“I know,” he said lowly, clearly shedding his air of formality for the night. “I know this is your friend's house. I know there are a hundred people forty feet from here who would have a great deal to say about this.”
“Then you understand why this is –”
“Dangerous.” He said the word before she could, and the corner of his mouth moved, not quite a smile. “Yes.”
He was close enough now that she could smell him – cedar and something spicy and warmer underneath. Whenever she was close enough to sense it, she yearned to burrow herself within his embrace, to simply lose herself completely, surrounded by his essence. His eyes moved over her face in that particular way that conveyed intent, as though she were a precious moment he was trying to commit to memory before it was taken from him.
“I have thought about your body,” he began, quietly and without flourish, “Every day since I drew you the first time. I have thought about the line of your shoulder and the way the light fell across your collarbone and the particular curve of–”
He stopped himself suddenly, and he stood straighter. “I want to draw you properly. Here and now. I know the light is poor. I don't care. I need to – I need something to keep.”
The last three words cost him something. She could hear it, and could not help but wonder if the price was the same as when she gave into his whims, when she allowed herself to be closer to him than was necessary.
Jane stood very still, listening faintly as music from the ballroom pulsed distantly through the walls. She could not help but think about the hundred people out there, and Penelope's carefully arranged floral centrepieces, and every sensible reason she had to sayno, not here, not now.
But when she opened her mouth, the words that came out were,
“How would you like me?”
The question had cost her something too, that much was obvious, thanks to the emotion that flashed across his face. He clenched his jaw and inhaled sharply, shaking his head slightly, before he sighed.
Then he leaned in, his breath tickling her ear as he whispered, “Take off your clothes, duchess.”
“Thomas,” she gasped in shock. “Here? Now? Surely you do not intend to do such a thing at a time like this.”
He brushed her hair back, over her shoulders, then he caressed down her neck and collar, his expression dark.
“You looked utterly breathtaking this evening. I wanted to tell you that the moment I saw you from the top of the stairs. And I felt as though I had used up most of my life’s good fortune when we danced. You are so immensely beautiful; my duchess and that dress is a thing of wonder on its own. As are you, when you are bare, and naturally emboldened. Please? Do not deny me the pleasure of putting the curves that I have dreamt about on paper.”
Jane was not sure how, but his tongue seemed to be dipped in honey tonight, which was the only way she could explain how she was easily coaxed into doing all of this without fail.
Other than that, his words set her alight, spreading heat and fire through her insides, filling her with thoughts she was not equipped to handle.
With a sigh, she reached up and began to work the first button at the back of her own gown.
“Help me,” she said. “I cannot reach.”
His hands replaced hers without a word. He undid each button with careful, unhurried fingers, and she felt the bodice loosen, felt the cool air of the room kiss her skin, and she did not look at him. She stared at the dancing flames fireplace and listened to the sound of her own breathing until the gown slipped from her shoulders.
Thomas stepped back and she stood straighter, stepped out of the dress and gracefully bent over to pick it up. Then, Jane folded it over the arm of the settee with a kind of deliberate calm she did not entirely feel, and stood in her chemise for a moment before she looked at him.
His expression was guarded, contained in a way that told her he was spending considerable effort on giving her a particular impression.
Pinned by the weight of his gaze, she removed the chemise.
The room was cool and dim and she was aware of every inch of her own skin, the way the weak candlelight from under the door caught the swell of her hip, the soft plane of her stomach. When she was finally brave enough to meet his gaze, she found out Thomas hadn't moved.
He was watching her with rapt attention, almost as if he was trying to understand her. Every dip of his eyes was deliberate, no single glance wasted. She swallowed her unease, because she knew he had not yet begun to create his art yet. There was still a chance things could get much more... intense.
“Where would you like me?” she asked, mildly surprised that her voice had come out steadier than she had any right to expect.
It had taken him a moment to respond. Thomas inhaled sharply, then gradually, he raised a hand, gesturing to the center of the room.
“There. Fold your arms beneath your – yes.” He made his way to her side to alter her posture himself, his touch on her forearms brief and warm as he patted the cross of her arms beneath her breasts. “Tilt our chin away from me. Slightly.”
She turned her face toward the fireplace, heat filling her cheeks as he mumbled,
“Perfection. Utter perfection.”
