kiss, especially a kiss like that, but at least she knew she wasn't invisible.
"Must I entertain you?" he moaned, one unusually restless day. He was frowning at the canvas, an expression she'd learned might mean anything at all.
"I only wanted to know how old you were when you saw your first naked woman."
"Twelve," he said and drew a stroke that seemed to ease his glare.
Merry held her breath and struggled not to move. His answer, brief as it was, hinted at a story she
wished to hear. She watched him nod in satisfaction at what he'd done. Now, she thought, ask him.
"Who was she?"
"Housemaid. She was washing up in her room."
"Is that when you decided you wanted to be a painter?"
To her surprise, he lowered his brush and laughed. "You think I do this because I'm depraved."
"Of course I don't!"
"You do." His grin was utterly infectious. "Finally found a job where I could ogle naked females. But you're the one who gets hot and bothered when she takes off all her clothes."
"I am not!"
"Aren't you?" He set down his palette and walked around the folding easel. He was a messy painter, his shirt stiff with old stains, his arms and fingers every color of the rainbow. Without a care for mussing
her, he lifted her off the posing saddle and slid her down his front.
Merry was too startled to struggle or perhaps, if she were honest, too interested in seeing what he would do.
His body was warm and hard, his thigh easing between her legs until she straddled its muscled length. If she'd ever forgotten she was naked, she remembered it when she felt that smooth black wool against her most private parts. The sensation of vulnerability was mysteriously appealing. His hand curved over her bottom, sticky with paint. He smelled of turps and linseed oil, a scent she knew she'd forever associate with him. As he pulled her closer, his sex began to stir.
"You're wet," he said softly.
The truth of the words brought a blaze of color to her face.
"You're hard," she shot back, rather than cede the point.
His head bowed toward her ear. "Not yet, Duchess. But I'm getting there."
The feel of him changing sent a shiver down her spine. He was stretching inside his trousers, against
her hip, growing longer, growing thick. She heard him growl and then his teeth sank lightly into her
neck. His hand, the one that wasn't wrapped around her bottom, skimmed her ribs and slipped beneath her hair. Her breasts were trembling with her heartbeat, with the intensity of all he made her feel. When he molded one in his palm, she couldn't suppress a whimper. His hand was larger than her breast, a stark reminder of his masculine advantage.
"You're hard, too," he whispered and feathered her nipple with his thumb.
Her back arched. His touch inspired more pleasure than she could bear—plucking her, playing her, stroking round and round while she struggled to be still. His thigh flexed between her legs and she went liquid deep inside. She hitched against him, once, but it did not help. She wanted his mouth on her, wanted him to lay her down and drive inside. In that moment, she wouldn't have had the strength to stop him.
But he was not a man to rush these matters. He brushed her hair aside with gentle fingers.
"How lovely you are," he mused. "Your nipples match your rosy-golden curls."
Without warning, tears stung the corners of her eyes. For years she'd been known as the plainest deb in London . She'd made a joke of it herself. But hard as she tried not to care, it wasn't easy knowing that no one, not even her parents, thought her pretty. "Ragamuffin" was the kindest term her father had ever used. And now this man, this artiste, spoke as if she were a work of art. The effect it had on her was extraordinary, as if he'd looked into her heart and fed it the meal it most desired, the meal it had been starving for all her life. She couldn't stifle a pang of regret when
"Must I entertain you?" he moaned, one unusually restless day. He was frowning at the canvas, an expression she'd learned might mean anything at all.
"I only wanted to know how old you were when you saw your first naked woman."
"Twelve," he said and drew a stroke that seemed to ease his glare.
Merry held her breath and struggled not to move. His answer, brief as it was, hinted at a story she
wished to hear. She watched him nod in satisfaction at what he'd done. Now, she thought, ask him.
"Who was she?"
"Housemaid. She was washing up in her room."
"Is that when you decided you wanted to be a painter?"
To her surprise, he lowered his brush and laughed. "You think I do this because I'm depraved."
"Of course I don't!"
"You do." His grin was utterly infectious. "Finally found a job where I could ogle naked females. But you're the one who gets hot and bothered when she takes off all her clothes."
"I am not!"
"Aren't you?" He set down his palette and walked around the folding easel. He was a messy painter, his shirt stiff with old stains, his arms and fingers every color of the rainbow. Without a care for mussing
her, he lifted her off the posing saddle and slid her down his front.
Merry was too startled to struggle or perhaps, if she were honest, too interested in seeing what he would do.
His body was warm and hard, his thigh easing between her legs until she straddled its muscled length. If she'd ever forgotten she was naked, she remembered it when she felt that smooth black wool against her most private parts. The sensation of vulnerability was mysteriously appealing. His hand curved over her bottom, sticky with paint. He smelled of turps and linseed oil, a scent she knew she'd forever associate with him. As he pulled her closer, his sex began to stir.
"You're wet," he said softly.
The truth of the words brought a blaze of color to her face.
"You're hard," she shot back, rather than cede the point.
His head bowed toward her ear. "Not yet, Duchess. But I'm getting there."
The feel of him changing sent a shiver down her spine. He was stretching inside his trousers, against
her hip, growing longer, growing thick. She heard him growl and then his teeth sank lightly into her
neck. His hand, the one that wasn't wrapped around her bottom, skimmed her ribs and slipped beneath her hair. Her breasts were trembling with her heartbeat, with the intensity of all he made her feel. When he molded one in his palm, she couldn't suppress a whimper. His hand was larger than her breast, a stark reminder of his masculine advantage.
"You're hard, too," he whispered and feathered her nipple with his thumb.
Her back arched. His touch inspired more pleasure than she could bear—plucking her, playing her, stroking round and round while she struggled to be still. His thigh flexed between her legs and she went liquid deep inside. She hitched against him, once, but it did not help. She wanted his mouth on her, wanted him to lay her down and drive inside. In that moment, she wouldn't have had the strength to stop him.
But he was not a man to rush these matters. He brushed her hair aside with gentle fingers.
"How lovely you are," he mused. "Your nipples match your rosy-golden curls."
Without warning, tears stung the corners of her eyes. For years she'd been known as the plainest deb in London . She'd made a joke of it herself. But hard as she tried not to care, it wasn't easy knowing that no one, not even her parents, thought her pretty. "Ragamuffin" was the kindest term her father had ever used. And now this man, this artiste, spoke as if she were a work of art. The effect it had on her was extraordinary, as if he'd looked into her heart and fed it the meal it most desired, the meal it had been starving for all her life. She couldn't stifle a pang of regret when
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