What would she look like if she melted?
Her cheeks flared with color. “People whisper,” she said, her voice low, shaky. “I’m a widow, you know. They don’t feel such a drive to protect me from delicate subjects. Scandalous ones. I know that Pembroke does a very different kind of painting for special clients. Have you…have you ever seen that work?”
He swallowed hard. She was talking about Pembroke’s erotic work. Most of it was never displayed, but created only for clients willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of posing at their most intimate. But a few of his pieces had been shown in exclusive clubs like the Donville Masquerade. They were shocking and powerful. Over time more and more people had wanted to look at the erotic mingling of bodies, most of their owners unidentifiable in the portraits Pembroke chose to put on display.
“You know…” he began, and then cut himself off with a shake of his head.
She stared at him. “What were you going to say?”
Oh, he was going too far. And it had nothing to do with the horrible bargain he’d made with his cousins, nothing to do with protecting his mother. No, what he was about to say…suggest, was only about her.
“There is a small collection of those pieces here, as well,” he said.
Her eyes went wide and wild at the words. “What?”
“But they’ve only made admission available to the gentlemen.”
She pursed her lips. “Are the paintings only of gentlemen?”
He shook his head. “No. Almost no single figures, if I understand correctly. Couples or…er…more.”
“More!” Her voice lifted and she looked around to see if someone had heard. But they were alone in this particular gallery except for Joy, who was all the way across the room, working on needlepoint rather than enjoying the paintings. She seemed entirely engrossed in that, as well.
He nodded. “Pembroke’s erotic work can be shocking.” Her breath was very short now. Shaky. “Would you…would you like to see it?”
He shouldn’t have asked her that. Shouldn’t have suggested such a wicked thing to a lady at all, not that a lot of ladies hadn’t enjoyed the displays when they were at the higher quality hells. But this was different. He doubted Flora had a membership to such a club as the Donville Masquerade. Doubted she’d let herself come undone and explore all the wicked and wild things she wanted or felt.
He wondered what they were and what it would look like if she let go.
Her hands were trembling at her sides and she nodded shakily. “I…would,” she whispered. “But I can’t, can I?”
“It’s quiet,” he said, taking her elbow and quickly guiding her from the room. Her maid didn’t even look up as they slipped past. He took Flora down a hallway, past other paintings from other artists outside the special exhibit. They twisted and turned through the halls until they came to a little darker area, hidden from the main view.
“You know this so well?” she murmured.
He shrugged. “They do exhibits that are limited to men from time to time. I know where they put them so they aren’t easily found.” He looked down the hallway. “There is no guard. We could look in for a moment. But only if you want to. The pieces are likely quite shocking.”
“I want to,” she whispered, but he felt her trembling against his side. He kept a grip on her elbow, in case she had a poor reaction to what they would see.
He pulled the dark curtain back and they stepped into the tiny gallery. There were only four portraits on display here, but they were immediately gripping. It was the same two models, though their faces were obscured, painted in various erotically charged positions. And he had no idea how Flora would respond.
CHAPTER 7
Flora didn’t know where to look. She wanted to look at everything in that shocking room, drink in every image, but they overwhelmed her. The emotions she had seen in the more public photos were also here in these erotic ones, but multiplied by the nakedness of the couple’s bodies, by the stark passion of their half-hidden expressions.
She was shaking as she moved to the piece closest to the door. In it the lady straddled the man, her bare thighs gripping his. Her head was dipped back and though her identity wasn’t clear, her mouth was visible just at the top of the frame and twisted in a gasp of pleasure. His hands cupped her naked backside, fingers digging into soft flesh, a white-knuckled grip of pleasure.
She could almost feel that pressure herself, wondered what it would be like to be claimed with such fervor. “Oh,” she murmured, without meaning to say anything.
“Too much?” Roarke asked. She jumped at the realization that he was standing just at her side, watching her look at such wicked things.
What could she say to him without revealing her arousal and interest and desires that suddenly burned through her skin, in her blood, in a way she’d never allowed herself to feel?
So she said nothing, pretended she hadn’t heard the question, and went to the second piece. This one appeared to be the same lady as in the first painting, the same gentleman lover. Pembroke’s erotic muses, perhaps?
The faceless lady was turned toward the observer, the man at her back, his lips against her throat. A big hand covered one of her breasts. The other was bare, the dark nipple pebbled with desire. Her lover’s second hand was between her legs, covering her as he pleasured her. But what was more shocking was that a second man’s hand rested on the faceless lady’s hip, paint slashed across his lean fingers. Like the artist had placed himself into the image with the other two.
Flora pivoted in surprise at such a thing, but when she stepped forward she collided into Roarke’s chest and nearly tipped herself over. He caught both her elbows, tugging her closer to keep her from tumbling herself onto her arse.
She looked up at him, his expression stormy in the dimly lit gallery. He looked wild and untamed in that moment, like the very portraits before them. His hands were smooth on her skin, leather against flesh, for he hadn’t removed his gloves yet. She wanted him to. Wanted to feel him against her in some echo of the erotic images before them.
He could have stepped away. She was steady now. Only he didn’t. He continued to stare down at her, hands holding her firmly, her chest pressed to his chest. And oh, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to back her into the darkest corner of the room and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe or think or feel anything but him. That was what she wanted, so clear a desire that her head spun.
Only he didn’t. As much as he looked like he wanted to do just that, as much as his breath stirred her lips because he was so close, he stepped away. “I-I think I hear someone in the hall.”
She blinked. It would not do to be caught looking at such wicked things with a gentleman. To be found in his arms. She had a lot of freedom as a widow, yes. But that would cause talk no matter what.
“I think there is a back exit here,” he said, and motioned to another curtain at the opposite side of the room. She followed him, noting that he no longer touched her, didn’t take her arm. She tried not to look at the remaining two erotic portraits, each more passionate than the last, for fear she’d lose herself all over again.
They stepped into the hall, which now felt unbearably bright and cool. Almost dizzying because it was all so normal and what she felt was so foreign. Like she didn’t belong in her own heated, aching body. Was this desire? She’d thought she knew it. Would have said she felt it during her marriage. But this was something far more intense, powerful, overwhelming.