Eye of the Beholder (4 page)

“What does your father say?”

“He died when I was eight.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was a gambler. He was killed in a duel
because he was accused of cheating at cards.”

“So your mother has been alone? She never
remarried?”

“She did. He died as well, of a heart attack,
when I was twelve. She married again the following year.”

Grayson paused. “So if she was able to marry
three times, well past the age of malleability, why does she
discount your chances?”

“She doesn’t. I do. My mother is one who
adapts to what men want. I do not.”

“Perhaps you have not found the man who makes
you want to.”

“I don’t believe he exists.” She rolled her
weight on her elbows a bit. “What do you look for in a wife? Do you
think you can find a woman who will accept your form of art?”

“I’m a younger son. My brother has three sons
of his own. It’s not required that I marry.”

“At least there is no stigma attached
there.”

“But certainly enough speculation.”

“So you are in society, then?”

He cursed himself. Had she designed the
question to discover his identity? “Now and then.”

“Have we met?”

“Miss Dusenberry, I prize my privacy, as you
can imagine. My two worlds must not meet.” He set his pencil down,
pleased that he’d captured her shape beneath the damp gown. “You
may get dressed. I shall see you tomorrow.”

***

“A musicale?” Dominic asked skeptically. “On
purpose?”

“She will be there. Singing, if she can be
believed.”

“Do you plan to court this young woman?”

“I’m not sure what I plan,” Grayson said as
he stepped out of the room and headed down the stairs.

She was just rising to perform when he
slipped in the back of the room. He heard the murmurs, saw the
veiled glances in his direction as he chose a chair in the back, on
the end. But the whispers had drawn Sarah’s attention as well, and
she widened her eyes to see him. Her hand fluttered near her
throat, above a very fussy lace color on a pale yellow dress and
appeared panicked as she sat behind the pianoforte. Her fingers
flexed in a gesture he recognized as nerves.

He hadn’t intended to make her nervous. He’d
merely wanted to hear her sing. She lifted her gaze to his and he
pointed to himself, then to the door, asking if she wanted him to
leave. She gave a short shake of her head and let her fingers drop
to the keyboard.

And she played. Passably, as she had claimed,
and her voice joined the melody, again, passably. But he found her
skill adorable and wondered what the hell was going through his
head to be pursuing a debutante, even one as unique as Sarah
Dusenberry.

He sat through four more young ladies’
performances that made Sarah sound like a virtuoso. She returned to
her seat and Grayson allowed himself to study her profile. Her
upswept curls were not well-behaved, and escaped in wisps to tease
her long white neck. She wore an ugly yellow gown, but it showed
her lovely figure. Perhaps he could paint a real portrait of her,
emphasizing those plush lips, those long eyelashes, that gorgeous
skin.

At last the hostess rose and announced they’d
have lemonade and games. Her own expression betrayed surprise when
she saw Grayson in attendance. He nodded regally, as if he had
every right to be here and hadn’t just walked in uninvited.

He approached Sarah, who stood in the back of
the room with a tiny cup of lemonade gripped in her hand. Her eyes
were huge when he stopped beside her.

“Mr. Adams. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen
you at a musicale before.”

“I don’t often attend.” In fact, he’d been to
one, a dozen years ago. He’d presumed he’d suffered enough. “Your
performance was lovely.”

She waved a dismissive hand, her focus on the
crowd—and the attention they were getting. ”You clearly haven’t
attended many.”

“My feeling was that your heart wasn’t in
your performance, that it’s something you do because you feel you
need to, not because you want to.”

“Your instincts could be right.”

“What do you enjoy doing? Do you enjoy
riding?”

“I have no great passion for it.” But a
playful light shone in her eyes.

The devil prodded him to do it, just to see
her reaction. Would she demur or would she cancel her sitting?
“Would you care to go riding tomorrow afternoon?”

Something flared in her eyes, and he felt
guilty, just for a moment, for making her choose.

“I’m afraid I have an appointment.”

“The following day, then.”

The confusion that creased her brow echoed
his own. Why was he so determined to spend time with her? Weren’t
the hours they spent while he was painting her enough?

“I believe I can arrange something,” she
said, her voice a little breathy.

He gave a short bow just as her mother
approached. “I shall call for you then.” He nodded to her mother,
excused himself, and walked away.

***

Sarah was surprised when she walked into the
studio the following day to see Monsieur Cresson wearing a domino
and a hat. He usually came into the studio after she was here, and
she was the one to wear the blindfold. His need to wear the
disguise had her studying him more closely. His hair was hidden by
the hat, and his eyes were down-turned, their shape distorted by
the mask. His mouth was shadowed by dark stubble, his throat strong
above the open collar of a white shirt. His shoulders were broad,
waist narrow, legs long. She should know. She’d watched people
enough in society, but none she knew had an Italian accent.

“We’re trying a new pose today.”

“But you have not finished the others.”

“I’m doing the preliminary sketches now. I
need to get the ideas on paper before I lose them.”

“So I won’t be needing a blindfold
today?”

“Not at first. We’re going to have a—lesson,
you might say.”

“A lesson?” Her fingers went to the buttons
of her bodice as they spoke. Had she ever expected she would be
comfortable undressing in front of a man? “What kind of
lesson?”

“Anatomy.”

Tension ratcheted a little higher but it
wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. “Mine, I suppose.”

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he asked,
and her hands stilled, her gaze darting to his.

“I beg your pardon?”

He took a step closer and her breath caught
in her throat. “I’ve been painting your sex, Sarah. Yesterday in
particular, I know the idea excited you.”

She took a step back, her legs bumping into
the bed. “You were looking at me. Very intently. No one has ever
seen that part of my body.”

“Tell me how you felt when I was looking at
you, Sarah.”

“I was—warm. And I could feel my heart beat
there. I felt like I was—perspiring there. I felt a need for
something that I didn’t understand.”

“You were sexually aroused. Your body was
preparing for a lover, softening, growing slicker.” He took another
step closer, unhooked her skirt and let it fall the floor. His
hands brushed her hips through the chemise, sending a shiver
through her. “Sit on the edge.”

Her nerves shimmered on the outside of her
skin as he lifted her onto the bed and eased the hem of her chemise
higher and higher along her thighs, until she felt the air on her
sex. He bent, just a bit, to adjust the folds of the fabric, and
his breath was warm on her leg. Again she felt the flesh between
her legs heat and swell and grow moist. He eased her legs apart,
opening them wider, so that each knee hooked over a corner of the
bed. She wanted to cover herself with her hand at the same time she
wanted him to look, to touch.

Goodness, what was wrong with her?

Then he had a mirror and placed it between
her spread legs. He started to touch her, but she gasped, and he
curled his fingers back.

“Do you see?”

She couldn’t think, couldn’t form words.

“Sarah. Do you see?”

“Yes.”

“This.” He pointed to a sliver of slick pink
flesh on the glass. “This is the clitoris. This is the center of a
woman’s pleasure. If it’s stroked, it can relieve the pressure you
were experiencing, sending waves of enjoyment through you, leaving
you satisfied. This.” He pointed to a deeper fold. “This is where a
man puts his cock, pushes deep until it is completely buried. It
stretches the flesh, and for a virgin it’s painful, but the pain
passes and is replaced by pleasure as he moves his cock in and
out.”

Just his words, imagining his body doing that
to hers, made her breathing shallow, her heart beat faster, until
she could feel it in the very area where he pointed.

“This is your rose,” he continued, moving
down so that she had to shift to look. “I am sure you know the
purpose. This can also be a pleasurable thing, if a man knows just
what he is doing.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?” she asked,
breathless, surprised by her own boldness.

He flicked his gaze to hers. Green eyes.
Bright, surprised, light with humor. “I do.”

She drew in a sharp breath as his finger
moved along the mirror as if he was caressing her.

“Sometimes, a man will kiss a woman there, as
he would kiss her mouth, and it will make her spend.”

“Spend?”

“Reach completion, find pleasure.”

“With his mouth? With a kiss?” She knew if he
even breathed against her right now something wonderful would
happen. She shifted her hips toward him, wanting to know where this
alien sensation would lead.

“What I want you to do,” he said, placing the
mirror on the table behind him, and reaching for her hand, “is
touch yourself.”

Heat bloomed over her face. “I cannot.”

“You didn’t think you could pose for me,
either. I want you to take these two fingers.” He bent her fingers.
“And touch your quim.”

“My--?”

“Another word for your sex. The French call
it la chatte. ‘Little cat.’”

“I like it better. Seems less silly.”

“Will you touch it?”

She held his gaze and moved her hand down,
fingertips brushing over the curls. She gasped to find the flesh
beneath soft and slick and so sensitive to the touch. Despite her
awareness that Monsieur Cresson was watching her closely, his own
breathing uneven, she stroked again, and again, the forbidden
delight shooting through her body, the flesh swelling under her
hand. The wetness coated her fingers and she pushed her hips toward
her own touch, seeking the prize that seemed to be offered her.

“Stop,” he said, his voice rough, and she
realized he’d moved behind the easel. “Christ, I wish I could draw
fast enough. What I want you to do now is put those fingers in your
mouth.”

She snapped her gaze to his. “What?”

“I want you to taste yourself, and I want you
to hold that pose.”

“I cannot do that! It’s—indecent!”

He chuckled. “You sit before me touching your
quim, my dear. Trust me.”

Because she did, because her curiosity
overwhelmed her, her desire overwhelmed her, she lifted her fingers
to her lips and darted her tongue out to test. Salty, but not
unpleasant. She took another hesitant taste. He groaned.

“Slide them into your mouth, just the tips,
and close your lips around them.”

She did, feeling dirty and excited all at
once. Her quim throbbed, wanting her to pet it again, but Monsieur
Cresson moved forward, adjusting her fingers and admonishing her to
hold the pose, as her legs remained open, her sex hot with longing.
She wanted to see what would happen if she continued to pet it, she
wanted to know what it would feel like if he touched her, but she
couldn’t ask, couldn’t do more than hold the pose until he gave her
permission to stop.

“That’s enough for today,” he said, pushing
back from his easel and rising.

“I want this feeling to end,” she said, need
overwhelming her sense of propriety. “Will you show me?”

He made a strangled sound. “You want me to
pet your chatte?”

“I want to know what it feels like.”

She watched him, saw the indecision flicker
across his face, saw his gaze drop to her weeping, aching quim.

“You can do it. I can instruct you.”

“I want you.”

“I don’t know if I have the reserves to
resist you.”

“You do. You do.” Suddenly she wanted nothing
as much as his hands on her body. Her breasts swelled, aching for
his touch, her body throbbed for it. “Please, Monsieur. I must
know.”

Grayson couldn’t resist, though he would
rather hear his own name on her lips. He climbed on the bed behind
her and drew her against his chest. The scent of her arousal filled
the room, making him drunk with his own desire, a desire he
couldn’t unleash at the risk of losing control and taking her
virginity.

She nestled against his chest, her bottom
snug against his heavy cock. He resisted the urge to push against
her, instead rested one hand on her waist and one on her thigh. Her
breathing was frantic, her pulse raced, and he slid a hand to cup
her breast as he lowered his lips to the curve of her throat. She
trembled all over and gasped in delight, craning her head to offer
him more white flesh. He dragged his lips and tongue along the line
of her throat, nipping just below her ear as he pinched the tip of
her breast between his fingers.

Slowly, his hand on her thigh slid up until
his palm covered her mound. She bucked her hips against it, but he
wanted to drag the sensation out. He stroked two fingers over the
outer lips, wishing he was bold enough to put his own lips over
them, and bring her to completion with his tongue. He wanted to
thrust his tongue inside her opening, wanted to feel her push
against his mouth. Instead he settled for her pushing against his
hand, whimpers coming from her throat.

He dragged his fingertip in the lightest
caress over her swollen clitoris, then dipped his finger against
her opening to drag more wetness across her flesh.