She snorted. Her husband had taught her well. She might be a novelty of an artist—a duchess!—but he might rival her as a nude model—a duke!
A few attendees stalked out of the room, thunderstorms on their faces, the word dissolute trailing in their wake; others planted their feet and canted their heads in study. Whether it was down to Tristan’s rather impressive nude form or her ability as a watercolorist, she didn’t know or care.
“Sister,” said Delilah, leaning in to murmur into Amelia’s ear, “who knew thatyouwould become the most scandalous Windermere of us all?”
An easy laugh escaped Amelia, the sort of laugh she’d never been capable of before meeting Tristan. “I’m quite certain that if you put your mind to it, you could top me, Lilah.”
A pensive expression on her face, Delilah returned her attention to the triptych.
“And you, dear husband,” Amelia began, sliding her arm through Tristan’s, snugging close.
“Yes?”
“When shall you exhibit your latest works?”
His gaze turned serious. “Those are not, nor ever will be, for the public’s consumption, my sweet.”
They were speaking, of course, of the set of nude sculptures Tristan had done of her this spring. Now that she thought about it, she really would prefer all and sundry didn’t know the particular shape of her breasts or the indent of her navel.
The simple fact was they couldn’t get enough of each other.
They were each other’s muses.
They were each other’s obsession.
No shortage of shocked glances continued to be thrown their way. If this was what it felt like to be infamous—wildly and completely alive—then she looked forward to a lifetime of infamy with this man.
“You are my forever love, Tristan.”
Oh, the words she found herself saying to this man on a daily basis.
“I’ll hold you to it.”
And he took her in his arms before all gathered and kissed her until her head went giddy and her knees weak, thereby sealing their reputation as the most dissolute, indiscreet couple of theton.
The End
