Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

B eatrice stood in the morning room, lost in the strokes of her brush as she worked on her latest painting.

The room was filled with the scent of fresh paint and the soft, rhythmic sound of her brush gliding across the canvas. She wore an old, paint-stained dress that had seen many such sessions, her hair tied back loosely to keep it out of her face. The world outside faded away as she immersed herself in her art.

A few hours later, just as she was adding the finishing touches to the rough draft, a knock on the door jolted her out of her reverie.

Startled, she stepped back, her heart racing. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was around the time Mrs. Whitfield usually brought her tea.

"Coming," she called out, her voice steady.

She wiped her hands on a rag and moved towards the door, her footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

But before she reached the door, she heard a voice that sent a chill down her spine.

"Beatrice, what are you doing in there?" Kenneth asked, a touch of irritation in his voice.

Her eyes widened, panic surging through her veins. She glanced around the room, taking in the scattered art supplies and the half-finished painting on the easel. What was she going to do? There was no way to hide her secret now.

"Just a minute," she called back, trying to buy herself some time.

Her mind raced, searching for a plausible excuse, but nothing came to mind.

"Beatrice, open the door," he demanded, his voice firmer this time.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the inevitable. There was no way around it. She had to face him. With trembling hands, she unlocked the door and opened it, her heart pounding in her chest.

Kenneth stepped inside, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of her paint-stained dress and the chaotic state of the room.

He was about to ask why she had locked the door when his gaze fell on the easel. His expression shifted from irritation to curiosity.

"Is that what you've been doing in here?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he approached the painting.

Beatrice closed the door behind him and pressed her back against it. Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions—fear, anxiety, and a touch of defiance. She watched as he studied the painting, his eyes narrowing as he took in the details.

"Eric Westback. Eric Westback. Beatrice Wickes. Huh," he muttered to himself.

The air was thick with tension, almost crackling with it. Beatrice's heart raced as she watched him, waiting for his next words, unsure of what to expect.

Kenneth turned around, his eyes glinting with amusement and realization. "You know, ‘Eric Westback' sounds like an anagram for Beatrice Wickes."

Beatrice faked a laugh though it came out strained. "You're being ridiculous, Kenneth. I was merely inspired by Westback's style."

He didn't buy it. "Beatrice, since your brother cut you and your mother off, how did you survive in Wales? By the money you made from these paintings." He paused, his gaze piercing as he put all the pieces together.

Beatrice gulped, expecting him to be furious. Instead, he calmly took a chair and placed it across from the easel. To her surprise, he began removing his coat, cravat, and shirt.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice shaky.

"I want to see what ‘Eric' does with this masterpiece," he said, gesturing to his body with a teasing smile.

Beatrice bit her lip, her buzzing nerves and sheer excitement bubbling within her. "Fine. Only if you take off your breeches too."

Kenneth grinned, taking off his breeches. He sat down, completely naked, his eyes never leaving hers. "You won't sell this painting, will you?"

She chuckled, setting up her canvas. "Although I very much believe it'd make us good money, I'd rather keep this one to myself. Now stay still, please."

He shifted slightly in his seat, a playful glint in his eyes. "I'll stop moving, but with that delicious look of concentration on your face while you paint, a certain part of me may start shifting soon."

Beatrice rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a smile. "You are incorrigible."

Kenneth's grin widened. "And you love it."

As she began to paint, the room filled with a charged silence, both of them acutely aware of each other. Beatrice's brushstrokes were steady, but her heart raced with every glance at him. The intimacy of the moment was undeniable.

Kenneth stretched, his muscles rippling as he moved. "I need to get up and stretch," he said, his voice breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over them.

Beatrice looked up from her easel, nodding. "Go ahead. I've got the rough sketch done."

He rose gracefully, his muscles tensing and relaxing with each movement, and then walked towards her, his predatory strides sending a shiver down her spine. He stopped just in front of her, his eyes dark with intent.

Before she could say anything, his lips captured hers in a searing kiss. The heat between them flared instantly, a spark turning into a blazing inferno. His hands found her waist, pulling her close, and she responded with equal fervor, her fingers threading through his hair.

Their kiss deepened, becoming more urgent and demanding. Kenneth's hands roamed over her back, pulling her even closer. Beatrice could feel the heat radiating off his body, his strong arms holding her tight. Her heart raced, each beat echoing the passion that consumed them both.

He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down her neck, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Beatrice gasped, tilting her head back to give him better access. Her nails dug into his shoulders, feeling the solid muscles beneath his skin.

"Kenneth," she whispered, her voice breathless and filled with longing.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting hers. "Beatrice," he murmured, his voice husky with desire, "you have no idea what you do to me."

Her response was a moan as his lips found hers again, more demanding this time. The world outside the morning room ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them, wrapped in a cocoon of desire and need.

The easel and canvas stood forgotten, the nude portrait a silent witness to their passion. At that moment, nothing else mattered but the heat between them, the desperate need to be as close to each other as possible.

Kenneth's hands roamed lower, gripping her hips and pulling her against him. She could feel his hard length pressed against her, igniting a new wave of desire. She trailed her hands over his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart beneath her palms. He quickly unlaced her gown, dropping it to the floor.

"Kenneth," she whispered again, her voice a plea.

With a growl, he lifted her, placing her on the edge of the worktable. He stepped between her legs, his hands never ceasing their exploration of her body. Their kisses grew more frantic, each touch, each caress fueling the fire that burned between them.

Kenneth pulled away, ignoring her protests. He reached over and grabbed a paintbrush from the table. Slowly, he painted an arrow on her belly pointing down. She gasped as the brush tip tickled her skin.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Just showing you where my tongue's going," he answered with a triumphant smirk.

He slid down and lowered his head between her thighs. His tongue delved deeply into her, possessing her intimately, and Beatrice moaned deeply, lost in the sensation.

He licked and nipped, his face buried between her thighs as he pulled her close to him, driving her to even higher levels of pleasure. She arched her back, clawing at him, her legs hooked around his neck as she came, her body bucking with the force of it.

When she stopped quivering, Kenneth straightened up, pulled her to the edge of the table, and then thrust into her. His grip on her hips tightened as he plunged deeper into her. The sound of their bodies moving together filled the room, mingling with her soft cries and his guttural groans.

He slammed into her again and again, and she moaned with his every thrust, bucking her hips against him. Her breathy moans of pleasure grew louder and louder until she screamed in ecstasy, pulling him deep into her as he spilled inside her.

They were both breathing heavily as they came down from their climax. Kenneth took her face in both of his hands and gave her a gentle kiss.

As they parted, Beatrice's eyes fluttered open, a contented smile playing on her lips. In the aftermath of their lovemaking, amidst the scattered paints and brushes of her worktable, she felt a sense of wholeness that had eluded her for so long.

Kenneth's acceptance of her identity as Eric Westback had been a turning point, a moment of profound vulnerability and trust.

As they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, Beatrice felt a laugh bubble up from deep within her chest. Kenneth raised an eyebrow, curious about the sudden mirth dancing in her eyes.

"What's so funny?" he asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Beatrice reached up, her fingers lightly tracing a smudge of blue paint on his cheek. "It seems we both got a bit… carried away," she said, her voice warm with affection.

Kenneth glanced down, noticing the streaks of color on their bare skin. Reds, blues, and greens mingled with the sheen of sweat, creating an abstract masterpiece on the canvas of their bodies.

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, you did say you wanted to capture my essence on canvas. I'd say we achieved that quite literally."

Beatrice grinned, trying to hold back a giggle but failing. "Indeed, we did. Although I must say, I prefer this method of artistic expression."

Kenneth pulled her closer, his arms tightening around her waist. "As do I, Beatrice. As do I."