Page 129 of The Ladies Least Likely

A biting jealousy reared up. He’d stopped by a bookseller on the short jaunt to Charles Street, intending to satisfy his curiosity, then wished he hadn’t. “The way you focused on your sketches of the Graf von Hardenburg,” he said.

Her crayon paused in mid-air. “You don’t approve,” she observed. “Neither does your mother, nor anyone else at her soiree last evening, except perhaps Lady Bess. I knew those sketches were going to cause me nothing but trouble.”

“You made him—” He couldn’t say it. The man staring out from those sketches had been insanely, almost unconscionably attractive. She’d made him look dashing and yet insolent at the same time, untouchable, yet inevitably a man whom scads of women, and some other men, would want to touch.

She lowered the crayon, regarding him with an expression that was suddenly not professional in the least. “I could do the same for you, Ren,” she said.

His throat went dry. “What do you mean?”

“It worked for the count, and you’re ten times finer looking than he is.

” She drew the outline of his head and shoulders in the air.

“I’m still going to do your portrait. A beautiful pastel, with Roman ruins behind you.

But you’re already an object of interest, the mysterious young earl coming home from abroad.

Prints of you would sell madly. And if you were the new fashion—think of it,” she whispered, her eyes glimmering with green lights.

“No more pity. No more stiff courtesy or barely veiled politeness. Women would fall over themselves for the chance to meet you. Start fights for the honor of a dance.”

“I don’t dance,” Ren said in a hoarse voice. How could he, with his foot? “I don’t think I want that kind of attention, Rhette.”

“Not be the subject of admiration?” She rose from the stool and moved toward him, holding out the latest sketch. Her breasts were at his eye level, the skin of her bosom flushing pink with excitement. “The object of fantasy? Look at you.”

She held out the sketch, and he was amazed. She’d somehow managed to soften every flaw, the plain hair, the too-heavy brow and jaw, the cheekbones that belonged on a woman, the lips that were too straight and the forehead that was too high. She’d made him look… He swallowed.

“But that’s illusion,” he said. “Not me. They’d look at the real me and be disappointed.”

“You underestimate yourself, Renwick,” she whispered. “No one could look at you and be disappointed.”

He held her gaze, and a hot wave rolled from his neck to his groin.

Her eyes were wide, soft, full of mischief.

Her lips were still that natural red that looked as if she’d been eating berries.

She was magnificent, with her long lean limbs and unbelievable breasts, all graceful curves from neck to ankle.

He wanted to pull her down atop him and never let her go.

“Besides, how can this possibly be comfortable?” She held out a hand at waist level, palm up, and he thought she was indicating his very obvious erection.

“Er.” He shifted, trying to lessen the ache. “It’s because you keep staring at me, I’m afraid.”

“Most of my sitters can’t hold a straight posture for so long.

You’ve already proven more patient than Princess, that’s certain.

We shall take a pause and try something new.

” She placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing him gently backwards against the low back of the couch.

The movement made the loose drawstring neck of her gown gape, and he stifled a groan of agony.

“Let me try, Ren,” she said in a sultry voice.

“Try—” Climbing into his lap, settling that lovely bottom against his groin, kissing him until they both forgot where and who they were? Yes . “Try what?”

“Prints. Aquatint or mezzotint, whatever works best. I’ll get the finest printer in town to make etchings and sell them out of her shop. A head or three-quarters, or perhaps full body. We’ll see how they sell and if you’re a sensation, we’ll make more.”

“Not the foot,” he said as she pulled gently at the thigh of his bad leg, urging him to place his boot across his other knee, a relaxed and negligent posture.

“Shush. No one cares about your foot as much as you do, and with the boot, you can’t tell.

” She rested a hand on the gleaming black leather that had appeared cleaned and polished at his command to his valet that morning, though now spotted with soil from London’s dirty streets.

“I want to see what this marvelous doctor achieved.”

“Not today.” He had already bared enough of himself to her. And knowing she had sexual experience, that her comfort with touching him was not solely because it was him but because she was familiar with the terrain of the male body—all his self-doubts and self-hatred flared to the surface.

Her eyes moved upward from his boot, her gaze flickering over his cockstand, and the damn thing bobbed, as if waving at her.

A smile quirked her lips, bringing out that enchanting pucker at each side.

Her movements were slow and sensual as she lifted her hands to his neckcloth and started untying it.

He nearly groaned as her warm fingers brushed his neck.

He held his breath as she unbuttoned the top of his waistcoat, revealing his shirt and a bit of skin, and the amulet he wore on a small silver chain.

She touched the chi-ro symbol with a fingertip, her expression melting. “You still wear this?”

Her look made him want to fasten his arms around her. “My sign that I will conquer. Something. Someday.”

“First we’re going to conquer all the fools who don’t see the real you.”

She peeled his morning coat off his shoulders and laid it on the couch, then made him lean back with his elbows draped over the back of the couch, hands dangling at his sides.

She set to arranging the sleeves of his shirt, the ends of the neckcloth, and the amulet just below his collarbone, daringly bare.

“The real me needs to be undressed?”

In truth he could sit like this all day, with Harriette hovering near him, touching him, seducing him with her lovely scent. He might expire from the agony of sustained arousal, but it would be worth it.

“You’re too intimidating in full dress,” she answered. “I want you in dishabille . So the ladies can imagine you in bed.” She leaned back and regarded him thoughtfully. “Oh, good. Keep that look, that sleepy, satisfied look. It gives me the shivers.”

“It does?” he called, but she turned and reassumed possession of her stool, sketchbook, and crayon, and fell to sketching busily, her hand moving so quickly that he wondered what would emerge.

He endeavored to keep the look she wanted, an easy feat as it merely required watching her, the way she bit her lip and her brows drew together when a line was giving her trouble, the way her sleeve flared when she made large strokes, the way one ringlet of hair inched toward the cleft between her breasts.

“I want to see,” he said when she’d burned through several sheets of paper and finally gave a long, satisfied sigh.

She rolled her shoulders and flexed her wrists. “I want your permission to sell them first. Are you going to require a share of the profits?”

“You can keep any profits there are. I want to see.” He rose and moved toward her, happy to stand.

He couldn’t tell how long he’d been sitting, but long enough for the muscles in his manipulated, surgically altered leg to become painfully stiff.

He limped toward her as she spread the sketches she’d done out on her worktable.

“Your word first!” She turned, holding her arms out playfully as if she meant to prevent him from seeing, and he couldn’t stop himself. He stepped close and slipped his arms beneath hers, showing her the barricade was useless.

They both froze. His body was a mere inch from hers, and there was a good deal less fabric between them than there had been the night before.

Her eyelashes fluttered, and her chest lifted as she drew in a breath.

Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth.

Slowly, slowly he bent his head, giving her plenty of time to cry foul or push him away.

She didn’t push him away. She slipped a hand around the back of his neck and brought his head towards her, matching his lips firmly to hers, and they fell into last night’s kiss as though they’d never left off.

It was better this time. Last night they’d explored and discovered, cautious and experimental.

This time her tongue twined about his without hesitation.

Her mouth moved with his in perfect rhythm, yielding, tormenting.

Her body arced against his, pressing greedily.

He slid one hand into her hair, holding her head for his plundering kiss, and slid the other down her back to her bottom.

She wasn’t wearing any sort of padding and his hand shaped her supple roundness, nudging and lifting her hips into his.

She moaned and her head fell back as his mouth roved to the dip at the corner of her lips, down her jaw, and across her silken neck.

His arousal intensified, and he froze with his lips on her collarbone. He was going to spend right here in his breeches if he didn’t stop. Excitable and overeager, just like the courtesan had said. He didn’t want Harriette to see his ineptitude.

“What was I going to give my word about?” he whispered against her skin.

She gave a low, throaty hum as he stepped back and she untangled herself. Her eyes heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, she didn’t look the least embarrassed about indulging in passion. She’d fit herself against his groin without shame, as if she wanted the same thing he did.

She wanted him .

“You could marry me, Rhette.” The words held a quiet ferocity. He couldn’t believe his own daring, voicing the thing he suddenly wanted more than anything. “Bear my children. It would save me a great deal of trouble,” he added, appealing to her practical side.