Since the Surrender (22 page)

“Who the devil is Rubinetto?” The Duchess was amused. “I’m afraid our paintings do not precisely come with pedigrees. I’m not even our paintings do not precisely come with pedigrees. I’m not even certain any of them are signed. We owe their presence to a number of artists, but one in particular. He occasionally takes it out in trade, and none of the girls here object, as he’s quite a charming devil and not at all objectionable.”

“Bartering is a fine English tradition,” Chase humored. “Now

…Duchess…this might sound…untoward…”

“We pride ourselves on the untoward, Captain.”

“But may I bring my friend up to look at the painting?”

“To…‘look’ at the painting?” The Duchess was all arched brows and insinuating incredulity. And Rosalind’s face heated about ten degrees.

“Yes. Is the room occupied at the moment?”

“Not at the moment, but from the look of things between Amanda and Mr. Lavay, you might want to be quick about…looking at the painting.”

So up the stairs they went.

The very first thing Rosalind noticed, of course, was the bed. A pink velvet counterpane was stretched over a plump mattress, and a heap of fat pillows were mounded at the head of it. The sight of it made her swallow.

“It’s there,” Chase said softly.

She didn’t need to follow the casual gesture he made. She found it She didn’t need to follow the casual gesture he made. She found it

—the painting—over the bed.

She was riveted.

A gentleman—presumably he was a gentleman, to have the money to pay for such a thing—was sprawling on a settee, knees up, great hairy white legs spread wide-open, arms flung behind him, his eyes rolled back in all appearance of bliss. He possessed Byronic curls. Kneeling between his legs was the angel, quite nude apart from some superfluous gossamer scraps clinging to her, not covering any parts typically covered by clothing, and she was leaning over him attentively.

His enormous cock was in her mouth.

Rosalind suspected she stopped breathing.

She stopped being aware of the functioning of her lungs anyhow. But she could suddenly feel every inch of her skin, feverish, alert as though every cell had its own lively consciousness.

“Rosalind.”

She gave a start. But she didn’t turn. Low, soft. God. That voice. He might as well have just licked the back of her neck.

“I—” she croaked.

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t stop staring. She did manage to tear her eyes away for a moment to inspect for a signature: there was none. But her eyes went back to the interesting portion of the painting immediately.

“Rosalind.”

Since she couldn’t seem to turn around, because the sight of him would likely further overwhelm her senses and she might very well swoon, which had never done in her life. She closed her eyes.

“Are you shocked?” he asked softly. He sounded concerned. She was fairly certain she’d find his eyes devilishly glinting when she mustered the nerve to look into them.

‘Of…of course not.” Her voice was still very weak, but she managed a semblance of indignation. “I’ve of course seen that sort of thing before.”

Dear God. Why on earth had she said that?

She instantly wished again for her invisibility shawl. He had warned her about the painting.

He was struggling to keep his voice solemn. The bloody man. “Oh. Have you, then?”

She swallowed. She still couldn’t bring herself to turn around. “Does it really…” She faltered.

“Does it really…what?”

She turned, as if the rush of words spun her around. “Does it really feel as good as the painting makes it seem?”

And now he was speechless. He stared at her a moment, dropjawed. He closed his jaw. And then his words emerged in stumbling disbelief. “The colonel never asked you to…that is…you didn’t…”

How would she ever survive the conflagration that was her cheeks at the moment? She said nothing.

“He didn’t?” Chase was well and truly shocked.

Which seemed a funny thing to be shocked about.

She knew her continued silence was answering all manner of questions for him.

“Yes,” he said finally, quite evenly, in clear bemusement. “It feels every bit as extraordinary as the painting would have you believe.”

A beat of silence.

“Oh.” She tried to say it casually; the word emerged a cracked squeak. It was difficult to be casual when he was looking at her like that, and he possessed those eyes, those hands, that body, that mouth, that mouth, that mouth…

Curiosity and helpless arousal were overriding good sense and embarrassment: “But do married men and women—”

“Oh, dear God. Without a doubt, Rosalind,” he said instantly. “It is not an activity confined to brothels.” He didn’t add, It’s quite commonplace, you poor sheltered ninny, but she thought she detected the flavor of that sentiment between the words. She absorbed this enormity for a moment.

“Shall I describe the pleasure to you, Rosalind?” His voice felt like it was coming from inside her. She felt it on her skin, as surely as hands.

No, is what she ought to have said.

Her head moved up and down and without her conscious permission.

“Well, it’s well-nigh indescribable. The snug, wet heat of a woman’s mouth over one’s…ahem…and sucking…and licking…” He said this slowly. Torturously slowly. Apparently, thoughtfully allowing her time to picture all of it. “It makes one mindless with…well, bliss. As the poets say,” he added with a diabolical amount of cheer. He was watching her rather fixedly.

Mesmerized, she watched his mouth form the words “snug” and

“wet” and “heat” and “sucking,” and felt faint with fascination, and the snug and wet parts of her throbbed as though he’d called them by name.

“I didn’t know,” she said finally, almost sadly.

“And Rosalind…” His voice had become velvety with sympathy.

“Imagine the positions of the angel and the gentleman there

…reversed.”

She looked at them again. Then looked quickly away. Back to the man in front of her, who was far more erotic than the painting by virtue of his mere existence.

“One can…” Her voice was squeaky gravel from nerves. She cleared her throat. “…do that, too?” She bravely met his eyes. “I mean, a man can…to a woman…”

He became far more specific.

“Nothing is more erotic than kneeling between the legs of a woman one desires and…tasting her…licking her…until she writhes and screams with pleasure. The warmth, and wet, and heat…”

He said this with the absolute conviction with which she was so familiar, and in the tone with which he might recite a requisitions list. Her skin had acquired a fresh coat of fever. Do that to me.

“S-Screams?” She was fairly certain she’d never once screamed in the throes of passion.

Was he telling her the truth?

Of course he was. She knew, simply based upon how she felt when he’d simply kissed her. Or when he was even near. Her knees were suddenly made of butter. She began to put her hands up to her face. Then brought them down again, out of pride. Though she was certain the color of her face, and her threadbare voice, and the way her bodice was moving, gave away everything she felt. It was difficult to breathe through this onslaught of erotic education.

There was a silence.

She threw another sidelong glance at the angel.

“Rosalind…” he said gently. He gave her name the intonation of a question. As though something had occurred to him. She looked up miserably. She was afraid of what he was going to ask next.

His turn to clear his throat. His face was carefully expressionless now. “He did…make you come?”

It took her a moment to realize to whom he was referring. It took her a moment to realize to whom he was referring.

“Of course!” she said with indignant loyalty. “At least five times that I can recall!”

Chase froze.

“Five times…in one go?” He sounded significantly subdued. She frowned, puzzled by the question.

And then his eyes widened, his face lit, and his head went back a bit and came down again in comprehension. “Ohhhhh.”

He looked briefly troubled, and inscrutability swept all other expression from his face.

Her own comprehension set in with a cold shock. “Can it—can I…?”

“Every…single…. time,” he said firmly. “Well, if done properly. Sometimes more than once per…well, per. And there are so many, many, many ways to…”

Stop stop stop stop stop.

“How?” The word forced its way out, though it sounded a little strangled. “How can you…what are the…”

She knew of but one way.

So, apparently, had her husband.

“I hardly know where to begin. Right side up, upside down, vertically, horizontally, backward, forward, wrong side out, diagonally, nude, partially clothed—”

“Wrong side out?”

“I wanted to see if you were listening. You can even do it for yourself.”

She’d guessed this, as she had rather participated—at his prompting—in her own near seduction behind a bookcase.

“I…”

“Rosalind…”

She looked up at him.

“I would be happy to show you all of it. Any time at all. You deserve to know.”

The words were smoky soft, a sensual lullaby. Her knees were tempted to buckle, her body to stretch out on the bed he tellingly glanced toward.

There was a silence, dense as those velvet curtains on the bed in the Montmorency.

“If you wish, you can imagine this bed is the Henry VIII bed in the Montmorency, Rosalind. For fantasy plays a role, too. And I’ll show you now.”

“How…how did you know?” she whispered it, awestruck.

“You’d be surprised by what I know.” He was whispering now, too.

“I doubt that.”

His smile was all lazy wickedness.

She closed her eyes tightly. It was too much. It wasn’t that she hadn’t overheard soldiers discussing coarse and sexual things, and it wasn’t as though she’d been unduly troubled by it, as she wasn’t a fragile flower. But all of those things had been rather

…straightforward. Conversation riddled with cant for breasts and penises and the act of sex, and the like. The army was a decidedly earthy place.

But this…this was like stumbling across a world parallel to the one she lived in, with its own rules and laws and landscape and language. It had become clear to her that there were endless angles and depths of sensuality to explore, and that Chase could likely lead her through each one. She was unnerved and dizzy, and angry. She knew he’d been purposefully explicit: to dissolve her resolve. Very unfair, as he knew by now what he could do to her with a single touch.

But in truth, she appreciated being enlightened. Because now she understood what she’d missed. And what she would sacrifice if she never experienced it.

And what he truly wanted from her.

She took in a deep fortifying breath.

“Thank you for being so forthcoming,” she managed coolly. She was gratified when he blinked.

She turned for the door, and over her shoulder said firmly, “And that’s definitely the same angel.”

The Duchess looked up as the creaking stairs announced their descent.

descent.

“Did you learn what you came to learn?” she asked.

“And then some,” Chase confirmed, noticing that Rosalind was narrowing her eyes at him. “The angel upstairs is compelling.”

He followed her down the stairs, watching the lovely sway of her sweet peach arse, and regretted what he’d just done to her. He’d done it in part deliberately, and it hadn’t at all been cricket, and he’d timed it badly.

A man may time things badly when he wants something badly, he thought.

“Ah, yes. I can see why,” the Duchess said. “That particular angel has inspired many a gentleman to feats of endurance, and I do believe her very presence helps to awaken slumbering appendages, given what she’s doing to a gentleman’s appendage in the painting. Though not always, I should say,” she added. God. Marie-Claude had obviously said something to the Duchess about him.

“That painting,” she added, “and the one over the settee of the sprawling girl, would be the work of a Mr. Wyndham.”

Wyndham? He’d never heard of a painter named Wyndham in his life.

“Are you interested in investing in erotic art, Captain?”

“I might well be,” Chase said smoothly. “Do you know Mr. Wyndham’s direction? We should like to have a word with him about his work.”

“He lives and works in Bethel Street—above a cobbler’s, I believe. I shouldn’t think there are many cobblers on Bethel Street.”

“My sincere thanks. How is business for you now?”

“Well, livelier since an American ship as well as The Courage pulled into port. I understand we’ll be losing you soon to that fine vessel?

The stocky gentleman standing near the hearth is the first mate of the American ship. A Mr. Lavay. Determined to spend all his money here, and we’re happy to encourage it.”

“And I’m happy to hear that commerce is alive and well. I sent Mr. Kinkade regards from you, and from Marie-Claude in particular.”

“Thank you for the thought, Captain Eversea. We’re still awaiting his return.”

If she noticed that Kinkade hadn’t sent his regards in return, she didn’t say a word about it.

“You’re certain we can’t tempt you into lingering, Captain Eversea?”

Her eyes darted from Chase to Rosalind and back again so quickly they called to mind billiard balls.

“You can certainly tempt me, Duchess,” he said gallantly, “but I fear we cannot linger today.”

They agreed to call upon Mr. Wyndham straightaway. From what he understood of artists, they typically lived in garrets because the rent was cheap. But this one lived in a fairly respectable part of town, and he was indeed above a cobbler. As they climbed his stairs, they heard the steady thwack thwack thwack of a shoe being built or repaired.

A woman with a thunderous, fleshy face, hair wrapped up in a rag, wielding a broom the way one might clutch a pike, answered the door.

“Es up there.” She used her chin to point.

The first thing they saw in this blazingly sunny room was a much larger than life-size painting featuring almost nothing but miles of rose and cream flesh. It was notable primarily for the artist’s enthusiasm for its subject—a nude woman reclining—rather than its finesse.