“Every man has his secrets,” he said slowly. “And no, you do not know them all. But you know more than most, Thalia.”
A thrill ran through her.
I would like to know them all, she didn’t dare to say aloud.
“Here,” he said and took her hand, bowing over it. “Come, let me see you to your door.”
“No.” She pulled her hand away, thinking fast. “My maid is loyal, but I cannot vouch for all the servants, and if anyone finds me sneaking back inside, it would be better to be alone. If they see you, then?—”
“I understand.” Was it her imagination, or did he sound a little disappointed? “Then let me bid you farewell now.”
This was for the best, she told herself. What she wanted. They could not afford to be too involved. And she could certainly not invite him back to her house.
Had the circumstances been different, she might have been tempted to behave so boldly.
“Goodbye, Maxwell,” she said. “Until we meet again.”
His eyes were dark as they scanned her face. “Until then.”
Later that night, as Thalia stared at the ceiling of her bed chamber, her maid having successfully snuck her back inside, all she could see was the Duke’s face as he stared at her from across the room. All she could hear was his voice informing the crowd that he would be purchasing the sculpture.
Helikedit.
She squealed and buried her head in her pillow before a rather devastating thought occurred to her.
This has gone beyond idle fancy. Beyond lust, even.
She didn’t just find him coldly appealing, and she didn’t merely admire his boxing or his propensity to be wherever she needed him to be.
No, she liked him in an entirely deeper, more intimate way.
And she had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to do with that.
Maxwell leaned back in his chair, one hand on his cock as he pictured Thalia in a negligee, those perfect breasts covered by mere slips of material. He recalled the hungry way she had kissed him and groaned, pumping harder. A small part of him knew this was a mistake to fantasize about her in this way, but the other part wanted her.
This desire was explosive, demanding. Unlike anything he had ever experienced before.
He knew, more than ever, that nothing could happen between them. But the tilt of her chin as she confessed her greatest secret to him was captivating. Her integrity, her bravery, her artistic merit. She was talented and determined to pursue that talent, even if it meant excluding herself from Society.
He ought to have despised her unladylike behavior.
Instead, there was fire in his veins. His release neared, and he imagined putting her bold mouth to work on him, sliding up and down as he?—
His hips bucked, and he fumbled for the handkerchief to catch his seed as he spilled, the mental image too much.
The sensible thing to do would be to avoid her. She was too much of a temptation—had been from the start, and he had ignored all his inner warnings.
Now it was too late; as he cleaned himself up, he considered all the ways they might meet again. If he could orchestrate it. Whether she would permit him to. The gathering that evening had been a farce, rich men playing at being artists while insulting those true artists among them.
What she needed, and what she would like beyond all else, was a true meeting of like-minded people. Artists who prioritized their art rather than merely appeasing their patrons.
He knew of just the place, and he rather thought he could secure them both an invitation.
CHAPTER 12
Seeing each other again came far sooner than Thalia could have imagined. Just two days later, after a day wandering around an art gallery with a group of singularly disinterested young ladies, she found a note in her bedchamber written in unfamiliar masculine handwriting.
Her stomach jumped, and her heart pounded in her chest. Before she so much as opened the note, she knew who it would be from. No one else she knew wrote her name like that, as though the letters only existed in slashes—yet, for all that, the hand was still an elegant one.
