Page 48 of The Duke Undone

“What time?” She bit out the words. Oh, it was too enjoyable to tease her. She flustered openly. That expressive, changeable face, freckled and blushing, ordinary and oddly lovely—he couldn’t capture the magic of it with a pencil.

But he wouldn’t focus on her face. Fair was fair.

“The time it will take me to draw you.” He circled her slowly. “To realize my vision, I’m afraid you’ll have to take this off.”

He tapped her shoulder lightly, then rubbed the lace that edged the neckline of her gown between his fingers. She caught her breath. He leaned in, slowly, and her lids lowered as her lips parted. A rake would kiss her. His own brand of roguery had never quite fit any of the models.

He caught hold of the strap of her bag and tugged. Her eyes flew open but it was too late. She let the bag go from her, face crimson with outrage.

He set it down on a chair and folded his arms.

“Strip,” he said. “You don’t mind nudity, I know. Your profession calls for it.”

She snorted. “The Academy doesn’t offer life classes to women. We aren’t permitted to draw from the nude model.” She linked her hands at her waist. Did she think the decorous posture would help her keep her temper?

“You found a way around that prohibition.” He smiled at her. “How fortunate for you.”

“It puts us at great disadvantage,” she said, ignoring his gibe. “Drawing from the nude is essential to an artist’s training. When women are denied life classes, they suffer as artists.”

“But decency is preserved,” he said and was rewarded with a withering look.

“That argument holds no water,” she said, sternly. “We are petitioning to change the curriculum.”

He’d be willing to bet she was heading that initiative. She had a sweet jawline but you’d never know it, due to her pugnacious habit of clenching her teeth.

He opened her bag, sliding out the sketching pad and laying it down on the chair.

“I’m glad you have no moral objection,” he said. “You’ll have to take off your petticoats too, and your chemise, bloomers, everything.”

“I would allow you to draw me nude,” she said, with a toss of her head so vehement a hairpin arced into a potted heliotrope, “if you knew how to draw.”

“Would you? Or is that a bluff?” He forgot the sketching pad.

He stepped closer, and her head snapped back.

“You’re bashful!” He smiled with delight. “Why, that’s the last thing I would expect from you.”

“I am certainly not bashful!”

He brought up his hand and touched her cheek, thumbing the skin. It was as smooth as he remembered, the gold and brown pattern of freckles impossible to feel. His thumb slid down to the corner of her mouth, then traced its shape.

Her lips parted.

“Drawing students are often instructed to make studies of individual body parts. They don’t touch the part in question.”

“I am improving upon the method,” he said, and fit his mouth to hers. He licked the seam of her lips as she pressed them together. The warm, soft taste of her mouth felt wonderfully instructive. He might not be able to draw it, but with blotches of paint—shadowy red, like the inner folds of poppies; lambent brown, like a candle flame snuffed with honey; velvet black, like the midnight mosses in a sylvan cave—he thought he might translate something of the feeling.

She held still, receiving his kiss, neither rebuffing nor encouraging. Her passivity felt . . . evaluative. It would either chill a man’s performance or inspire him to new heights. He caught her lower lip gently with his teeth, plumping it, sucking. A moan escaped her and she opened for him, allowing his tongue to slip inside, then pressing with her own, licking back into his mouth, the kiss long and sweet.

She backed away, and he bit the inside of his cheek to quell the urge to follow.

“Tell me,” she said, huskily, “is this part of the arrangement?”

Ah, that was chilling. He shook his head, folding his arms, pinning his hands beneath his biceps.

“No.” He meant it. His mouth, moistened by hers, felt dry again.

The predictable story—the one where the woman is tricked, trapped, threatened, forced . . . He wanted nothing to do with it.