“Yes, pumpkin?” he said, crouching down to her level.
“Look!” she grabbed his hand and tugged him to a desk that held a still-drying paint drawing. “This is for you!”
For a child of seven, Emily had a flair for the brush. Although not accurate, he saw his figure, Emily, Leander—damn that man—and Ariadne. Above them was what looked like a blond angel.
“It’s a family portrait,” Emily said. “See? That’s you,”—she pointed to the biggest figure—“Uncle Leander,”—a figure with dark hair—“Miss Aria and me.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. You are a veritable Leonardo da Vinci.” His face softened as his eyes took in the figures in the picture. “That’s a pretty angel.”
“That’s mother,” Emily said proudly. “She’s in heaven looking down on us.”
He felt struck in the heart with a heated knife but managed to muster a smile. Emily did not know about her mother’s duplicity, and if he had a hand in it, she would never, ever know.“Yes, pumpkin, yes, she is. Thank you, Emily. I’ll make sure to have it framed.”
She smiled and gave him a tight hug. “Have you some time to read a story tonight?”
“I do.” He said, then dismissed her governess. “So, what are we reading tonight?’
Stepping into his room, Cedric stripped his jacket and tugged his neckcloth away as if it had offended him. Dropping both on the nearest flat surface, he looked around but did not see Ariadne.
“I hope I didn’t scare her off with sleeping together last night,” he sighed while rubbing the tense lines at the back of his neck. “Because I want to have her in my bed again.”
It was late in the evening, past dusk, and he realized he had not eaten at all, that day. Would she want to eat supper with him, too?
As he began to disrobe, Athena trotted in as easily as she pleased before sitting herself down at the fireplace.
“Cedric?” Ariadne called as she pulled the door between them. When her eyes landed on him, her expression cleared. “Oh, yes, I thought I heard you.”
She was wearing that thick robe again, and he held back a groan. If only he could burn that thing, and all the duplicates she had in store, not to mention the tent-like nightgown that only a nun would desire.
She smiled. “Have you eaten?”
“No,” he said. “And I wanted to ask if you’d share supper with me?”
“I’d love to,” Ariadne untied the cords of her robe and tossed the cloak onto his chair.
Something kicked Cedric in the chest, punching the air out of his lungs. The sudden gust left him light-headed, unable to hold onto a single solid thought, save one.
Who is the creature in front of him?
The Ariadne he knew wore primly nightclothes, with enough ribbons, flounces, and buttons that covered her from head to toe. The voluminous sack had done a disservice to her body and dampened his desire for her.
This Ariadne, however, wore a gown that highlighted every dip and curve of her body. The silky blush fabric glimmered with red at places with the firelight flickering over her body, and some parts of it were as see-through as cheesecloth.
The square bodice bared her plump, fair breasts almost to the nipple. In fact, he surelycouldsee her nipples, the faint outline of puckered buds visible under the gossamer breath of silk.
The thin rouge ribbon tied beneath her breasts emphasized the fullness of her bosom; he felt his mouth water.
“Cedric?” She was looking at him with innocence as pure as driven snow.
“What are you wearing?” he asked in wonder.
“Clara took me to her dressmaker, and she was so fortunate enough to have this on hand,” she said. “I know you said you hated my old nightclothes.”
When she turned, and he saw the back of it, he swore his heart stopped. The lapels of her nightgown framed the supple dip of her spine and rested on the shelf of her rounded bottom. Who could have made this despicably wicked garment?
He stood and crossed the room to stick a finger into the loop of the bow on her shoulder. “If I pull this, does this slip of nothing come off?”
“Yes,” she replied.
