He wanted to deck her in an emerald necklace and paint her naked. Immediately he rejected the thought. She should be painted with a hint of mystery, a sensual smile on those lips, invitation and innocence glowing from her golden eyes, her neckline only slightly lowered, but her puckered nipples evident.
“Is this to your satisfaction?” she asked, looking self-conscious.
“Almost. Remove your slippers. Cross your legs at the knee…and allow your gown to drag up and bare your ankles to my eyes.”
Her breathing fractured and a pretty flush of pink bloomed across her cheeks. What would she taste like? A mere brush of his lips on hers would solve that mystery. Would she slap his face or welcome his touch? Something in her eyes invited him over, and he wondered if that was simply a fanciful hunger. Oliver waged a fierce battle with temptation and the needs beating at him. Perhaps painting Lily Layton would be the gravest of mistakes. He cursed under his breath. “Perhaps it was not wise for me to start painting you tonight. You must be tired.”
She stared at him for a long moment, her lips slightly parted, before flashing him a small smile. Then she stood. “Sleep well, my lord.”
He watched her leave, unable to wrest his gaze away from her. The door closed with a soft click, and Oliver released the breath he hadn’t realized he held. Putting away his oils and brushes, he strolled to the sideboard and poured another drink, then another, pushing all thoughts of Lily Layton from his thoughts.
Unable to halt the need, he made his way to his desk and plucked the diary from the top drawer. Taking a steady breath, he flipped the diary open and picked a random entry.
Dearest Diary,
How I wish to indulge in the simple pleasure of standing in the rain or perhaps reposing on the wet grass, my face lifted to the heavens, the feel of soft wind on my face, the beat of the rain as it pounds against my skin. I long for freedom, to do as I wish without any rebuke. I’ve no husband now, so why do I hesitate? Should I wish to eat dessert before the main course, I shall do so. If I wish to run in the rain or swim in the lake, then I will. And if I desire to touch myself while I think of Ambrose…then I shall, without any guilt. Why does he entice me so? Why does he haunt my dreams when I know full well a man such as the marquess would never consider a woman of my circumstance for his lover?
Giving a rough sound, he closed the diary and put it back in the drawer. What was her circumstance? Nothing in her words ever revealed an inkling of her identity or her connections. With impatient movements he shed his jacket, waistcoat, cravat, and his boots, leaving them on the library floor. He opened a small, carved wooden box by the inkwell, removed a cheroot, and lit it. Oliver stared at the bookcase for several minutes and was still unable to convince himself to retire to his bedchamber. Tonight would be the third night Oliver would haunt his house, hoping—more like praying—that he would encounter his secret lady.
Oliver ground the root of the cheroot in an ashtray, then swallowed the rest of his whisky before placing the glass on the desk.
He pushed off the desk and prowled over to the secret panel. Before he could stop himself, he opened it and stepped into the dark passageway. He took no candlestick, at home with the darkness, and with sure feet, he made his way along the silent corridor. He traversed the length, and it was not long before he realized he was alone. There was no one lingering in these passages. With a groan of defeat, he leaned against the wall and tipped his head back, staring into the abyss. Why was he making it an obsession to find her?
Suddenly, an awareness rippled through him, and he froze, hardly daring to hope. He sensed her approach, and triumph sang through him.
“You’re here.” Her voice was husky, bold and daring, and he instinctively knew this was unlike her.
“Yes. I’ve returned a few nights since.”
A swift inhalation. “I made no promises.”
“Why are you here?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “And somehow I knew you would be here.”
His mouth went dry, and there was a peculiar ache in his chest he was unable to identify. “I was afraid I’d hurt you or scared you.” It was as he said it that he finally understood some of the desperation that had been urging him to find her again. He wanted to ensure she was well, that he hadn’t petrified her with his rough tupping.
“I enjoyed every moment of our time together.” Was it his imagination that her husky rasp seemed familiar?
“Were you at the ball just now?”
Silence.
“Were you?” came her rejoinder.
“Yes.”
“So was I.”
He pushed from the wall, moving to the ghostly outline. “Perhaps we danced.” Somehow, he sensed her amusement. “Are you smiling?”
“Yes,” she said, so softly, he strained to hear.
A hand bumped into his shoulder, then traveled down past his elbow as her fingers searched for his. When she found his hand, she took it and raised it to her mouth. There, he traced the curve of her lips.
“I’m still smiling.”
Without overthinking the visceral need, he cupped her cheek and took her lips.