Love Letters (3 page)

Brendon sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, his gaze jumping back up to her face. She was boldly watching him, yet underneath that sharp gaze,
an innocence
lingered. He’d told his butler to find him an experience, yet more genteel woman, and he had.
But at what price?
Why was she here?
A widow down on her luck?
His gaze dropped to her belly. Then, up to her breasts.

There were no signs that she’d had a babe. He’d spent time with widows…women who’d had children. Their breasts had enlarged, marks across their belly and thighs from the skin stretching. How old was she?
Twenty, perhaps more?
There was something about her that screamed youth and vitality. Something that made him
want
to pull her into his arms, if merely to soak in her essence and forget the ugliness that surrounded him.

“Where shall I sit?” she asked, her breasts rising and falling so temptingly with each sharp pant. Was it
fear
that made her voice so breathless, or could it possibly be desire? No, he wasn’t that fortunate.

Brendon forced himself to blink, realizing he was staring.
“The settee.”

His voice was gruff with need, and he wondered if she had any idea how much he wanted her. The heat pulsing through his veins demanded attention, demanded he
lay
her upon the sofa and have his way with her. He’d experienced lust since Eileen had died, but never this strong. With a stiff gait, he moved toward the table, away from the model.

“Here?” She pointed timidly toward the sofa.

He nodded, not daring to look directly at her.

Rarely had he been attracted to one of his models and for the most part had remained quite professional and aloof. He wasn’t going to change today. Brendon settled behind the table and pulled the chunk of clay forward, the texture cold and damp under his hands. Forcing away lustful thoughts, he focused on that chill, gritty feel.

“Today, I’ll merely do a clay model.”

She nodded as she moved toward the sofa. Unwillingly his gaze lifted.
Her gait, like a cat, sleek and mysterious.
That long, dark hair whispered promises across her back. And directly below those shimmering strands, a round, pert bottom begged to be grasped. Without thought, his fingers curled, digging into that soft clay.
But even as he wanted her, there was something more nagging at the back of his mind.

He grimaced and pulled his grip free, shaking off the clumps that stuck to his skin. Was it her looks?
Her voice?
At the settee, she paused. Brendon could only wait with baited breath to see what she’d do next. She tucked her chin to her chest,
then
peeked over her shoulder at him. Their eyes locked. His heart stopped for one brief moment. Did she have any idea what an erotic pose she made? The entire room seemed to fade and all that remained was
her
. Something whispered through his mind … something nagged at his memory. She broke contact by lowering her gaze and settling on the settee. The moment was gone.

“How do you want me?” she whispered.

He had the insane desire to laugh. Her words immediately brought to mind all sorts of nefarious ideas. Where did he want her? He could think of a few places. As if sensing the way of his thoughts, she crossed her arms over her chest, hiding those perfect mounds from view. But her show of modesty did little to quell his intense desire.

“On your side.”

Gingerly she rested on the edge of the settee. Like a woman who knew her value, she lowered slowly, seductively, upon the worn seat. “Like this?”

Laid out like an offering with her lean body stretched across the sofa, the animalistic need within him roared to life.
He took in a deep trembling breath, refusing to give into temptation. She was not for him, no one was. “
Your
back to me. Rest your arm over your head.”

She rolled
over,
her backside exposed, and raised her arm in the air in a ridiculous pose that spoke more of awkwardness than sexuality. A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“No.” He stood and moved toward her, forcing his gaze to remain firmly planted above any tempting body parts.

It was obvious she had little if any experience posing. Hopefully she’d make a quick study. That is, if he decided to keep her on. He knelt by the settee and wrapped his fingers around her narrow wrist. It was only then that he realized his hands were still covered in clay. The contact gave him pause. Her skin was smooth, her touch hot. The clay slid easily over her skin, seeming to melt with the contact. Would he melt as easily?

He finally noticed her stillness and lifted his gaze to her profile, just visible. Her shoulders were rigid, her breath coming out in soft, shallow pants. She stared straight ahead like a doe cornered by a hunter. Those full lips quivered, those high cheekbones flushed enchantingly with color. Her lashes flicked down and up rapidly, as is she feared closing her eyes for too long. Confusion gave way to a rush of familiarity that nagged once again, a sensation he could not ignore.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

She swallowed hard. “I’m no one important.”

Why did he have the feeling she lied? Slowly, he lowered his gaze to her shoulders. Dark bruises marred her upper arms. Injuries he hadn’t noticed before. Anger fought with shock. He would not ask her. No, he wouldn’t care. Unable to help himself, he drew his finger down the side of her face, leaving behind a slash of gray clay across her cheek. She visibly shivered.

“Where have I seen you before?”

She shrugged, a quick jerk of her narrow shoulders. “Perhaps you’ve seen me on the street.”

Her answer didn’t feel right because he couldn’t imagine her on the street.
Sipping tea in a parlor, yes.
Even as the pampered mistress
of a gentlemen
.
But here, on the street?
No. Yet here she was, bruised and battered and laying quite naked on his sofa. With her arm still resting over her head, her body was deliciously exposed. He drew his fingers down her side, leaving behind a trail of slippery clay. He paused briefly near her breast, one breathless moment.
Then lower, sloping down her waist, up over her hip.
He stopped there, his palm fitted against the warm curve. A small sound escaped her lips, something that sounded deceptively like a moan.

Even as he refused to believe what he’d heard, desire shot straight to his groin. Dare he believe she was as attracted to him as he was her? He clenched his jaw, forcing sexual thoughts aside. “If you’re in trouble, running from a husband or jealous lover, I want no part.”

She flinched, although she made quick work of smoothing her features. “I merely need the money.”

“Why?”

She let her chin fall to her chest, her hair a veil of shimmering locks that hid her features. “I need to leave.”

That surprised him. Escape was more like it.
“Where to?”

“America.”

His gaze narrowed. The only sort who escaped to America
were
criminals or the destitute. What was she embroiled in? A sudden overwhelming urge to protect her rolled through him. Damn it all, he would not get involved. He merely wanted to be left alone.

“Leave. Gather your things. Whatever it is you’re running from, I want no part.” He surged to his feet.

“What?” She stood and grabbed her shift, jerking it over her head. “No! You can’t. Please.”

He barely flinched as he attempted to ignore the pleading tone of her voice. “I can and I will.” He stomped across the room, pausing near the table where pottery tools were scattered haphazardly about the worn wooden surface. He didn’t care.
No, not any longer.
Perhaps at one time her pleading eyes would have gotten a response, but not now. Pretending sudden fascination with straightening the pile, he didn’t dare look at her. “I’ll pay you for today’s work.”

“No! Your butler said a week…a week’s pay!” She raced to him, her bare feet whispering across the floor like a dancer across a stage. Without pause, she latched onto his arm. Her touch shocked him, pleased him in some perverse way.

“Please, I need the money!” she begged.

Anger mixed with frustration in a burning combination. He turned suddenly and gripped her smooth shoulders. With a gentle push, he backed her up against the brick wall. She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes wide.

“Tell me the truth. What are you running from?”

Her lower lip quivered, indecision flickering in her eyes.

His fingers tightened. He would not release his hold until she told him the truth. He would have the truth for once in his life. “Tell me!”

She closed her eyes, her body sagging. “I can’t marry him.”

Confusion held him captive for one brief moment. All too quickly the reality of her words sank into his gut. “You don’t want to marry, that’s what this is about?”

She opened her eyes, those hazel orbs shimmering with unshed tears. “Yes.”

He released his hold and stumbled back. The sudden urge to laugh overwhelmed him.
A marriage?
This was about an unwanted marriage? “And so you’ll do this…pose nude so you can
what
?”

She sniffled as she fought her tears. “Procure enough coins to travel to America.”

He raked his hands through his hair, releasing a wry laugh. “And do what when you achieve your goal?”

She shrugged and looked at the floor, but not before he noticed the flash of annoyance that turned her hazel eyes a pure green. She looked so innocent standing there with her bare toes peeking out from the hem of her shift, her hair long and loose around her shoulders, but she had a bit of a temper. Damn, if he didn’t appreciate that.

“You obviously haven’t thought this through.”

Her gaze jumped to his. “You know nothing about me.”

She was right, but why did he have the feeling he did? That vulnerability was back, a softening of her eyes that had his heart clenching. “I can’t marry him.”

Brendon sighed. He had a sister, he wasn’t a complete arse. “Why is he so horrible? Is he old? Have a limp? Missing teeth? Does he not buy you enough trinkets?”

She tilted her chin high and stared directly into his gaze. “He tried to take advantage of me.”

He started to roll his eyes, thinking perhaps her fiancé had attempted an innocent kiss, but then his gaze fell to those bruises on her upper arms.

His gut clenched. Hell, he was coming to care. “What happened?”

She looked at the ground, her cheeks turning red. “He tried to…force himself on me.”

Brendon rubbed his hands over his face. “Christ.”

He turned and paced across the room. He’d seen no other marks upon her body, perhaps this fiancé hadn’t gotten far. He paused near the windows, the dark sky heavy and cold. What the hell would he do with her? He couldn’t send her back now.

The pattering of footsteps had him glancing over his shoulder. She scurried across the room and picked up her clothing. The cloth was fine. Perhaps the brown dress was plain, but it was obvious she came from money. Who was the bastard who’d hurt her? Who was
she
? No doubt he knew her fiancé. Perhaps he’d even met her in the ball rooms of London and that was why she seemed familiar. She pulled her stockings over her narrow feet, preparing to flee. The tiny part of humanity left inside him protested.

“Stop,” he demanded.

She froze and looked up.

“I can’t guarantee the entire week.”

Relief smoothed the tightness from her features. She nodded. Before he second-guessed himself, he moved to his table. Unconsciously, his hands clenched and unclenched as if the movement could erase the feel of her skin on his. But he had a feeling he would never erase the feel of her from his mind. Bloody hell, what had he done?

Chapter 3

Clara assumed she’d feel horrifyingly embarrassed sprawled out naked like a Christmas goose in front of Brendon.
At the very least, ashamed.
Oddly, after an hour, she’d grown used to the lack of clothing. In fact, she felt rather free with nothing binding her parts so tightly she could barely breathe. How her mother would be horrified to know that not only had her daughter posed nude, but that she’d been comfortable in her natural state. A smile lifted the corners of her lips. No, ladies were not supposed to be comfortable naked.