the fused afternoon light in the spacious room. It appeared as though a wall had been removed to create a massive combination studio and study. One end of the room was cluttered with easels, props and a lounge chair draped with beautiful gowns. It looked more like the backstage area of a theater than an artist’s haven. At the other end sat a writing desk and another set of shelves holding collectible exotic items and more books. There was an ornate, black marble front fireplace flanked by a grouping of overstuffed chairs. Directly opposite the fireplace, Mr. Rodin had opened the French doors leading to the balcony. Papers pinned to canvasses fluttered in the summer breeze.
“Feel free to look around,” Mr. Rodin said as he puttered around the room.
An errant sketch tumbled past me and kissed my toe. I reached down to pick it up at the same time as Mr. Rodin. Our fingers met briefly and my heart faltered. I let go of the paper, not wanting him to see the flush of my cheeks.
“Have you painted before, Miss Bridgeton?” He held the paper loose in his hand, his eyes steady on me.
I suppose his question was not out of the ordinary. Most well-bred women in London included painting, poetry and music in their list of abilities. “I’ve only written a little poetry. Dreadfully novice, I’m afraid.” My eyes drifted to the sketch in his hand. Done in charcoal, it was the picture of a nearly nude woman reclined on a chaise. A drape thrown haphazardly over her legs. I looked away, scanning the pictures stacked against the wall, and wondered if I would be asked to pose nude.
Without comment, he placed the sketch on a stack of others on the desk, weighing them down with a thick book.
“Who do you read?” he asked, watching me as I inspected the stacks of paintings leaning along the wall. In one group alone, there were as many as a dozen paintings with various backgrounds, but the same woman’s face. “I read most anything, Mr. Rodin. But I have a particular fondness for Dickens.”
He chuckled. “A fine fellow, Charles.” He glanced at the floor. “A bit zealous, but he means well.”
“You know him?” I asked, wide-eyed.
He shrugged. “We had him over to dine one evening. He has some definite ideas on social reform.”
I searched his face wondering whether or not to believe him. I’d begun to think that perhaps Mr. Rodin had not been embellishing on his brother’s notoriety. “Did your brother paint these?” I asked. Mr. Rodin walked up beside me. “They all look like the same woman.”
“Yes, these are the same woman. Thomas can be a bit possessive once he chooses a subject.”
There was an underlying tone in his voice, though I could not pinpoint it exactly. Sadness? Frustration? His breath tickled the back of my neck. The woman in the paintings was undeniably beautiful. How could I compare to such beauty? “Do you think he will find me suitable?” I touched the collar of my blouse nervously.
I became aware in an instant of my ardent feelings for Mr. Rodin. While it was one thing to dream in the privacy of my room, it was quite another to deal with my desire while standing in a room alone, next to him. He had kept his word, remaining the perfect host, the consummate gentleman, and the realization of what I had agreed to illuminated my thoughts. I had hoped for, perhaps secretly wished, this would happen, that we might find ourselves alone, able to address the growing admiration I felt for him and I was nearly certain he felt for me.
It was both exhilarating and frightening to realize that I had just made the first big decision of my adult life.
Chapter Four
HIS FINGERS WERE WARM AS HE LACED THEM through mine. It would have been wiser for me to run. There was danger that he would snatch my virtue; perhaps more that I would allow it. I closed my eyes to the divine sensation of his thumb brushing back and forth over my wrist, aware of the desire rising inside me.
“What are you doing, Mr. Rodin?” I said breathlessly.
“How could my brother not find you absolutely perfect, Miss Bridgeton? He would have to be blind.”
My heart thudded as I turned to meet his smoldering eyes. Unable to move, I fought to collect my thoughts, searched for a reason to deny what my body craved. I had spent days thinking of nothing but William.
“My father cautioned me that men, especially men who want something, will stop at nothing to achieve their purpose. Is that what you’re doing, Mr. Rodin?” His eyes drifted to my mouth and I knew his curiosity matched mine.
“I confess, Miss Bridgeton, that since we first met, you have pervaded my thoughts.” His crystalline blue eyes met my gaze.
“I pray, do not tease me, sir.” I could not tell if my stomach was misbehaving or if more was happening to me. I had a dull ache deep inside—a yearning that I could not explain.
His grip tightened as he leaned toward me. The struggle for restraint was evident in his eyes and in the tick of his set jaw. A gust of hot air blew through the open balcony doors, sending a rustle of papers to join the pleasant buzz beginning in my head.
“And you, Miss Bridgeton, do you not know how you’ve bewitched me?”
He moved closer, afraid, I think, to frighten me. His warm, musky scent overtook my senses as he searched my eyes, asking silent permission. The mere brush of his lips to mine snatched my breath away, unleashing a primal need.
I boldly met his mouth, secretly thrilled by his deep-throated growl as he backed me against the wall. I curved my body to his hard muscled warmth, sensing his arousal through the layers of clothing between us.
Sweat trickled between my breasts, skittering over my heated flesh. The images conjured by the couple in the gardens leaped into my mind. I gave in to the lustful sounds in my memory, causing a ravenous fire to course through me.
I savored William’s mouth slanting over mine, seducing, pulling me deeper under his spell, and whimpered softly when his greedy tongue plunged between my lips. He smelled of the warm summer wind, tasted of honeyed tea and cinnamon.
“God, but you are lovely,” he said, his lips nibbling the sensitive flesh beneath my ear. “Tell me you’ve thought of this,” he whispered. “That you’ve wanted this as much as I have dreamt of it.”
His hand glided upward, over my waist, pushing higher until his palm closed gently over my covered breast. I squirmed beneath his fervent kisses, succumbing to the rapture of his intimate caress.
“I need to…I must touch you.”
He looked at me with those mesmerizing eyes, demanding more. Despite the warring factions in my head cautioning me to end this, I could not refuse him—I did not want to refuse him.
I turned my back to him, lifting my hair to allow ease in unbuttoning my dress. His lips pressed to my exposed flesh, sending a cascade of shivers down my spine and straight to my core. Half-dressed now, I laid my cheek against the cool plaster wall, enjoying the brush of his hands as he peeled the dress slowly down over my body.
He kissed my shoulder, turning me to face him and, for a moment, we stared at each other. Frozen, I stood still as his eyes raked over me, assessing, deciding, it seemed, whether to continue. Before now, I’d never compared myself to another woman. I worried my lip, a nervous habit I deplored, but I feared he was having second thoughts.
My
