Prologue

London

June 2, 1818

At least thirty men had shown up to Michel Allard's studio that evening. They stood at their easels with shirtsleeves rolled up, smoking cheroots, drinking cheap wine, and verbally sparring with each other as they moved their eyes with shocking casualness over the naked woman whose voluptuous buttocks they'd been tasked with painstakingly reproducing in charcoal, ink, watercolor, and oil.

Six women were in attendance that night, as well. One was herself a model, wrapped in a velvet robe, scowling at her canvas and passing a chipped teacup of whiskey back and forth with her neighbor, a woman of perhaps thirty-five in simple shopgirl attire. Another of the women—the respect Monsieur Allard and his students had for her was evident in the way they joked bawdily with her—was a butchers' widow of fifty. And there were two sisters, both from the theater, always in competition with each other; one broody and precise with her brush, the other effusive, somehow managing to make even a humble bunch of grapes appear positively debauched.

While a few of the men were aristocratic second sons and the like, none of the women originated anywhere near the upper classes. Of course not. This was not a place for a gently bred lady. The nudity, the vulgarity, the strong spirits, the frank talk of tits and cocks and cunts in the context of chiaroscuro, the lateness of the hour. And, of course, all those men.

And then there were the works in progress scattered about the back wall of the studio. Nothing a lady would ever see in her lifetime, save if she took a very wrong turn indeed on the way to the museum. Provocative nudes. Scenes of implied and explicit carnality. And, perhaps even more controversially, scenes of life in the poorest slums of London. Hollow-eyed children. Scarred, alcoholic men. Women old before their time. Even the artists' rudimentary self-portraits were more searching, intimate, and inventive than anything that would hang in a gallery patronized by a fine young lady.

Understandable, then, that Arabella Denton had arrived tonight wearing her former lady's maid's old woolen dress. She'd scraped her hair back in a simple, unflattering bun. She kept her eyes on her canvas and on the model only, ignoring the conversations buzzing all around her. If she joined in, they'd hear the poshness of her accent within ten words, she knew.

Arabella had made sure no one knew she was coming, of course. And, she'd reasoned, simply popping in to observe a class in the studio of a well-known painter, a class attended by accomplished artists—of both sexes, after all—could hardly rise to the level of real scandal. Surely?

Well, wouldn't have risen to that level. Till now.

Stepping through the half-hidden door to the candlelit back room, Arabella knew she was crossing a point of no return.

The invitation to tonight's class had been a surprise. Two weeks ago, Arabella had accompanied her dear friend Grace Chetwood to the opening of a gallery exhibition of Monsieur Allard's work. Allard had, over the past few years, painted portraits of the whole Chetwood family, to fine effect. Allard was a particular favorite of the ton, owing to his brush's ability to subtly flatter his subjects. A sea of ladies and gentlemen were in attendance.

Arabella had taken a small sketchbook, as she did whenever she visited a gallery or museum. Even as a small girl, she'd loved to draw. Loved it in a way so deep and fundamental that she didn't think of it as love. She simply thought of it as being the most herself she could be.

Arabella lingered over one portrait, studying a peculiar, hard-to-define look in the baroness's eye. It was something warm, something ... secret. Arabella wanted to remember that look, even as she pondered that she did not quite understand it. And so she pulled out her sketchbook and a pencil, retreated to a quiet corner, and sketched what she saw.

She was absorbed in her work and did not notice Allard's approach. He cleared his throat, eyeing her work from over her shoulder. Embarrassed, she snapped the book shut.

"Beg pardon," he said, and bowed. He was a fashionable Frenchman of around forty years, with wild, too-long hair, an elegant nose reddened by years of drink, and a way of leaning against a wall that made one feel he was interacting with the world ironically.

He introduced himself. Arabella felt herself blush. "I know your work well. I've seen it in many galleries and homes over the years. It is so beautiful—the brushwork, the expression. Truly."

He touched his hand to his heart. "This means much, from a fellow artist."

"Oh, I'm not —"

"Nonsense." He nodded to her shut book.

"All ladies draw," she protested.

"Draw kittens," he said, with amused disdain. "And not well. You are different."

"And you perceive that I am different ... from a quick glance at a sketch?"

He shrugged. "It is my work to know."

Arabella's heart gave a little flip. No one paid her art any mind—not her father, certainly, or her friends. Hearing praise from an artist she admired thrilled her.

"You should study," he said.

"Oh, I had a tutor."

"Horseshit. You should study . Come to my course."

Oh . She knew about his classes, taught in his studio in a vibrant, dilapidated area of London. Promising young painters gathered to learn technique, and sketch from live models. Nude models, many recruited from neighborhood brothels.

Aristocrats and working-class young men alike gathered for these sessions. Art was the great leveler, the eradicator of class.

Well, for men, it was. No gently bred lady would attend a such a gathering, any more than she would set foot in a harem.

"Women attend," he said, with a smile, seeming to read Arabella's mind.

"I couldn't possibly," she said.

He held his hand out, asking for the sketchbook. Surprised, she handed it to him. He flipped through, scanning her other work. He nodded approvingly.

"Much promise. As I said, mademoiselle . You should come." He held his hand out again and she realized he wanted the pencil. He used it to write down an address and time.

"If you change your mind." He handed the book back to her. "Please know, my students and I would be the soul of discretion. We serve the muse. Not the ton."

With an amused tilt of his head, the artist walked away.

Arabella had gleaned all she could from her childhood art tutor, and had been relying for some time on solitary close study of musty paintings in museums, trying her best to decipher the elements of good technique. So the class was wonderful. No—exhilarating. Magical. To work alongside so many talented artists, to hear Allard's explanations and suggestions ... bliss.

Oh, and the studio. It was cluttered, dusty, unevenly lit, with a frightful number of wine bottles scattered about. It was heaven.

Arabella hoped she blended in, that the others assumed she was household staff, or a shopgirl, or really anything other than the daughter of a lord. Thankfully, no one paid her attention. All were absorbed in their own work. The atmosphere was friendly but serious, even as wine loosened tongues and the evening wore on.

Arabella made several sketches of two female models in turn. One was slender, as vibrantly red-haired as her friend Grace, with freckles everywhere on her body. The other, impossibly voluptuous—even her curly black hair was alive with sensual movement.

When the third model stepped up and disrobed, Arabella had to stifle a gasp. A man of perhaps five and twenty stood before her, with the physique of a Greek statue—all perfect skin, smooth muscle, a thatch of golden hair over a thick penis that lay against his upper thigh as he posed.

She'd seen men naked before, of course. It was difficult to entirely avoid them when one visited lakes where people swam, and so forth.

But they certainly didn't tend to look like Apollo come to life.

Sketching the model felt wrong, initially. Almost as though she were touching his naked form.

But then, abruptly, it felt as natural as breathing. Even his penis stopped being a curiosity and turned to shape, shadow, light.

Allard peered at her work. Suggested she deepen the shadows. "Less timid." He clapped her on the shoulder before moving on to the next student. "Very good," he said as he went.

Arabella quietly beamed.

The hour grew late. Several students bade their goodbyes and departed. And those who stayed gradually abandoned their work and turned their full attention to drinking and socializing.

Arabella briefly considered slipping away. Her father didn't know she was here, of course. He believed she was visiting with Grace, who had agreed to conceal her adventure.

Technically, she could stay here as long as she liked. But she had the sense that the class was over, and if she remained here, it would be for another reason entirely.

She noticed then that several more students were missing from the room. And that a few new artists had entered the studio, bringing wine and conversation with them as they greeted friends and passed through the space. And then she saw where they were going—through a door semi-concealed by a shabby velvet curtain. She took a step closer, and heard murmurs, laughter, and strange sounds she could not place on the other side of the door.

It is time to go, she thought, gathering up her sketchbook.

But she did not walk to the exit. She approached the door.

The room was larger than Arabella expected, lit here and there by candles shoved into empty bottles. A sort of lounging room, with various arrangements of settees, paint-spattered chairs, piles of threadbare cushions on the ground.

The first thing she saw was a student, sketching. He was sitting on a stool, near a chair where a fellow student with an unkempt head of flaxen hair sat, his head thrown back.

For a moment, Arabella thought she'd simply walked into another version of the class she'd just left.

But then the man on the chair moaned.

And all at once Arabella realized he was not alone. The slender, redheaded model knelt on the floor between his legs. She was topless, her pale, freckled breasts pressed against his legs. She'd pulled his cock from his pants and was stroking it with long, firm movements, a smirk on her face as he reacted.

That's what the student was drawing.

Arabella took a step backward. She'd never seen anything like it. Well, once, in a book Grace had pilfered from her father's library. But those had been ridiculous caricatures.

This . . . was the thing itself.

As she backed toward the door, she realized that it was everywhere in the room. She was surrounded by similar couplings. Another female painter, one of the sisters, sat in the lap of a man at least ten years her senior, straddling his legs. Her skirts were pulled up to her waist, revealing plump legs in practical woolen stockings, and she was moving on him almost lazily. Her breathing was uneven. She stared into the man's eyes, and Arabella could see that they were in their own world. He murmured something to her in French. She laughed throatily and leaned in to kiss him.

Beyond that couple, Arabella saw two men on a couch, one kissing his way down the other's body, unbuttoning his clothes as he went.

Arabella felt frozen to the spot. Seeing something—so many things—she was never meant to see.

She'd wondered, of course. About all of it. What a man looked like in an aroused state. What a woman did with a man. And the men together—that was something she'd never even thought to wonder about.

She knew that everything she was seeing was a transgression. But in this room, it didn't seem so—in fact, it seemed quite ordinary to everyone involved.

And more than that. Arabella knew she should feel disgust at the array of lascivious acts playing out around her. But instead, they seem to have shaken the lid off something deep in her belly, and now a great many butterflies were flitting around inside her.

She wanted to move closer.

Another student—young, handsome, quite tall—had noticed Arabella hovering near the door. He stepped beside her, and for a moment, watched the room with her. Her shoulder, so near his, went warm.

He dipped his head and murmured in her ear. "Are you only watching, sweetheart? Or ... ?"

The invitation shimmered in the air between them.

Her heart gave a thump. She was intrigued. And afraid. And most of all, overwhelmed. She'd barely seen anything yet, and it felt very bold to jump into the fray with so little knowledge.

"In a little while, perhaps," she managed. He tipped his head in friendly deference and moved on.

Arabella found a dark corner with cushions on the floor. It offered her a clear view of the whole room, and she doubted anyone would notice her there. She made herself comfortable, took up her sketchbook ... and watched.

An hour went by. An expanding, many-layered universe of pleasure unfurling all around her. Sometimes, she got so caught up in the rawness of the moment that she forgot she was drawing. She filled many pages with quick sketches, gestures.

Eventually, she grew bolder. Most of the others in the room were quite drunk by then, and some of the couples had become trios and quartets. Entwined shamelessly. The room filled with the sounds of bodies meeting, of overwhelming pleasure. Arabella abandoned her corner and came closer to the action— the subjects, as she was dryly referring to them in her head.

She sat on the floor, pencil flying over the page, eyes glued to Allard's tongue as it drew quick spirals over the voluptuous model's rosy cunt. The model lay back on a pile of pillows, arching, writhing, grabbing his hair so hard that it surely hurt, though he didn't complain. He merely pressed into her with his tongue, gripping her hips in his charcoal-stained fingers.

Arabella felt her insides go liquid as she watched the model approach ecstasy under Allard's mouth. And then, the woman rolled her head to the side ... and saw Arabella watching.

Arabella looked away, embarrassed ... but when she looked back, the woman was still looking at her. With a private smile.

The woman held Arabella's gaze as Allard deftly rolled his tongue over her. The woman gasped, and, staring right into Arabella's eyes, came with a feral moan.

Arabella realized she was breathing so hard she was very nearly panting. One of her hands had somehow come to rest on her breast. In that instant, she very, very much wanted to push her other hand between her legs. She wanted someone to throw her skirts up, do to her what Allard had done to the model. She wanted someone to stare into her eyes as she reached ecstasy.

It was like she'd spoken the wish aloud. Because languorously, the model sat up and leaned toward Arabella, nudging Allard to get his attention. "Come join us," the woman said, her voice honey, breathless, infinitely inviting.

Allard looked to Arabella with drunken fondness, then bit the model's thigh. "Leave the girl alone, cherie, she's shy."

"I'm not so sure she is," the model said, and gave Arabella a challenging look. " Are you shy?"

And in that moment, Arabella was both grateful and regretful that she had not drunk any wine. So nothing impeded the voice of reason from propelling her to her feet, grabbing up her sketchbook ... and running out of the room as fast as she could.