Sin. Sharon Page

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      If he’d started looking at such pictures at eight, when would he have first made love?

      The instant the shocking thought raced through her head, Venetia found herself picturing the earl at his first sexual experience. With a voluptuous dairymaid or perhaps a bountiful courtesan. Eager. Sweaty. Naked.

      Venetia, good heavens, stop! She took a shaky breath. “Are there other…differences?”

      He turned the pages. “This one.”

      She gaped at the picture framed by his large gloved hands.

      A simple alfresco luncheon scene. This one featured the earl with his back against an ancient oak tree while his mistress rode atop him.

      “This, to me, is a distinct clue your father did not do the work.”

      For the life of her, Venetia could not see why. Her father had in fact done similar pictures.

      “The position of the woman is the telling thing.”

      Mystified, she studied the mistress. The lady’s skirts were up, revealing her plump bottom, and her head was thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted in ecstasy. Venetia had copied the expression from Belzique, the French artist of the last century who drew women in bizarre costumes, wielding whips. Pictures that disturbed her, which she would never wish to copy, but that she found inexplicably intriguing.

      “In your father’s works the women are always lifted,” he explained. “In the upward portion of the stroke—” For the first time, his voice faltered.

      “Yes?” Her query came out as a husky whisper.

      “That position reveals the man’s…equipment.”

      “His equipment,” she repeated.

      “His shaft. It appeals to the male to see the shaft disappearing inside the woman. For a start, they know actual penetration is taking place.”

      His tone was teasing but her chest felt squeezed, as though she’d been laced too tight. She stared at her picture, strangely hurt. “It doesn’t appeal to the male to see the woman seated back, the way she is shown here?”

      So it was more than just differences in style. She’d thought her work tempting, seductive, pleasing. But, as a woman, had she not understood what men desired? Was it more complex than she’d thought?

      Did this mean her career—her key to independence—would fail? Perhaps her book had only sold well because of her father’s name. Perhaps she would never sell another.

      “You look so heartbroken, love,” he murmured. “I can assure you that men enjoy your drawings. Your work is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Far more arousing.”

      He settled his hands on the back of the chair. She was caught between his powerful arms as his breath skimmed the nape of her neck. Tiny loose tendrils of her hair stirred and tickled.

      He bent forward at the exact instant she drew back. Her bottom bumped against a solid ridge. His lordship’s…equipment, hard and jutting against her derriere through her skirts and his trousers.

      He turned to the next page, revealing Two Ladies Painting Watercolors. Two young ladies of the ton sat in a garden with easels in front of them and the statue of a naked god to inspire. Both women had been attempting to sketch the nude man, but had become distracted in their arousal. Skirts and petticoats spilled over smooth thighs and they employed their paintbrushes on themselves in inventive ways.

      And from the shrubbery, the Earl of Trent spied on the pretty girls.

      “Now you see why I am here, Miss Hamilton.” His tone hardened. His jaded amusement was gone. Anger burned beneath his words. “You’ve depicted me as the most promiscuous and perverted man in London. At a time when I put my patronage behind Lady Ravenwood’s charity—a charity to save young women from brothels. Lady Ravenwood—my sister—was horrified when rumors reached her ears that I was doing the very thing she was trying to prevent.”

      Venetia fought panic. There was no point in denying the truth anymore. “It was not intentional, my lord! I did not even know you were a real man. I did not even know your name! You were in Rodesson’s books. You did those things in public. You were naked—”

      She broke off. She had just said ‘naked’ to an earl. Guiltily, she thought of The Theatre Box. Suddenly, she wanted to burn it. “I will never draw you again.”

      “No, you won’t, my dear.” He lifted his hands from the book and stepped back, as though giving her room to breathe. “Your career is about to come to an end.”

      She spun around. “But I must paint! How else will my family survive? My publisher expects a book in a month’s time!”

      A part of her quailed at the earl’s sheer size, his intimidating pose with arms crossed over his wide chest, the hard line of his lips. But she tipped up her chin.

      His lips softened. “I do not normally cancel gaming debts, Miss Hamilton. But I won’t be responsible for your ruination. I will tear up your father’s vowels.”

      She should be overjoyed. He would return the money. They were saved. She had saved them all. She would return to the country. She would have to give up all her hard-won independence.

      Solemnly, she shook her head. “My father always enters into deep play, my lord. He will only lose his money again. I am the only hope my family has. And you need not worry, I am not innocent.”

      The lie rolled off her tongue before she could stop it.

      His black brow lifted. He took a sharp breath. “Your father lied?”

      “He doesn’t know, of course.”

      She shivered again as his gaze swept her from curls to hem.

      “You blush very prettily, my dear. But I have known of several courtesans who could summon a fetching flush on demand.”

      Her face flamed hotter. “I am not innocent and I…I can prove it.”

      “Can you?” Trent traced his gloved finger along the length of one of the paintbrushes in her picture. “So you have experienced the pleasures that you paint?”

      Venetia was riveted by the sight. Her voice, where was her voice? “Y—yes,” she lied.

      “If you are not innocent then you must know how such a caress would feel.” He circled his fingertip over the painted vulva. “You must know how a man delights in parting those soft lips and finding the heat and honey within.”

      He paused. Silence stretched for many fervent heartbeats. She heard her soft, quick breaths. The tick of the mantel clock. The greedy roar of the flames.

      “Do you touch yourself like this, sweeting? Do you paint your quim with your brush until you are creamy and wet? Do you enjoy threesomes? Do you prefer two cocks at your command, or another woman’s juicy cunny?”

      Her knees felt as insubstantial as sea foam.

      He lifted СКАЧАТЬ