in the muraled French dining room, relaxing with coffee after their meal. Or Nic was relaxing; Merry merely strove to look as if she were. She watched him flick an envelope along his jaw. His gaze was considering, his pose a sprawling slouch. They'd returned to the studio today. Nic had thrown out just three studies, more in resignation than disgust.
She supposed this was cause for celebration, but she had the distinct impression his mind was more on her than on his work. For the first time since he'd had her bare her breasts, she'd felt self-conscious as
she posed, as if the air were pressed too close to her naked skin. All day he'd stared at her not as a
painter but as a man.
He'd touched her more often than he had to, adjusting her arm, her knee, the fall of a curl across her breast. Even now, fully clothed, she felt as if she were naked. His gaze was no leer but it seemed to
strip her nonetheless. He knew what lay beneath her gown.
And he knew what his attention did to it.
She squirmed in her chair and turned her eyes to the trembling surface of her coffee. Pull yourself together, she thought. You're a toy to him: forgotten as soon as played with. This man couldn't possibly want her as much as she wanted him.
The fire hissed in the grate, the only accompaniment to the scrape of paper along his jaw. Merry could barely see his evening beard but she could hear it. The reminder of his maleness made her tighten deep inside.
"It seems," he said, his voice shockingly intimate in the quiet, "that I've been invited to a party."
He leaned across the table, one forearm stretched until his hand rested a tiny distance away from hers. She clutched her cup, but the warmth of this almost-touch was stronger than the warmth of the steaming drink. She told herself not to draw back. That would betray how strongly she was moved.
"A party?" she said, pretending to sip her coffee.
The tip of his finger brushed her hand. "Yes. And Farnham will box my ears if I don't get myself out
of the house. I thought you might like to come."
"Me?" She was so startled she didn't notice when he took her hand, only that now he cradled it in his own.
"Yes." He stroked the delicate skin beneath her wrist. Sensation skittered outward from the touch. His gaze, both direct and intense, held her as much a prisoner as his hands. "I despise going alone. They're
all couples. Old friends of mine."
"What sort of friends?"
His mouth twitched at her suspicion. "Let's see. Three artists, one former actress, a coatgirl and a Jewish banker— if that meets with your approval."
"No one else?" she said, thinking this sounded unlike anyone she might know. "Your friends will be the only ones who are there?"
"Not a soul besides," he assured her. "They're all perfectly agreeable. Well, maybe not perfectly, but
they make up for it by being entertaining. Say yes, Mary. I want to show you off."
"Me."
He carried the back of her hand to his smiling lips. "Yes, you. You could wear the velvet gown."
"I could wear a hundred velvet gowns and I still wouldn't—"
His tongue wet the valley between two knuckles, silencing her skepticism. Her skin cooled, then tingled
as he repeated the shameless lick. His tongue was sharp and agile, a bruised rose-pink that matched his mouth, that matched— she suddenly, vividly recalled—the head of his waking sex. She'd never thought of someone's tongue as being obscene but his most definitely was. Other stories overheard from the
stable boys returned to haunt her: places they'd claimed experienced lovers liked to suck. She felt as if Nic's mouth were on them now. To make matters worse, his nails began scratching lightly across her palm. The caress had a singular effect, sending chills up her arm and down her breasts; forceful chills,
like an electrical experiment. Heat gathered in her sex, its flesh beginning to contract and expand in synchrony with his strokes.
"What are you doing?" she gasped, trying to pull away.
"I'm taking liberties. And I'm going to take another each time I hear you speak as if you were not pretty." Looking up at her through his lashes, he licked her hand again.
"Stop it!" she ordered, her emotions too confused to tug very hard.
Rather than release her, he let her pull the back of his hand to her breast. He rubbed her lightly there,
one finger swinging back and forth across the swell. "I'll stop," he said, "when you agree to come."
The final word jolted through her, a soft, hot spear. She knew he didn't mean come to the party. He meant "come" as in "climax" and no doubt not alone. The blood of arousal flushed his face and lips, which had parted for his breath. He looked so beautiful he made her heart clench. Next to him, she
was a hideous, freckled troll.
"Say you'll come," he said, softer now, rougher. "Say you'll come and meet my friends."
"I don't see why you want me to."
"I told you." One hand rose to stroke her cheek. "I don't like to come alone."
"Do you ever?" she whispered, remembering the night he'd slammed into her smoke-filled room, the
night he'd cupped his sex and rubbed it while she watched.
His eyes gleamed in the gaslight, soft, gray jewels; windows, perhaps, but only to more mystery. His pupils were black as jet.
"Sometimes I do. Sometimes my needs are too pressing to wait. But then I wish I had someone with me."
"Someone?"
His thumb smoothed her brow. "I should like the someone to be you, Mary. I think you know that by now."
Before she could gather her wits, he released her and rose, reminding her how tall he was, how slim and spare. Though he'd scrubbed, tiny flecks of paint clung to his nails. The imperfection did not matter. His hands were all the more beautiful for this evidence of their skill.
"Tomorrow night," he said. "We'll leave at seven. Cook used to be a lady's maid. I'm sure she'd be
happy to help you dress."
She should have resented his command. More to the point, the risk of going out should have drained this creamy pleasure from her limbs. Instead, reeling in mind and body, she sagged in her chair and admired his retreating form.
His bottom was narrow and firm, the muscles moving with his strides. With far too much ease, she could picture it laboring over her.
I'm at his mercy, she thought.
If he decided to take her now, she would not have the will to stop him.
* * *
She'd recovered from her fatalism by the time the following evening rolled around, probably because
she hadn't seen Nic all day and was able to rally her resistance. Rather than have her pose, he'd left
her to bathe and primp and, as he put it, do whatever it is women do. Merry took this for the nonsense
it was. She had no doubt he knew precisely what women did.
Mrs. Choate, the former lady's maid, was indeed a help, not only hooking her into the purple gown but also arranging her hair in a fashionable chignon. Her curls, for once useful, required no crimping to decorate her brow.
"I keep my skills up," said Mrs. Choate when Merry expressed her admiration at the effect. "In case they're needed."
She refrained from asking how many times they had been. She knew the answer would just depress her. Spirits dampened by the thought, she declined Mrs. Choate's offer to powder down her freckles.
"You'd have to powder everything," she said. "I'd rub off on whatever I touched."
"S'pose you're right," sighed the cook. Together they surveyed her reflection in the rust-flecked mirror. Merry felt odd dressing up in this humble room, odd and precarious, as if she were more in danger of being marked an imposter now.
The velvet gown, while bold, was as flattering as anything her mother would have picked. The bodice was dangerously low, but it had to be in order to show off what decolletage she had. As was the fashion, the skirt was smooth in front, its luxurious fabric pulled into a fall of ruffles at the back. Having spent much of her recent life wearing nothing at all, Merry had never been so aware of the imprisoning nature of modern dress. Tiebacks beneath the skirt kept it from spreading and its narrow width made it difficult to walk, especially with the dragging fantail train. Even the weight of the dress was burdensome. Despite this, she could not regret being shown to her best advantage. She might not be the beauty Nic claimed but, by God, she was as fine as cloth could make her. She felt a different woman tonight: not who she'd been before, not who she'd pretended to be, but someone else entirely.
Someone who could seduce a man, she mused, then shivered prophetically at the thought.
Nic seemed happy with the results. "Bang up to the mark," he said as she descended his curving marble stairs.
Merry barely registered the praise. In his black tailed coat and trousers, he took her breath away. Now that he was dressed more like men she knew, she could better judge his figure. His shoulders were
broad and straight, his hips as narrow as a dancer's. His waistcoat—almost as snug as her bodice—
glowed in peacock blue embroidered with silver flowers. No man of her acquaintance would have been caught dead in such garish garb, but on Nic it seemed fitting. The color lent a hint of azure to his silver eyes. He'd combed his hair back from his brow, and the tempting, touchable waves spilled over his
collar at the back. Their russet highlights gleamed as if they'd been oiled.
"You blind me," she said with a crooked smile.
He tucked his thumbs under his lapels and swelled his chest. "Can't let you outshine me."
"As if I could," she said, but there was no bitterness in her tone, only enjoyment at their banter and the pleasant shock of his splendor in evening dress. She couldn't recall having had so handsome an escort in her life.
They rode to the party in a small, closed carriage that was driven by the gardener and pulled by a nag
so old and slow she could only have been hired out of pity. The night was misty and moonless and the foolish horse shied at everything that moved, including the swaying lanterns they'd hung on the carriage
to light the way. Fortunately, they hadn't far to go, just a few streets north to a line of bijou cottages
near the
Eton
and Middlesex cricket ground.
Nic sat next to her on the single seat, his scent mingling with hers in the tiny space. The effect was like
a drug. With difficulty, she restrained the impulse to lean into his shoulder and close her eyes. When
they drew to a halt, he put his arm on the sleeve of her new green coat. In spite of her vow to maintain
a level head, her pulse began to skip.
She wondered if he meant to kiss her.
"I probably should warn you," he said, "that my friends can be a trifle wild. There's no malice in them, but if anyone says or does anything to discommode you, come to me and I'll see they stop."
Merry's eyes widened, wondering what he meant by "wild." Not debauched surely. Not licentious or depraved. Just how "discommoded" might she be? Would she be forced into the position of giving her unworldliness away?
I shall have to guard my reactions, she thought, and not let him see if I am shocked.
Sensing her nervousness, if not the cause for it, Nic pressed his lips to her furrowed brow. His voice
was a velvet murmur in the dark. "I know you can take care of yourself, but I'd be honored if you'd
rely on me."
His words simultaneously soothed her nerves and increased her caution. How alluring he was, and how unlike anyone she'd known. She felt dazed as he helped her from the carriage to the footpath, his kid-gloved fingers tight on hers even after she'd stepped down. "I shall make it clear," he warned,