Oliver stared at him, almost defiant in the way his chin lifted. There was no hiding his arousal at the situation they were in. His hard cock was outlined against the front of his trousers and Ezra’s mouth practically watered at the sight of it. Wanted more.
As if the duchess sensed that tension rising in the air, she murmured, “So people come here to this studio to…to do this?” she asked. “Pose? Or do you create their images purely from your mind?”
Ezra flinched and the heat that hung between the three of them dissipated slightly. He bent his head. “Once I could find my muse without a subject, or paint from my own experiences. But in the last five years, that has changed. So yes, they come here, asking me to create something that is for their private pleasure. They trust me to look at them in these situations and to make that beautiful, not rude or salacious.”
“You do a good job,” Oliver said softly.
“What changed five years ago?” the duchess pressed.
Ezra cocked his head, focusing entirely on her. She was truly lovely. There was both a sweetness to her expression and an erotic knowledge that made him want to paint her. To capture that dichotomy as best he could. To capture the heat that was woven between her and her servant.
“I lost my creative drive, I suppose. For reasons I’d rather not discuss,” Ezra said. “But tonight, when you two arrived at my door, I was instantly struck by something I haven’t felt in a very long time. A drive to create. To make something beautiful for nothing but my own pleasure.”
Oliver’s nostrils flared and he edged slightly in front of the duchess. A protective move. “What are you saying?”
Ezra stepped toward him, closer and closer, until their chests were almost touching. “I want to paint Her Grace…I want to paint her with you. Like this.”
* * *
Anna
Anna couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t even recall how as she stared at Pembroke, trying to understand if she was dreaming or if this was really happening. Had this man, this handsome man, suggested that she pose for an erotic portrait…with Oliver? To tangle herself with him while Pembroke watched?
And why did that arouse her to a level she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a very long time?
“How dare you?” Oliver said, his voice rough and low as he eased himself in front of her even further, a physical wall between her and Pembroke.
Pembroke cocked his head, and Anna hoped he could see that Oliver’s rage was not something to be trifled with. He practically vibrated with indignant anger and protective wrath. This was not something she’d seen before. He was, after all, a servant, and had to control his responses to his “betters”. She reached out to draw her fingers into the crook of his elbow.
“Oliver,” she said softly.
Perhaps under normal circumstances, that would have drawn his attention back to her. Broken the intense connection between him and Pembroke. Only Pembroke did not seem to see the danger. Or he saw it and didn’t care enough to protect himself. To stand down so he wouldn’t escalate this situation.
No, instead, Pembroke moved forward, eyes locked on Oliver’s, a swagger to his hips. One step after another, a slow challenge that lifted the tension in the room. The heat.
Anna gasped out a breath and moved to wedge herself between the men. She reached behind her to press a hand to Oliver’s chest, holding him back, even as she stared up at Pembroke. “Please!”
Pembroke stopped coming toward her. “Let me see if I can give this situation more clarity. You are running, Your Grace. That is why you were out in the middle of an ice storm in the dark.”
Anna nearly choked at that simple statement that stripped her down to her very core.
“You don’t have to tell me from what. To what,” Pembroke continued. “But I would assume it has to do with funds. That money is why you look so desperate, whyhelooks so haunted.” He paused, as if waiting for one of them to deny his charge. Of course, neither of them could. “I would pay you for posing.”
Anna froze. That he could see though her, that it was humiliating, didn’t change the fact that he was also correct. And that his simple statement was like a buoy to cling to in a tossing sea.
“How—how much?” she whispered, hating that her voice broke. That she couldn’t sound nonchalant and unmoved like Pembroke did. Like men always did when they held enormous power.
“Fifty pounds,” Pembroke said casually, as if he had not listed a number that could change the fortune of some people. His gaze flitted to Oliver. “Each.”
Anna’s knees began to tremble and she stumbled back. She might have fallen if Oliver hadn’t caught her elbow, keeping her upright as she leaned against him. Blood whooshed in her ears, a steady throb of her own pulse making anything else hard to hear.
“Oliver,” she murmured, lifting her gaze to his. He stared back, so solid, so comforting. And his expression was guarded. She fought once more for breath and for words. “I could…I could let a place for a while with that kind of money. And then perhaps I could beg friends for help. For a position even.”
Oliver’s cheek twitched, his pain at the idea of her having to beg for her life obvious. Of course, if she didn’t, if she couldn’t, then she’d have to do far worse than beg. And to a man who would rather like to see her prostrate before him. She had no one else, after all. Her family was all dead, and the new Duke of Sedgewick held so much over her head. He had already implied he would ruin any match she tried to make for a new marriage. Because he wanted her to dance to his tune.
“You wouldn’t have to go to Sedgewick,” Oliver said softly.
Pembroke sucked in a breath, but Anna didn’t look at him. She remained focused on Oliver instead. Her island, her rock, her protector.
