determine with the women how best to bring such a vision to life.”
A small laugh escaped Darcy. “I imagine that will require a great deal of… coordination.”
Rebecca’s smile deepened. “More than you might think.”
Darcy inclined her head once more before taking her leave, the conversation lingering in her mind as she stepped back into the corridor. A sense of purpose steadied her steps even as she considered how she might capture upon canvas something so bold and unrestrained.
She turned the corner and froze. Sebastian stood at the far end of the hallway, his gaze already fixed upon her as though he had been seeking her out.
He moved toward her with quiet, unyielding purpose, and Darcy’s pulse quickened.
When he reached her, his hands settled at her waist. She did not retreat.
Instead, she tipped her face toward his, and that silent welcome was all he required.
He lifted her into his arms with an ease that stole her breath, then turned and began to ascend the stairs.
A startled sound escaped her. “Sebastian! Where are you taking me?”
“To my rooms,” he said. “I have endured over ten damned days without you.”
Her hands found his shoulders, instinctively bracing, though she made no attempt to free herself.
“Do you object?” he asked.
Darcy met his gaze, her breathing uneven and her pulse quickened by a heady mixture of anticipation and unease.
That night had been meant to stand alone, a singular lapse she could contain and forget.
Yet now, faced once more with temptation, she did not turn away.
She reached for it with a boldness that surprised even herself.
“None at all,” she said, her voice soft, unguarded, and entirely without pretense.
And with that, he carried her to his chambers and set her down upon the carpet, his hands lingering at her waist as though he could not bear to release her.
A single lamp lit the room, its amber glow casting long shadows across the great bed and the dark wood of the furniture.
The scent of him—sandalwood, leather, and something uniquely his—wrapped around her like an embrace.
Dear God, why did she find herself so easily consumed whenever she was with him?