“Are you certain?” she countered, starting on the buttons of his shirt.
“I am wholly persuaded,” he whispered against her throat. “A man enthralled and happy to be so.”
A niggling, watchful part of him knew the pleasure would be temporary, and the happiness would fade to bittersweet memories, but he wanted those memories badly. He hoped for Psyche the memories would be more sweet than bitter and could set right some wrongs life had done her.
“Damned, rubbishing clothes,” she muttered, heaving herself off his lap to rise and turn her back to him. “My hooks, please. I understand better why Hazel has so many dressing gowns and why they are so fetchingly embroidered.”
Michael made swift work of hooks, buttons, tapes, and laces and dispatched his own clothing to the nearest wing chair.
Psyche stood in her shift, the firelight turning fine lawn to gossamer. “Some other night, I will undress you, button by button, as one reads a book, page by page. Tonight, I haven’t the self-restraint.”
“Nor do I have the fortitude to endure such pleasure. I have dreamed of you, Psyche Fremont. I have marched half the length of London with you figuratively at my side. My hand has dutifully written one epistle after another, while in my head, I’m drafting recollections of time spent with you.”
The exercise of a man who wanted every detail of a treasured memory preserved, because he’d savor those details for the rest of his life.
Psyche stepped into his arms, and this time, her kisses were hungry and lavish. Michael felt the slow unraveling of her worries as passion nudged aside misgivings and doubts and replaced them with determination.
“I want to be on top,” she said, subsiding against his chest. “I want to see you.”
He lay back on the velvet cushions, and she took up the quilt and crouched over him. He was blanketed with warmth and a nearly naked Psyche, whose husband had apparently been too dunderheaded to yield the initiative to her.
Michael braced his hands on her hips. “Have your pleasure of me, madam. I will surely have mine of you.”
Her smile was joy, mischief, and female daring all at once, and then she was tormenting Michael with her hands, her mouth, her body undulating against his rampant member.
“I like this,” she said, stroking her thumb over the head of his cock. “I like that I can see you, that we’re not muddling about in the dark, under the covers, trying to be polite and friendly when what’s necessary is passion.”
“I like what you’re doing rather too well.” Michael’s voice had acquired a rasp, and his hips were moving of their own volition.
“Do you?” She studied his face and his breeding organs. “Does that mean I can make you spend?”
“Fiend.”
“Another time, perhaps.” She shifted to seat him at the entrance of her body. “I want to gobble you up.”
Michael was entirely willing to be gobbled, but some instinct prodded him to prevent a mutual plundering.
“Sketch me line by line instead. Build a composition, explore, try on ideas, and consider suggestions. We’ll have time for headlong pleasures some other day.”
She went still above him, her hands braced on the pillow on either side of his head. “Will we, Michael? Will we have those other days? Will we ever have enough of them?”
She lowered herself onto him by subtle, rocking increments, and he was spared the dilemma of answering her with words. No, they would never have enough time together, even if they spent their remaining years on earth in the same room. This evening, whatever few occasions they indulged in over the next few weeks, were folly of the worst sort and a profound gift.
Michael seized the gift with everything in him and gave Psyche all he had to offer—his respect, his affection, his self-restraint, his joy. The intimacy became profound, a union of more than bodies, a pleasure much greater than the mere satisfaction of physical yearnings.
Psyche gave her all too, and demanded equal courage of Michael, until they were a panting heap of wonder and satisfaction, and the fire had burned down to coals.
The day was tantalizingly mild, and Psyche could not settle to her painting. In the past four weeks—since becoming Michael Delancey’s lover—she’d all but completed his portrait and was putting the finishing touches on a likeness of Hazel.
That project was going well and had forced Psyche to heed Berthold’s wisdom. “Anybody can look, but the artist sees.” When Psyche had taken the time to study her aunt, she’d seen courage, determination, good-heartedness, well-camouflaged fear, weariness, humor, and—artist, look upon thyself—loneliness.
The completed portrait, as a technical tour de force, would absolutely be worthy of inclusion in the summer exhibition for the skill it displayed, but the subject alas… was not grand, not heroic, not classical or historical in the preferred, respected, and lucrative tradition.
Perhaps Mr. Sycamore Dorning was interested in having his portrait… but no. Mr. Dorning’s brother Oak had superlative talent as a portraitist. Perhaps Mr. Dorning’s wife, a former marchioness—
“Note for you, ma’am,” Kevin said, rapping on the studio’s open door. “Lad’s in the kitchen waiting for a reply.”
Psyche took the note, expecting a summons from Hazel to join her for an ice at Gunter’s—the day was that temperate—or a raid on Hatchards, but the note was from Michael.
The pleasure of your company is requested on the bank of the Serpentine at two of the clock on behalf of Miss Beatrice Delancey (and friend). Sandwiches will be provided for those who arrive punctually. M
He’d written a few other notes over the past few weeks. Letting her know he could spare an hour at the Brewpot before one of Berthold’s classes, asking if he could arrive an hour early on Thursday evening. He always assumed that Thursday nights were for painting, and Psyche appreciated that.
Though less and less painting was happening, and not simply because lovemaking with Michael had become Psyche’s favorite pleasure. In close contention for top honors was talking with Michael, cuddling with Michael, and merely walking at his side. He’d shown her, in her guise as Henderson, some of the poorer parishes and introduced her to crossing sweepers, beggars, vagrants, and prostitutes, all of whom seemed to like and respect him.
Psyche took a pencil from behind her ear and scribbled a few words on the note, then passed it back to Kevin.
“I’ll be going out. The day is too splendid to spend indoors.” Such a day in early autumn would have been a bit nippy, but in early spring, it was a bit of heaven.
“Shopping, ma’am?” Kevin asked. “Shall I plan to go along?”
Kevin fancied himself a porter in training, though he was about ten years too young to do the job properly.
“I do believe I can carry a new parasol for the length of a few streets, Kevin, but thank you just the same.”
“You went parasol shopping last week, ma’am.”
“And found nothing to my taste. Spring will soon be here, and a lady must be fashionable.”
Kevin grinned, waved the note, and spun on his heel. He did not walk when he could sprint. Time would cure him of that exuberance.
“The prudent thing to have done,” Psyche muttered as she scraped her palette and cleaned her brushes, “was to decline this outing. The light only lasts so long, and the invitations are already beginning.”