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“Holy, perishing—some warning might have been in order, Genevieve.” He sounded dazed and witless.
She leaned down, resting her forehead on his. “Do I make you want to curse, Elijah?”
“Curse, sing, laugh, pray. Love me.”
She did. She most assuredly, absolutely did love him. Because he did not stop her from following her dream, because he’d told her where his second cousin might let rooms to her, because he’d suggested she might find instruction with another second cousin who was cranky but very astute and well co
More than that, she loved him because he’d taken her seriously and he’d insisted that her family take her seriously.
Mostly, though, as her body began to sing with the joy of intimate congress with his, Je
Elijah watched as pleasure suffused Genevieve Windham’s features, watched as she shifted from beautiful to transfigured. Her body clutched at him, wrung every ounce of self-restraint from him, to the point that he had to close his eyes or lose control.
And that he could not do, not when she was so close to realizing her dream, and he was… a gentleman.
As Je
And Elijah had, from time to time, but he could not recall their names, their faces, their scents, anything about them.
“Hold me, Elijah.”
Always. He kissed her hair and snugged his arms more closely around her. “You’re all right?”
“Mmm.” Not even a word, but it conveyed profound contentment.
The moment was tender, dear, and for Elijah, not content at all. His cock throbbed with wanting, and while he could not recall his previous partners, he would not be able to forget Genevieve. He could follow her to Paris, of course, and she’d probably bestow more of such moments on him.
More crumbs for him, more risks to her safety, her reputation, and her dreams.
“I want more, sir.” His sleepy, sweet tempest began to move.
“Then you shall have it.”
He’d never intended to spend. He’d intended to let her have her pleasure of him, to stretch out this joining as long as he could, to make as many memories with her as she could bear to share with him.
A man in love treasures even the pain of his affliction, after all.
Je
Exactly where he longed to be.
“Genevieve…”
She silenced his warning with kisses, with her body determined to shower pleasure upon them both, with her hand gripping his hair, and with—a curious, fierce sensation—her fingernails gripping his buttocks. “Don’t beg, Elijah. Never beg. Love me. Love me now.”
He could not refuse his lady’s command. He loved her, and he made love with her, and when she slept in his arms, sated and sweet, her hair in complete disarray, he only loved her more.
Je
She cut him off with a look and a nod. “Of course. I wouldn’t visit illegitimacy on my child. Our child.”
The words, even the very words, our child, weakened her knees to the point that she had to sit on the bed. She might have just conceived a future Marquess of Flint. The notion was upsetting, for any number of reasons.
Paris had loomed like an artistic haven, of course, and like a sanctuary from her family’s well-intended, smothering attentions. Paris was the antidote to everything stupid and backward about the present version of English chivalry too, and to all of Polite Society’s idiot notions about a true lady being a useless, decorative, porcelain figurine.
Paris was where she could keep her promise to Victor and put her entire focus on her art.
At what point had Paris also acquired the lure of a coward’s way out?
Elijah took the place on the bed beside her and extracted the brush from her limp fingers. “I’ll do that.”
He tended to her hair, just as he’d assisted her to dress, with brisk competence that suggested regret for what had passed between them.
“Elijah, are you angry?”
He tucked the last pin into her hair and drew her back against his chest. “If I am angry, I am angry for you and with myself, not with you. We’d best be going.”
Not an answer she could comprehend, not with her body that of a sexually sated stranger, her mind in a complete muddle, and her heart…
Her heart breaking.
She let Elijah lead her through the house, sensing darkness gathering even earlier than usual.
“The snow has picked up,” Elijah said as they do
That he’d understand she needed some lingering co
“I don’t need to hold your hand to make my way through a few inches of snow.”
He tucked the ends of his scarf under her chin. “Perhaps I need to hold yours.”
She held his hand until they’d reached the very steps of the Morelands back terrace.
“Lovely. Lovely, lovely, lovely.”
Je
Also with His Grace’s portrait, which, now that Je
Elijah had caught that heart, and caught it wonderfully. He might also have caught a sudden case of lung fever, because the entire family had assembled in anticipation of the open house, while the artist in residence had yet to come downstairs.
“Both portraits are quite good,” Her Grace said. “I am particularly pleased with how my surprise turned out.”
Her surprise being the portrait of her, done for His Grace’s holiday present.
When Elijah dared to venture down the steps, Je
“I do think that portrait of Her Grace is better even than the one he did of the children,” Sophie allowed. “Sindal, would you agree?”
Everybody agreed, and in the middle of all this smiling and agreeing, Louisa sidled up to Je
“You are like the bad fairy, Louisa, insisting on difficult tidings when they’ll easily keep for a day or two. I don’t intend to leave until after the New Year. There’s time yet.”
Louisa’s mouth flattened, but she kept her voice down. “You ca
“I am going to move to Paris,” Je
Louisa opened her mouth to say something, likely something articulate, insightful, and painful—though not mean—when her expression shifted. “It’s a bit late for that.”