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“I wondered if you’d had a chance yet to consider my proposal.”
I appreciate your patience, Mr. Rodin, and your tenacity.” My fingers tightened around my parasol’s handle.
“My brother says that I am like a dog with a bone once my mind is made up on a matter.”
His enchanting grin bolstered my confidence. “I am happy that you have not given up.”
He stood before me looking quite dapper in his dark trousers and tan jacket. His wavy hair was brushed back behind his ears, accentuating his chiseled jaw. In his eyes, I saw a palatable hunger.
Although I knew fully that it was not proper for a young woman to accept such a proposal, I had no reason to fear Mr. Rodin. My fear was that his resolve might weaken if I answered no again.
He pulled a long-stemmed rose from behind his back and handed it to me.
Charmed, I took it from him, touching the delicate petals to my mouth as I breathed in its lovely fragrance. Twice, no, three times now, he had given me flowers.
“You received my flowers?” he asked, tipping his head.
I hesitated, trying to find the best way to explain what had happened. “I did, thank you. However, I regret to have to tell you that I gave them away. I am not allowed to accept gifts at the store.”
“Duly noted. I could see where a woman of your beauty could cause problems in that area.”
I averted my eyes. “Please, Mr. Rodin.”
“I mean every word, Miss Bridgeton,” he stated.
He studied me for a long moment, tapping his hat against his leg and then smiled.
“Well, it remains whether I can persuade you to visit the studio.”
I could not have told him no had my life depended upon it. “Very well. Though you realize it is inappropriate for me to accept your invitation without a chaperone.” His eyes raked over me and I admit I quite enjoyed it. There was something daring in the line I was about to cross.
“I believe you have a good head on your shoulders, Miss Bridgeton. I give you my oath, I will be a gentleman.”
I took his proffered arm, hoping he would not be too much of one. I had dreamed for the past few nights of what it would be like to have his mouth on mine. I looked away, feeling my face flush again.
Mr. Rodin and I walked leisurely through the park to the line of carriages awaiting passengers. He assisted me into a two-seater, settling in close beside me.
“Cheyne Walk,” he told the driver.
The open-air carriage jerked forward and I popped up my parasol to stave off the afternoon sun.
“Will your brother be at the studio?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the road ahead. I dared not look at him. Already I felt brazen at accompanying him without a proper chaperone.
“If he isn’t, he will be shortly. He did mention meeting with some of the brotherhood this afternoon.”
“Do you live at the studio with your brother?” I gave him a brief side look. He had a handsome profile, and I noted a cleft in his chin that I had not seen before.
“When I’m in London, yes, I stay with Thomas. It was a little hard at first getting used to his quirks.” He chuckled. “Thomas paints when the mood strikes him—night or day.”
I smiled pleasantly. I had apparently much to learn about the eccentric Thomas Rodin.
The carriage jostled down the cobblestone street, the sun overhead causing me to grow warm. I had bathed and dressed in one of my best gowns, donning a hand-me-down corset I had received as a gift from one of the girls at work. Still, the heat beneath the layers of clothing was suffocating.
At last, the carriage came to a stop in front of a tall, narrow, two-story stone flat. A small balcony looked out over the street from a set of French doors. It was simple, clean and neat, and appeared to be in a good district, putting my mind at ease in that regard.
Mr. Rodin helped me from the carriage and ushered me up a few steps to a painted red door.
“Here we are.”
Inside, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the murky foyer. The entry was narrow, with a small room off to the right. I peeked inside, finding the room void of furnishings, but its floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with books.
“The brotherhood are voracious readers,” Mr. Rodin said, leaning over my shoulder. “Come, I’ll show you the studio. It’s upstairs.”
He placed his hand on the small of my back, gently guiding me to the dark mahogany stairwell. Allowing me to go first, we walked up a short flight to a landing and took a sharp right turn to proceed up another set of stairs.
I brushed my palm over the ruby-red wallpaper. It had a raised, velvety texture that I had never seen before. “This design is lovely.”
From behind, his hand reached up to rest beside mine. “Do you like it?” he asked.
I tried to ignore his close proximity, how the sound of his rich voice reverberated inside me. “The color is so elegant, like a red wine.” I looked over my shoulder and caught his pleased smile.
“That was my inspiration.”
“Your inspiration?” I asked, surveying the beautiful wall covering.
“This was one of the first designs I sold to a manufacturer right here in London. Granted, it’s for a very limited clientele, but it’s a start.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “Doubtful my designs will ever hang in the academy.”
“There are more homes in this world than museums or galleries, Mr. Rodin,” I responded without hesitation. He lowered his hand, brushing it against mine in the process.
“Thank you, I’ve never thought of it that way.”
I moved onward, more aware than ever of his presence behind me. At the top of the stairs was a wide hallway. Directly across from me was an open archway leading to a large room. To my right the corridor stretched past four more doors to the end of the hallway and a window festooned with delicate lace curtains. A putrid smell came from the larger room ahead and I lifted my hand to my nose. “Oh, goodness, what is that smell?”
Mr. Rodin laughed. “Thomas would tell you that’s the smell of money.”
He lightly touched my back, urging me forward.
“You’ll get used to it. It’s the linseed oil and cleaner for the brushes,” he said over my shoulder. “You certainly smell far better.”
“Mr. Rodin.” A giggle escaped my lips. He eased around me, his chest brushing my side. I held my breath, unnerved at my body’s reaction to him.
“Come in.”
He waved me into the room and I stood a moment, letting my eyes adjust from the dark hallway to the fused afternoon light in the spacious room. It appeared as though a wall had been removed to create a massive combination studio and study. One end of the room was cluttered with easels, props and a lounge chair draped with beautiful gowns. It looked more like the backstage area of a theater than an artist’s haven. At the other end sat a writing desk and another set of shelves holding collectible exotic items and more books. There was an ornate, black marble front fireplace flanked by a grouping of overstuffed chairs. Directly opposite the fireplace, Mr. Rodin had opened the French doors leading to the balcony. Papers pinned to canvasses fluttered in the summer breeze.
“Feel free to look around,” Mr. Rodin said as he puttered around the room.
An errant sketch tumbled past me and kissed my toe. I reached down to pick it up at the same time as Mr. Rodin. Our fingers met briefly and my heart faltered. I let go of the paper, not wanting him to see the flush of my cheeks.
“Have you painted before, Miss Bridgeton?” He held the paper loose in his hand, his eyes steady on me.
I suppose his question was not out of the ordinary. Most well-bred women in London included painting, poetry and music in their list of abilities. “I’ve only written a little poetry. Dreadfully novice, I’m afraid.” My eyes drifted to the sketch in his hand. Done in charcoal, it was the picture of a nearly nude woman reclined on a chaise. A drape thrown haphazardly over her legs. I looked away, scanning the pictures stacked against the wall, and wondered if I would be asked to pose nude.
Without comment, he placed the sketch on a stack of others on the desk, weighing them down with a thick book.
“Who do you read?” he asked, watching me as I inspected the stacks of paintings leaning along the wall. In one group alone, there were as many as a dozen paintings with various backgrounds, but the same woman’s face. “I read most anything, Mr. Rodin. But I have a particular fondness for Dickens.”
He chuckled. “A fine fellow, Charles.” He glanced at the floor. “A bit zealous, but he means well.”
“You know him?” I asked, wide-eyed.
He shrugged. “We had him over to dine one evening. He has some definite ideas on social reform.”
I searched his face wondering whether or not to believe him. I’d begun to think that perhaps Mr. Rodin had not been embellishing on his brother’s notoriety. “Did your brother paint these?” I asked. Mr. Rodin walked up beside me. “They all look like the same woman.”
“Yes, these are the same woman. Thomas can be a bit possessive once he chooses a subject.”
There was an underlying tone in his voice, though I could not pinpoint it exactly. Sadness? Frustration? His breath tickled the back of my neck. The woman in the paintings was undeniably beautiful. How could I compare to such beauty? “Do you think he will find me suitable?” I touched the collar of my blouse nervously.
I became aware in an instant of my ardent feelings for Mr. Rodin. While it was one thing to dream in the privacy of my room, it was quite another to deal with my desire while standing in a room alone, next to him. He had kept his word, remaining the perfect host, the consummate gentleman, and the realization of what I had agreed to illuminated my thoughts. I had hoped for, perhaps secretly wished, this would happen, that we might find ourselves alone, able to address the growing admiration I felt for him and I was nearly certain he felt for me.
It was both exhilarating and frightening to realize that I had just made the first big decision of my adult life.
Chapter Four
HIS FINGERS WERE WARM AS HE LACED THEM through mine. It would have been wiser for me to run. There was danger that he would snatch my virtue; perhaps more that I would allow it. I closed my eyes to the divine sensation of his thumb brushing back and forth over my wrist, aware of the desire rising inside me.
“What are you doing, Mr. Rodin?” I said breathlessly.
“How could my brother not find you absolutely perfect, Miss Bridgeton? He would have to be blind.”
My heart thudded as I turned to meet his smoldering eyes. Unable to move, I fought to collect my thoughts, searched for a reason to deny what my body craved. I had spent days thinking of nothing but William.
“My father cautioned me that men, especially men who want something, will stop at nothing to achieve their purpose. Is that what you’re doing, Mr. Rodin?” His eyes drifted to my mouth and I knew his curiosity matched mine.
“I confess, Miss Bridgeton, that since we first met, you have pervaded my thoughts.” His crystalline blue eyes met my gaze.
“I pray, do not tease me, sir.” I could not tell if my stomach was misbehaving or if more was happening to me. I had a dull ache deep inside—a yearning that I could not explain.
His grip tightened as he leaned toward me. The struggle for restraint was evident in his eyes and in the tick of his set jaw. A gust of hot air blew through the open balcony doors, sending a rustle of papers to join the pleasant buzz beginning in my head.
“And you, Miss Bridgeton, do you not know how you’ve bewitched me?”
He moved closer, afraid, I think, to frighten me. His warm, musky scent overtook my senses as he searched my eyes, asking silent permission. The mere brush of his lips to mine snatched my breath away, unleashing a primal need.
I boldly met his mouth, secretly thrilled by his deep-throated growl as he backed me against the wall. I curved my body to his hard muscled warmth, sensing his arousal through the layers of clothing between us.
Sweat trickled between my breasts, skittering over my heated flesh. The images conjured by the couple in the gardens leaped into my mind. I gave in to the lustful sounds in my memory, causing a ravenous fire to course through me.
I savored William’s mouth slanting over mine, seducing, pulling me deeper under his spell, and whimpered softly when his greedy tongue plunged between my lips. He smelled of the warm summer wind, tasted of honeyed tea and cinnamon.
“God, but you are lovely,” he said, his lips nibbling the sensitive flesh beneath my ear. “Tell me you’ve thought of this,” he whispered. “That you’ve wanted this as much as I have dreamt of it.”
His hand glided upward, over my waist, pushing higher until his palm closed gently over my covered breast. I squirmed beneath his fervent kisses, succumbing to the rapture of his intimate caress.
“I need to…I must touch you.”
He looked at me with those mesmerizing eyes, demanding more. Despite the warring factions in my head cautioning me to end this, I could not refuse him—I did not want to refuse him.
I turned my back to him, lifting my hair to allow ease in unbuttoning my dress. His lips pressed to my exposed flesh, sending a cascade of shivers down my spine and straight to my core. Half-dressed now, I laid my cheek against the cool plaster wall, enjoying the brush of his hands as he peeled the dress slowly down over my body.
He kissed my shoulder, turning me to face him and, for a moment, we stared at each other. Frozen, I stood still as his eyes raked over me, assessing, deciding, it seemed, whether to continue. Before now, I’d never compared myself to another woman. I worried my lip, a nervous habit I deplored, but I feared he was having second thoughts.
My body trembled, alive with anticipation. He set to the task of unhooking the closures down the front of my corset, stopping intermittently to capture my face in a spine-tingling kiss. “Hurry,” I whispered, anxious to be rid of my confinements.
I braced against the wall, grateful when he slid the stiff corset from around me. My breasts bobbed free, straining against my whisper-thin camisole. He dipped his head, closing his mouth over the fabric, drawing the rosy tip of my breast between his lips, teasing, taunting me.
My fingers tangled in his hair, kneading with luxurious euphoria, desire pulsing hot inside me. Through hooded lids, I watched how his mouth mastered my body, summoning new sensations.
Between scalding kisses, he tugged the wispy fabric over my head, binding my hands in the cloth, holding them above as he captured my mouth in a fierce kiss. William pulled back, took a deep breath and leaned his forehead to mine.
“It is the last thing I want, Helen, to deceive you or to make you think that your father is right. I did not plan this, and if you tell me to stop, I will, without question. But I pray you do not.” He swallowed hard, searching my eyes.
I reached for his face, my fingertips—tentative, unsure—touching the roughness of his shadowy beard, fueling the fire already in my blood.
“I will not stop you, Mr. Rodin. I have thought of little else these past days.” I met his mouth, coaxing him back to me, my hands awkwardly working at the buttons of his shirt between my fervent need to taste his mouth.
He took my hands and kissed them, stepping away to peel off his shirt and drop it in haste to the floor. My breath caught at the breadth of his shoulders, the soft dusting of hair on his sculpted chest. He was every bit as well formed as the statues I had seen at the museum.
The intensity of my fleshly appetite surprised me. It was as though another woman had been awakened in me. The sheen of his hard muscled flesh left me languid, craving his touch.
He slipped his hands beneath the waistband of my drawers, his eyes locked to mine as he drew them over my hips and waited for me to step from them. I pressed my palms against the wall, wearing nothing now but my old high-top boots.
“I am about to burst looking at you,” he said. “See what you do to me.”
My eyes lowered to the raised definition in his trousers, then flickered back to his heated gaze. The fact that I had caused his arousal, something that I’d never done for a man, delighted me. Still, I was not sure precisely what to do next. I did not have to ask.
He dropped to his knees, circling my waist with his hands, drawing my body to his mouth. He lavished attention on one breast and then the other.
“You are a virgin, aren’t you?” he whispered.
His breath caused the gooseflesh to rise on my exposed skin. I nodded, my eyes fluttering shut as his kisses descended to my hip, his mouth kissing the tops of my thighs.
He lifted my leg over his shoulder, parting my feminine folds. I let out a small gasp as he slid his calloused thumb along my warm, wet maidenhood. My back arched forward and I covered my mouth to quell the soft sounds coming from my throat. His finger slid deeper and my hands flew to his head, in an effort to keep my weak knees from buckling.
“Don’t be afraid, Helen. I’ll take care of you,” he soothed.
Sweat formed on my upper lip; my throat was parched. I was a stranger to this bliss, following blindly, my mind spinning in carnal bliss.
