Four
Nic led Mary to the studio after dinner. He preferred his models relaxed and, over the years, he'd
learned only one activity ensured that better than a hearty meal.
Mary looked as if she hadn't seen her share of those. Apparently, Nic could add "pinchpenny" to the
duke of Monmouth's sins. Feeding his servants was evidently not his priority. She was skin and bones, poor thing, and had eaten every scrap Farnham set before her. Considering her appetite, her ladylike manners made him smile. This was a woman who had striven to improve herself.
The thought of helping her take the next step intrigued him. He suspected she would not waste the coin
he paid her, though perhaps even she didn't know what sort of life she'd build.
At the moment, her mind did not appear to be on the future. He watched her circle his work space, her gaze wide and alert, her fingers stopping to touch whatever objects caught her eye. The sight caused an unexpected tightening in his groin. He wouldn't have minded having that attention, and those rough little hands, exploring him.
Until such time as that was possible, there was plenty for her to see. His studio was the largest structure
in the house. Rising two stories, it was topped by a tin-lined dome that, during the summer, filled the space with golden light. Tonight, tall candelabra stood in for the sun, their iron branches vaguely medieval. His props ranged around the edges of the room, a mix of period furniture, exotic artifacts,
and casts of classic statues. History was popular these days, preferably history that allowed one's models to go about lightly clad. Some might call it pandering, but Nic preferred to think of his choices as pragmatic. He had his say within the limits of what would sell. More often than not, as was the case tonight, what he thought would sell was also what pleased him.
Ignorant of the role she played in his musings, Mary trailed her hand along the edge of the big, stained sink where he washed his brushes. Out of the blue, as if some carnal switch had tripped inside his head, he pictured her sprawled inside the basin. The image was shockingly vivid. She was naked, wet, her legs dangling over the sides while he soaped her curly mound. He could nearly feel the softness of her secret skin; nearly hear the pop of the iridescent foam. A flush swept out like a fever from his loins. In seconds he was stiff, achingly so, just from watching her touch his things.
Who'd have thought a chit like this could rock him on his heels? Generally speaking, Nic's desire for a woman took time to build. His interest rose as he stirred their interest in him. Mary felt his pull, he knew, but had hardly reached the panting desperation he preferred.
Discreetly, before she turned around, he adjusted the sudden rearing of his cock. He'd rather she didn't know what she'd done to him just yet. Unfortunately, no rearrangement could hide the change. Swollen and tight, his shaft felt thicker around than her slender wrist. The thought of comparing the two, side by side, made him want to groan. Cursing the inconvenience of the male physique, he pulled out his shirt
and let it hang. Better she think him a sloven than a satyr.
She came to a halt before the stage. "Do you want me to pose here?"
"Yes," he said, wondering if she could hear the bated hunger in his voice.
If she did, it didn't show. She lifted her ugly ruffled skirt, stepped up, and waded through a heap of tasseled cushions. Her ankles were as neat as he'd ever seen, and clad in unexpectedly nice boots.
When she turned, he schooled his face to blandness.
"Who," she asked, "do you want me to be?"
A hoyden, he thought, his erection reaching the point of pain. A brazen debauchee.
"Just yourself," he said aloud. "I'm only sketching you tonight. I want to familiarize myself with your features."
She made a face at that and he realized she had no concept of her appeal.
"Sit," he said gruffly, "and make yourself comfortable."
Rather than watch her, which didn't seem wise in his current state, he retrieved his supplies from the cabinet by the sink, wincing a bit as his trousers pinched him on squatting down. Luckily, a block of sketching paper and charcoal was all he'd need. Her coloring was a challenge he preferred to tackle
on its own. For tonight, gaining a knowledge of her form would be enough. Then he'd know how he wanted to use her.
As if there were any doubt of that.
Rolling his eyes at himself, he positioned a stool, then lugged one of the candelabra to the stage. Each of its tapers was backed by polished mirror. The gas was also lit, but the room was so large the sconces did not illuminate all he wished. He wanted bones tonight, bones and planes and shadows thrown by curves.
By the time he'd adjusted the light to his satisfaction, Mary sat cross-legged on a cushion with her weight propped on her arms. She'd been watching him. Her face was as curious as a child's.
"How old are you?" he demanded, suddenly suspicious.
"Twenty," she said, adding cheekily: "How old are you?"
"Thirty-one," he muttered.
She forgot her borrowed manners long enough to snort. "Practically decrepit."
"Baggage," he said.
She grinned as if his insult pleased her.
He almost lost his breath. Her grin was wide and infectious. Open and ageless, it did not increase her beauty so much as make him want to laugh. A precious gift, that, one few people had. Ignoring how much he'd like to see her grinning in his bed, he settled onto the stool. Luckily, his attraction ebbed in
the oblivion of work. She squirmed more than an experienced model, but at least she did not sulk. With swift, sure strokes, he filled page after page and tossed each one aside. Finally, when his neck began to crick, he told her to stand and have a stretch.
"Are we done?" she asked, locking her hands before her chest.
Something about the way she pushed them caught his eye. She had muscle with her skin and bone, possibly interesting muscle, muscle he could barely see beneath that sacklike gown. He longed to rip it
off, but suspected he'd scare her silly.
"Nic?" she said.
He shook himself. "Whether we're done is up to you. Are you too tired to sit any longer?"
She shrugged and again he sensed that hidden, fluid strength. He made up his mind. "That dress is
driving me mad," he said and quickly undid the buttons of his shirt.
She gaped at him. "What are you doing?"
"Giving you my shirt. You can put it on behind that screen."
She peered dubiously at the wall of painted Chinese silk, but took the shirt when he thrust it at her. As
she walked around the barrier, she held it gingerly by the collar.
"Mary," he said, forcing her to look at him, "wear the shirt
instead
of your chemise, not over it."
Pink crept up her cheeks. "I knew that."
Nic did not believe her for a minute. In spite of all she'd been through, Mary glowed with innocence like
a girl fresh from her bath. He hoped she wasn't sorry to be here, that posing for him didn't feel like another step on the road to ruin. For many women, the slide from model to whore would seem a short one. Not that Mary had many options, especially if Monmouth had been too mean to give her a good character. No. She hadn't much choice but to come to him.
An old anger rose, as dark and bitter as the dregs of Farnham's coffee, even deeper for being turned partly against himself. He shoved his vexation away, but couldn't help thinking her former employer a bloody sod. He wondered if Monmouth had forced her or if he simply hadn't been very skilled. Mary certainly didn't act like a happily bedded woman. Perhaps the duke had a problem with performance. Some men preferred to blame that on their partners. Maybe that was the reason the bastard had let
her go.
By the time she emerged with his shirt hanging over her drawers, he was fuming at the arrogance of his kind. A woman was not a handkerchief to be discarded once it was torn. Nic couldn't deny he'd parted ways with his share of partners, but never since his youth, never, had he left some poor young innocent to the mercy of the Fates!
Fortunately, Mary's reappearance dispersed his anger like a wind. Those drawers must have cost her a good month's pay. They were frilly and foolish, hanging to her knees in a lavish cascade of lace. Beneath her stockings, her calves were a ruddy marvel: tight and round and strong.
"Turn," he ordered, demonstrating with his hand.
She turned and his breath caught in his throat, part artist's pleasure, part man's. His shirt was loose, of course, but with the candles shining through it, at last he could see her shape. As he'd suspected, she
was as slim as a wand. Her bottom demanded cupping, her shoulders a reverent sigh. She looked an athlete: a young Greek girl maybe, and very nearly a young Greek boy. She had breasts, though, small and unbound and perched so high on her ribs he doubted they'd hold his lightest paintbrush in their lee. She wore no corset.
Indeed, it would have been a crime against nature if she had. If ever a body defied the need for
crushing, it was hers.
"Beautiful," he breathed, and she blushed to the roots of her marvelous red-gold hair.
He had to chuckle at her expression.
"Ah, Mary," he said, "you'll believe me before we're through."
* * *
Merry wriggled in her unfamiliar bed, unable to push the image of the shirtless painter from her mind. She'd been flushed the whole time she posed—and not with embarrassment. Nic was an eyeful: his
tightly muscled chest, his long, sinewy arms, the sloping curve at the small of his back where his
trousers hung on his narrow hips. He made her mouth water and her hands itch to touch.
Dangerous or not, Nicolas Craven left her stunned.
Naturally, she knew the cure for her condition. Merry's parents had never succeeded in sheltering her, hadn't even tried too hard with three rowdy boys to worry about. She knew the functions of the human body as well as, or better than, many matrons. The infamous Dr. Acton would never convince her women did not feel desire, or that easing it would harm her. She'd heard too many strapping stable boys brag of their addiction to the "solitary vice" to believe it diminished one's vigor in any way.
But to touch herself tonight seemed ill-advised.
She would think of him if she did, would dream she held that long, bare back and gazed into those
smoky eyes. She could not afford the fantasy, not if she wished to emerge from this enterprise intact.
Merry wanted more than to be a notch on someone's bedpost.
With a groan of frustration, she rolled onto her back. Though the narrow mattress was piled with
covers, her nose and toes were chips of ice. A steady gray sleet spit against the single window and a
draft whistled heartlessly through its chinks. She'd tried to start the fire before retiring but her only
reward had been a sickly puff of smoke.
Never having been further from assistance than the nearest bellpull, these discomforts were outside her experience. Up till now, she hadn't realized how spoiled she was.
This, she told herself, was the stupidest prank she'd ever pulled.
Loneliness ached inside her like the fading clang of Sunday bells. She missed her motherly old maid and her brothers and her horses and the sweet smell of herbs that scented all her sheets. Lord, what her
father would say if he could see her now! Tears welled in her eyes but almost before she'd pressed her arm across them, she threw the self-pity off.
Merry Vance was not a quitter.