Temptation and the Artist, page 8
Aline, wearing a scarlet domino cloak borrowed from the hotel in order to blend in with the other guests no doubt swarming the pleasure gardens by now, handed a matching one to Stephen.
His eyes laughed, although he donned it without a murmur of complaint.
“You look like some evil monk from something by Mrs. Radcliffe,” Aline said.
“So do you.”
Basil came out and laughed at them both before allowing his mother to hug him goodnight. Then, with the servants and a scowling Mr. Flowers to see them off, they made their way out of the hotel and into the pleasure garden.
They were not the only people crossing from the hotel. Most of the others were masked and walked straight to the pavilion where the public ball took place.
“Aren’t you tempted?” Aline asked as they walked on through the colorful throngs laughing and chattering their way about the paths.
“To dance with you? Of course. But I would rather have you to myself.”
The gardens were different at night, at least on a ball night. Waltz music drifted out from the pavilion. The neglected, shabby appearance of the ornamental temples and castles and fountains was hidden in the lantern light, which turned the whole place into a magical, fairytale world.
Apart from the odd feminine screech and lascivious laughter from the bushes.
They discovered their secret garden was still secret. The close reeds and bushes and a spreading willow seemed to distance them from the noise of the rest of the park, though the waltz music was still faintly audible.
While Stephen lit the extra lanterns he had brought over and positioned them to shine on his easel, Aline cast off her domino and gazed about her in wonder, from the pond to the sky where the passing clouds did indeed reveal a scattering of stars in their dark velvet firmament. In a moment of pure euphoria, she lifted her arms and spun around, smiling up at the moon.
“Do that again,” Stephen said breathlessly.
Laughing, she did so. He made her repeat the twirl, and halfway through caught her to a halt. Her heart skipped, thinking he would kiss her, but he didn’t, just adjusted her face to look beyond him to the sky.
“Can you hold that pose?” he asked, raising her arms as they had been before.
“I can try…”
He seemed to work furiously fast, though from her position to the side, she could not see him so well. After several minutes, he said, “Lower your arms if you like and ease your neck. I’m working on the background… The gown is beautiful, by the way, just what I envisioned.”
He was working on a larger canvas than he had used for the other paintings, though he did not look remotely daunted by the size of the task he had given himself.
“Do you ever not paint?” she asked curiously.
“Sometimes, when I’m just sketching. But no, not for very long.”
“And yet you don’t miss much of what else goes on in the world, do you?”
“I try not to. Subjects for art are everywhere. Could you hold your head up again?”
She obeyed, but apparently, it wasn’t quite right, for he came toward her, and adjusted her stance and the angle of her head. Then he paused, and to her secret delight, stroked a caressing thumb across her lips.
Then he left her and continued to paint.
“Now,” he said sometime later, “can you spin as you did before? I need to catch the movement of the gown… Again, if you please… And again if you’re not too dizzy! Now rest a few minutes.”
It was the pattern of the evening, repetitive and tiring in many ways, and yet it was never dull because she was in his company, and, especially during her resting time while he concentrated on aspects of the background, they talked about anything and everything. And laughed. When she had met him at Dearham Abbey at Christmas, she had never imagined him capable of so much laughter, or so much quiet, subtle humor.
“One more spin,” he said, “and then we should go back before you freeze to death.”
“I am not such a poor creature.” She obliged, and he gave a soft grunt of satisfaction. Since he didn’t tell her otherwise, she held the pose. Then she heard his movement to the side, the rustle of fabric, and her domino cloak landed about her shoulders.
She glanced up at him smiling and heard his breath catch. He still held her lightly by the shoulders, his fingers somehow warming through the fabric of cloak and gown. His steady gaze dipped from her eyes to her lips, causing her to look at his, which was a mistake for a spurt of longing hit her that was only part desire.
And then his lips came closer and took slow possession of hers. No kiss had ever begun with such silken softness and overcome her so completely. Stephen Dornan did not snatch and devour, but savored, persuaded. At once sensitive, and deeply, sensual, he let the passion grow and grow.
She sighed into his mouth, deepening the kiss because she could do no less, and he held her, caressing her back and the bare, sensitive skin of her nape.
“Warmer now?” he asked huskily as they come up for breath.
“Much,” she whispered.
He released her slowly, and, it seemed, reluctantly, in order to gather up his paints and brushes, to cover his painting, and fold the easel for ease of carrying. She carried the bag of paints and brushes. They abandoned the lanterns and went carefully down the steps and across the garden to the main path, which was quiet now. Even the music had stopped, although a lot of noise came from the pavilion area.
“Is it midnight?” she said in surprise. “It must be the unmasking.”
“Which is an excellent time for us to escape back to the hotel.”
As they did so, she was aware of every inch of him and of herself. The doorman offered assistance with their burden, and Stephen rejected it with cheerful thanks. Neither Stephen nor Aline voiced the suggestion, yet she continued with him upstairs and along the empty passage to his “studio.”
His bedchamber.
The door closed on the world beyond.
“Are you tired?” he asked casually, taking the bag from her and setting it down beside the easel. “Or would you mind if we continued with last night’s portrait?”
He straightened and, with odd deliberation, met her gaze.
She held it, her heart drumming against her ribs. “Is that really what you want?”
A smile flickered across his lips. “No. I’m scrambling for a gentlemanly reason to ask you to stay.”
“You already gave me one.” Boldly, her heart quaking, she took a step nearer him. “When you kissed me.”
They stared at each other. She didn’t know whose breath it was she heard, labored and shallow. Expressions chased each other through his eyes, most of them strangely desperate. And then he moved, sweeping her almost off her feet and into his arms. Her stomach dived, her whole being delighted in the power of his arms, the hardness of his body, and the sudden, untamed passion of his kiss.
“I have wanted you since the first moment I saw you,” he uttered into her mouth.
Her answer was lost in his kiss, and by the time that ended, she could no longer recall the question. He pressed his stubbly cheek to hers, and she tangled her trembling fingers in his hair.
“Please,” he whispered in her ear, his breath unbearably arousing, “may I take you to bed?”
“If you don’t, I shall be very—” The rest was buried in his mouth.
Surprisingly, it seemed, he would give in to the urgency of passion, which suited her very well. But even as she clung, dragging his shirt—both his shirts—up over his chest, he stepped back and threw them off himself and stared at her with clouded, yet glittering eyes.
“Let me undress you,” he said unsteadily and held out his hand in an oddly courtly gesture. She wound her fingers around his and allowed him to lead her to the bed, where he tugged back the covers, and then slowly turned her and began to unfasten her gown.
It took a long time. She didn’t mind, for his mouth teased and kissed at her nape, and she could not be still. More kisses traced along each of her shoulders as he finally let the diaphanous muslin and net gown drop down to her elbows. Unlacing her stays was accomplished quickly and deftly, and then her chemise untied as he kissed his way down her back, making her shiver and undulate.
His arms reached around her, sweeping the gown off her arms to the floor. His hands held the curve of her waist, stroking, then caressing their way upward to softly cup her breasts through the thin lawn of her drooping chemise. She closed her eyes and leaned back against him in bliss, and when his fingers circled more boldly, teasing her nipples, she reached blindly for his mouth and found it.
The chemise vanished, and his fingers played on her naked skin. She turned in his arms, running her hands greedily up and down his back, her open mouth buried in his throat as she inhaled his warm, masculine Stephen scent. She dragged her mouth across his clavicles and down his chest, and found herself on her back, reaching blindly for the buttons of his pantaloons.
To her surprise, he let her, even knelt over her to give her access while he gazed down at her hands, at her breasts, her face, breathing heavily. And then he scooted off her to kick off the remains of his pantaloons and drawers. As though he had just discovered them, he took hold of her ankles, then slowly caressed his way up her leg to unfasten one garter, and then the others. She had never found the removal of her stockings so slow or so thrilling before because it seemed his lips had to explore every inch of exposed skin.
“Stephen,” she all but panted, grasping his hair.
His smile was voracious as he pulled himself up, covering her body with his long, lean one. She found delight in sweeping her hands up and down his length, in moving her hips against the long, hard column of his erection. There were more lingering, blissful kisses, the intimate exploration of his fingers, and then his lips, down her throat and collar bone and breasts. She loved the way he responded to her every touch, sighing, undulating, softly groaning his desire.
With growing desperation, she writhed beneath him, arching up into him. His lips, his tongue, found her breasts, leading her to desperate, panicked need. Only then did he enter her body, slowly hilting himself within.
“Oh…” she whispered. “Oh, Stephen…” She gazed deep into his eyes, and he into hers, and then he began to move, and she with him.
His hands grazed her cheek, her lips. “How can one person be this lovely, this…”
“You are,” she whispered, unable to hold back the bliss. “You are…” She reached again for his mouth, and he gave it, sweet and sensual.
It was the first of many joys she found in his arms, until, the greatest of all, when he rose up over her writhing body, withdrawing, and allowing his own magnificent passion to release at last with hers.
*
When Stephen awoke, he was warm, deliciously happy, and tangled in Aline’s gloriously naked limbs. Never had he found such intense pleasure as in making love with this woman, this unique, beautiful woman, who was everything he had ever wanted and so much more.
Where the devil did that come from? But, no, he wasn’t even surprised by the knowledge. It had been creeping up on him, galloping on him since he had begun to know her here, building on the voracious desires of his body.
Which had been quite right. She was a magnificent, generous, utterly passionate lover, and her joy moved him as no other woman’s ever had. Despite her experience—or perhaps because of it—there was something sweetly vulnerable about her.
Levering up on one elbow, he gazed down at her in the pale dawn light. I adore you.
He did, with every fiber of his being. And he loved that it was so.
He wanted her again. He also wanted to paint her thus, tangled with the sheets, beautiful in her well-loved, rumpled debauchery. He smiled at the thought. Painting her so intimately, without permission, would be a betrayal. Besides the moment was between her and him, and he was honored to have her in his bed. Honored and thoroughly aroused.
He shifted, just to touch her hair, the soft skin of her cheek, keeping it light so as not to wake her. Or at least give her the chance to go back to sleep. But he saw her delicious lips stretch into a smile, and when he skimmed a finger over them, they moved to kiss it. He needed no further encouragement to replace it with his mouth, teasing her to full wakefulness. The kiss deepened slowly, delightfully into one of utter sin as his body settled over hers, caressing, worshiping.
Her response was sleepy yet savoring. “I thought I had dreamed you in my bed.”
“You must have. For here you are in mine.”
Her eyes opened, already clouded with passion that almost undid him. Taking him by surprise, she pushed, rolling him onto his back. At least she came with him. And, perhaps in revenge for his slow approach last night, she began to caress him with her knowing fingers and her mouth, covering his body, chest and stomach and…
He closed his eyes in bliss. Never stop that. Never leave this bed. Never leave me.
The gift of such pleasure deserved reciprocation, which he was more than happy to provide, while the sun rose higher behind the curtains and spilled dappled light upon her beauty.
“It must be nearly nine,” she murmured sleepily into his throat as they lay tangled together, sated once more. “I need to see Basil. And wear something less decadent than that evening gown.”
“Smuggle yourself in with the domino cloak still around you,” Stephen advised as she began to untangle herself and sit up. “I wish you could just stay here.” I wish we didn’t have to pretend. But that led in a dangerous direction, and he was relieved to be distracted by her slender, naked back.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes tempting, and yet suddenly veiled. “I could come back.”
“To be painted?”
“Of course.” A smile, wicked and entirely Aline flashed across her face and was gone. Hastily, she collected her strewn clothes and donned them with her back to him. It crossed his mind that even after the intimacies they had enjoyed, she was shy.
“You are so beautiful,” he said softly. In new and wonderful ways that astounded him. “Shall I fasten your gown?”
“There is no point when I am about to take it off again.” She found one stocking and sat on the bottom of the bed to slide it over her foot.
Stephen, spotting the other under the dressing table, rose from the bed and retrieved it. He knelt before her and took her bare foot into his hand.
“What are you doing?” she asked warily.
“Helping you to dress. After all, I was largely responsible for the undressing.”
A bewildered smile flickered in her eyes and was gone. She watched him as he slipped the stocking over her foot and drew it up over her calf and knee. Her breathing changed when he reached her thigh, but she did not stop him. It was hard to stop himself and tie her garter.
She seemed embarrassed now by his nakedness, for her eyes slid away and would not meet his as she rose and swung the domino cloak around her. He did not wish to part from her so. In fact, he was aware of rising panic.
Hastily, he struggled into an old dressing gown that dangled over one of the bedposts and made it to the door, just as her hand closed around the key.
“You will come back?” he blurted.
Her gaze flew up to his and seemed to lighten. “If I can.”
He bent and kissed her lips, not a lover’s kiss, but a soft, brief one of affection. And then she was gone, leaving him already longing for her return.
Unless she already regretted what they had done.
Chapter Nine
His anxiety that he had done something wrong, scared her away so soon, twisted through his joy in last night and his effort not to think of the future. At least, not beyond her return to his room while Basil stayed with his tutor.
He knew only too well the beguiling intimacy that could spring up between painter and sitter. But he had never before taken advantage of it, had never wanted to. The intimacy, from his side at least, had always been platonic. Until Aline. Who was just…overwhelming. Unique. Wonderful.
He distracted himself the only way he knew. Having put the bed to rights and tidied up, he washed and dressed in his old painting clothes, and set about cleaning the brushes he had left out last night. Only then did he allow himself to look at all the portraits he had begun of her so far. He scowled at them, trying to be objective, and came to the relieved conclusion that they were all working. And as long as he didn’t mess it up, the one he had begun last night in the secret garden, would be the centerpiece, large and bold, full of movement and joy and life.
He set to work on it once more, filling in what he had only sketched out of the trees and bushes in the background, working backward from the bits of reflection he had already painted in the pond.
He had just begun on the unpainted stretch of sky when a knock on the door heralded not Aline but the chambermaid with fresh water and towels. He turned down her offer to clean the room, all but shooed her out, and returned to his painting.
Which was when it hit him. Today was Sunday. There would be no lessons for Basil, no reason for her to leave him in the care of others in order to be with him. Disappointment swirled. But perhaps he could join them instead. The weather seemed pleasant enough—perhaps a country walk and luncheon al fresco?
He finished the sky and found his heartbeat quickened just by looking at his painting of her.
You are pathetic, Stephen Dornan. He covered the painting and moved to the next. And the next. Until he knew that if he was going to invite Aline and Basil to walk, it should be now. Hastily, he cleaned his brushes once more, and his hands. He was about to change when a knock sounded at the door.
Refusing to allow hope to overwhelm him, he strode to the door and opened it.
Aline breezed in with a basket. And he could only smile as if he had been given the best, most unexpected gift.
