Chapter Twenty-Seven

When Eleanor opened her eyes, a soft orange glow flickered in her chamber. The fire was not yet out—it must still be the middle of the night.

She opened her eyes and let out a cry.

She was lying on the bed, as naked as the day she was born. And standing over her…

Standing over her, equally naked, a hungry expression in his eyes, was Montague FitzRoy, fifth Duke of Whitcombe.

"Oh!" She sat up, her cheeks warming with shame. Heavens! Her thighs were wide apart—and he'd been looking at her—down there.

His eyes glittered with relish. "You're beautiful when you sleep, Eleanor."

She looked away. "I thought you promised never to flatter me."

He sat beside her, and the bed shifted under his weight.

"It's not flattery," he said. "I've seen the barrier you erect around yourself—to hide from the rest of the world." His mouth curled into a smile. "On occasion, you have lowered that barrier and gifted me with a glimpse of the woman inside. But tonight…" He gestured toward her body. "Tonight was the first time you removed the barrier completely. And it remained gone while you slept. Tonight is the first time I really saw you."

"And I you," she said.

He shook his head. "I have no cause to conceal myself as you do."

She caught his hand. "We may be opposites in the eyes of the world—but we are also alike. You would have the world believe that you care little for others." She lifted his hand to her lips. "But you do care. I saw it in the way you helped those children—in how kind you were to give books to Joe, even though you said they were nothing and you'd have cast them aside had he not taken them. And I saw it in how you treated Olivia as your sister despite how she's viewed by the world." She smiled up at him. "I even saw it in the way in which you ensured that the drawing room tonight would not be well lit so that I might not be overwhelmed by the noise and lights with my family here. You even asked your mother to play the pianoforte to ensure the conversation was kept to a minimum."

"It's not much to boast of, Eleanor."

"I disagree," she said. "It means the world to me. What is a grand gesture, intended to draw in the admiration of the world, compared to the small, almost insignificant gestures that go unnoticed by most, but make a world of difference to one person? It's the very fact that those gestures are unnoticed that makes them honest, and pure. For they were not done with your own gratification in mind—but for the comfort and pleasure of others."

"You're too kind," he said.

"And…" She hesitated, lest he be offended by her request. But they were soon to part—where was the harm in asking?

"Is there something you desire?" he asked.

"I wondered if I might be permitted something to remember you by."

He captured her mouth in a swift kiss, then brushed his knuckles against her breast, grinning as her nipple beaded. "I've already given you that. But the night is young—I can do so again."

"N-no—I meant…" She inhaled, summoning her courage. "May I sketch you—I mean, from life this time?"

He cocked his head to one side. "You've sketched me before, from memory? May I see?"

"If you grant my request."

"Then, my Eleanor," he said, stretching his long, lithe body along the bed, "your wish is my command."

*

The pleasure ofsketching him from memory was nothing compared to the pleasure of having the living, breathing man before her, his perfect naked form at her command, to draw as she liked, to follow the contours of his body—the muscles, the sinews, right down to the detail around his knuckles.

She cast her gaze over his body, settling on the very essence of him that had given her such exquisite pleasure earlier that night—thick and beautiful, nestling among the dark curls. She ran her pencil over the page, curling around its form, depicting every wrinkle in the skin, from root to tip, and her body tightened with the memory of him inside her…

"I believe the artist is blushing," he rumbled.

She initialed the sketch. "It's done."

"May I see?"

She handed over the sketchbook, and he flicked through it. He had posed for two full sketches, several studies of his hands, his feet, and his manhood, and a line drawing as a portrait.

"You called me a flatterer, Eleanor—but you are just as guilty of that particular crime. You've made me too perfect."

"It's how I see you."

He sighed. "If only I could draw you as well. Could you draw yourself?"

"It would be somewhat vain, wouldn't it?" she said.

"But for me?" he asked. "As a keepsake?"

She could hardly refuse. "You want a portrait?"

"A full sketch. I want to remember that beautiful body."

She rose and studied herself in the mirror—her unremarkable body with its soft curves and overly large breasts that Mother had said were too vulgar for Society, but that Montague had worshiped with relish, making her feel beautiful.

"Look at yourself," he whispered, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Look at yourself through my eyes—not the eyes of those who fail to understand you."

She continued to stare, imagining the woman in the mirror was desirable. Then, with a nod, she sat and began sketching.

Minutes later, she'd completed a line drawing of a naked woman. Then she initialed it, tore it from the page, and handed it to him.

"I'll treasure it," he said. "And have no fear—I'll keep it concealed in my chamber. I'll not ruin your reputation by letting it fall into the wrong hands. My chamber is my haven, in which I shut out the rest of the world."

"Is that why you made love to me here, instead of your chamber?" she asked.

He let out a soft chuckle. "I had a more practical reason for bringing you here. I asked Mrs. Adams to set your chamber apart from the other guests—I thought you'd prefer the quiet. Had we made love in my chamber, the rest of the guests would have heard you screaming my name."

"Oh."

"In fact," he said, shifting closer, "I'm minded to hear my name on your lips again. I find I'm ready for you again."

It was folly to make love a second time. The taste of pleasure at his hands was like an opiate—the first rush of ecstasy, followed by an ever-increasing need for more, until she grew dependent and was driven mad for need of it.

And then, when the opiate was taken from her forever…

But she would accept the pain of withdrawal to have him inside her again—just once more. And the pleasure would be tenfold now she understood the joy of sharing her body with a man she loved.

"Very well," she said. "Let us make the most of tonight."

The second time, pleasure came quickly. He mounted her swiftly, slipping inside her with ease, then, with a few sharp thrusts, brought her to climax. After they crested the wave, he pulled her to him and held her in his arms, their bodies sticky with sweat, while their breathing steadied.

As she drifted into sleep once more, he caressed her hair in an absent-minded gesture.

"I love you, Eleanor."

She caught her breath. Had he spoken? Or had she heard an echo of a dream, fulfilling a wish that could never come true? She waited several heartbeats. Then, with a soft sigh, she drifted into sleep once more.

The next time she woke, her maid was bustling about the room, drawing the curtains and chivying her to prepare for the journey home. Her clothes were neatly folded in a pile on a chair, and beneath them, her sketchbook. There was no sign that Montague had even been there.