Eye of the Beholder (3 page)

She widened her eyes in mock censure that he
would not know. “Why, I’m searching for a husband, of course.”

His laugh drew the attention of all on the
dance floor, and even the musicians stumbled for a moment before
picking up the rhythm again. “What would you want one of those?
They merely get in the way.”

“Not as much as a mother, I imagine.”

He laughed again, eyes crinkling in the
corners as he looked down at her. “I suppose not, if you find the
right one. The problem would be, one you would want to leave you
alone would not be one you’d want on your wedding night.”

His shocking words froze her for a moment,
but his hand on her waist urged her into movement again.

“Perhaps you are not aware that such a topic
is off-limits for unmarried women.”

The eyebrows lifted again. “Unmarried women,
in my experience, know much more about the wedding night than they
care to let on. And look forward to it more than they want their
husbands to know.”

Why was he speaking to her so? Did her
newfound awareness of her body show in her face? In her movements?
Was she a loose woman now because she’d shown her breast to a
painter?

The urge to flee, to inspect her face in the
mirror for a telltale sign was strong, but would draw attention to
them. Would this song never end?

When it did, would Grayson Adams ask her to
dance again?

Finally the song drew to a close, and Grayson
stepped back, bowing deeply. “I regret that I have other
commitments tonight, but now we are introduced. I shall see you
again.”

And without escorting her from the floor, he
disappeared into the crowd.

***

“The master insists you wear a blindfold
today.” The artist’s man proffered the length of black cloth when
she arrived at the townhouse the following afternoon.

Sarah stared at it. Why would he wish her
blindfolded? Was it part of the art? Or did she know the man? She
didn’t know anyone from Italy, but perhaps she’d seen him in
society.

She took the blindfold and tied it around her
head, adjusting the fabric over her eyes. Suddenly she felt even
more daring, as if hiding her eyes hid her inhibitions as well. She
heard the door open, then close, and she was alone. Her fingers
hovered above the buttons of her dress. She hadn’t been told to
undress, but she would certainly feel more comfortable disrobing
alone than in front of Monsieur Cresson.

She had just folded her dress over her arm
when the door opened and she heard him enter. She turned toward the
door, resisting the urge to cover herself.

“Let me take that for you,” he said, after a
moment of silence, then lifted the dress from her. “Do you mind the
blindfold?”

“No.” She didn’t want to admit the idea
excited her.

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “I have a few
more details I want to address on yesterday’s pose, and I’d like to
begin another.”

“Another? So soon?” She thought portraits
took ages. And she certainly didn’t think she’d perform more than
one pose.

“I don’t need you here for the painting,” he
said. “I have you in my mind. And you inspire me. Take your hair
down.”

His words sent a thrill through her and she
reached up to remove the pins. Her curls tumbled against her
suddenly-sensitized skin. Then she sensed him closer, smelled his
spicy scent. He closed his hands over her shoulders and eased her
backwards onto the bed where she’d been yesterday.

She tried to remember the pose but he reached
to bend her knees toward him, sliding his hand up her thigh to
adjust the hem of her chemise. Heat sizzled through her, along her
leg to the place between her legs, and her breasts tightened. Her
breath caught in her throat and she shivered, waiting for his touch
on her hip, or where her body began to burn and crave. What she
craved, she didn’t know.

Then he moved away and her body ached for him
to return.

He didn’t speak, so she didn’t.

“Your coloring is lovely,” he murmured
finally, and she jolted at the sudden sound when the only sound had
been pencil to paper. “You should wear strong colors. Jewel tones.
Reds, blues, greens. Pastels don’t do justice to your skin.”

Pastels? But she wore a dark blue striped day
dress. What made him think of pastels? Unless he had seen her at a
ball, where all the young unmarried women wore pastels.

“It’s the fashion,” she said.

“It’s not imperative to be in fashion. In
fact, I’d think a young woman who’s doing what you’re doing would
not care about what’s in fashion.”

“I don’t but my mother does. It’s simpler to
make her happy.”

“And if she discovers what you’re doing
here?”

“I’m taking great care that she not find
out.”

“So why do you do it?”

She heard him shift, set something aside. The
canvas, maybe. “I told you. I want adventure.”

“I’m ready for a new pose,” he said long
silent moments later. “Sit on your backside and lean back with your
elbows behind you.” He waited until she complied. “Now, draw your
legs up, your knees bent.”

He moved close again, and closed his hand
over her bare knee, drawing her legs apart, just a bit, so she felt
a breeze on her most private parts. She drew in a sharp breath when
he pushed up the hem of her chemise, and she suddenly felt naked.
But she didn’t move as he arranged the fabric, then removed his
touch and stepped back.

She wanted his touch again, the brush of his
rough fingertips against her untouched skin. Then he moved close,
his fingers closing around her ankle and easing her legs open a
little more.

The instinct to close her knees was
overwhelming, but she fought it, especially when she heard his
breathing change. No one had seen her most intimate part, not even
herself, and this man she didn’t know was looking at it. She felt
her flesh heat, swell, grow wet. A flush traveled over her
skin.

“Lovely,” he said finally, and the air cooled
when he stepped away. “Now, I want you to let your head fall
back.”

The sound of the easel being dragged to a new
position echoed through the room. She did as he asked, and felt a
twinge in her neck.

“I’m not certain I can hold this pose.”

“I’ll get you some pillows, but you must not
relax your arms.” He spoke from near her feet.

The position alarmed her. He was painting her
most intimate area? She couldn’t work the courage to ask, and
didn’t know what to call it in any case. Certainly she didn’t want
to ask him. He went to the door and summoned his man, and she
jolted. She didn’t want the man to see her in this position.

“No, don’t move,” Monsieur Cresson said
sharply. “He won’t enter.”

In a matter of moments, the door opened, and
Monsieur Cresson moved to her head, propping pillows behind her
head. Then he moved silently to the end of the bed and began to
draw.

All she could think about was her exposed sex
and how warm the realization made her, how restless. Now she no
longer wanted to close her legs but spread them wider. This unknown
hunger began to consume her, and her breathing grew heavier.

Her scent carried through the air. Grayson’s
trousers became tight as he became aware of Sarah’s arousal. His
cock responded with enthusiasm, and while he was trying to catch
the curve of her chin just so, his gaze traveled again and again to
her sweet sex, with its dark curls growing damp with her arousal.
Her body was still, but he could sense her restlessness, understood
it. Her wanted to touch her so badly, wanted to thrust his fingers
into her tight sheath, draw that wetness up over her swelling
flesh, wanted to hear her moan in a pleasure she had never known
before. An idea for another pose came to him, and he hoped she’d be
willing to try it.

First he had to finish this sketch, and to do
so, he needed to concentrate. He couldn’t as long as his cock
strained against his fly. Perhaps if he eased himself, he could
focus. The problem was, he wanted to ease himself right here.

He shoved back his chair. “You must be
getting stiff. Get up, move around, and I’ll be back in a
moment.”

“Where are you going?”

But he couldn’t tell her, instead slipped out
into the hall, and hurried up to his bedroom.

A virgin. What had he been thinking, bringing
a virgin into his studio? He yanked down the flap of his trousers
and drew out his erection, sighing in relief. If she was a whore,
he could take his release with her, perhaps in her mouth so that he
wouldn’t ruin the pose.

Sarah had a lovely mouth. As he closed his
fist around his cock, he imagined those sweet full lips closing
around him, her delicious little tongue darting out to taste the
liquid that formed on the tip, to stroke around the head. In his
mind, she’d know just what to do, though he imagined the real Sarah
would never have thought such a thing possible.

Fantasy Sarah’s mouth traveled down his
shaft, taking more of his cock into the heat of her mouth, her
tongue stroking, building on his pleasure, her mouth pulling on his
cock with a delicious suction. His fist moved faster as he pumped
against Fantasy Sarah’s mouth, as his balls tightened, and he came
across the sheets of his bed, the climax powerful for being
masturbatory. He leaned against the bedpost for a moment as Fantasy
Sarah dissolved.

Christ, what was wrong with him that he
couldn’t control his desires any more than that?

Chapter Three

Grayson tossed down his charcoal the
following day and sat back, scrubbing his hand over his face.

“What is it?” Sarah asked, her head still
tilted back in the pose.

There was something to be said for good
girls. They did what they were told, no matter what.

“Not sure,” he muttered. He’d captured the
surrender of her, head back, revealing that fine chin, the smooth
line of her throat. He’d sketched the hills of her breasts beneath
the chemise, the thrust of her nipples. He was happy with the folds
of the chemise above her sex, and happy with the depiction of her
sex itself, dark, damp, mysterious. She wasn’t as aroused as
yesterday, but her tender flesh was swollen enough to give him a
hint of pink. He was pleased with the bend of her legs and her
feet.

“I have a thought,” he said at last, and rose
to fetch the pitcher of water from the nearby table. “This will be
cold.”

“What?” she asked, breathless, just as he
poured a stream of water over her breasts, plastering her chemise
to her, rendering it transparent.

She gasped and bowed upwards, her hair
brushing against the front of his trousers, and yes, he was hard
again. Especially when he looked down at her nipples, tight and
dark beneath the fabric. He wanted to take each in his mouth,
wanted to warm them, feel them against his tongue. He pushed the
thought away and returned to his canvas to see the effect. Not
quite what he wanted. He picked up the pitcher again, and with no
warning, dribbled the water between her breasts to her navel, so
the fabric clung to her from neck to pubis. He returned to the
canvas and inspected his subject.

He was fully aroused now, but couldn’t excuse
himself, not when her chemise would dry soon, ruining the picture.
He adjusted himself and sat before the easel again, sketching the
defined curves of her breasts, the peaks of her nipples, the
indentation of her navel. She was all but naked, and so
beautiful.

“Monsieur Cresson,” she chattered a few
moments later. “I’m very cold.”

He noticed then, the gooseflesh on her arms
and legs. He shoved to his feet and strode to the door. “Dominic,
we need more wood for the fire.”

Dominic appeared in short order, and behind
him, Grayson heard Sarah gasp.

“Do not move,” he warned her. “He’s only
seeing to the fire.” But when Grayson turned back, he placed
himself between her and Dominic, aware of the flush of
embarrassment covering her skin. Dominic added wood to the fire and
turned away, with only a glimpse at the canvas and a nod of
approval.

When the door closed again, Grayson patted
her foot—her very cold foot—and sat at the easel again.

“Don’t be ashamed of your body, my dear. Men
will be seeing this painting, you know.”

“But they will not know it is me.”

“True. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. He kept his
gaze averted in any case.”

“Kind of him.”

She resumed her pose with very little
adjustment needed on his part, and he began to sketch again,
capturing the fall of the fabric, the plushness of her body. A
shame it had to be hidden so completely.

“Do you go to a ball tonight?” he asked to
distract himself.

“A musicale. Doubly dull, I’m afraid.”

“Do you perform?” The idea intrigued him.

“I do, but despise it.”

“Tell me you are not shy.”

Her laugh sent a warm sensation through him.
“I am deathly shy.”

“I would not have suspected.” He nudged her
foot with the end of his pencil. “Do you sing or play?”

“Both.”

“Very accomplished, then.”

“I did not say I do either well.”

“I would enjoy hearing you sing.”

“Oh, very unlikely without accompaniment and
threats from my mother.”

“So this you do, this you do for me, it is
retribution against your mother?”

“Not at all. I love my mother and like to
please her. I only wish her interests could be diverted elsewhere.
It is clear I’ll never marry.”

“Why is it clear?”

“I’m very high on the shelf, Monsieur.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“Men want girls who are malleable. Younger
women tend to be.”

“Who told you what men want?”

That gave her pause. “My mother.”

“Does she know well what men want?”

She laughed. “She believes so.”