Free How To Distract a Duchess by Mia Marlowe Page B

want you,” he reminded her, his voice husky.
    She looked up at him, realizing that he’d be the first man to see her in the nude. Her late husband’s pitiful poking exploration of her flesh had been done in total darkness. Funny that this stranger should know her in a way the man whose name she bore never had.
    “How do you want me?” she asked in a small voice.
    His lips moved as if he started to say something, then thought better of it. “Turn around, facing away from me,” he finally said with gentleness. “It’ll be easier.”
    She obeyed, her heart beating a furious tattoo on her ribcage. She forced herself to take a deep breath.
    “Now, let the robe fall slowly from one shoulder. That’s good. A little more.”
    The velvet brushed over her skin, followed by a breath of air as she bared her back to him. Down her spine, past the curve of her waist, the robe cut a diagonal across her figure as it fell to her wrist on the left side.
    “Let the robe drop to your elbow on the right. Bend that arm and lift it slightly,” he suggested, his voice strangely tight.
    He was draping her, she realized, as elegantly as any painter might arrange his subject, using the folds of fabric to create opposing lines and textures. Thomas Doverspike might claim not to be an artist, but he certainly had fine instincts for it.
    The fabric dipped to expose her buttocks. Was that his sharp intake of breath she heard? Heat lightning raced over her skin, leaving her feeling warm and rosy. The top of her crevice tingled as she imagined his gaze exploring her derriere.
    “Can you make a quarter turn?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
    “Like this?” she pivoted slightly, realizing he’d now see one of her breasts from that angle. The knowledge made her nipples pucker.
    “Perfect,” he said with reverence.
    Even though she knew he didn’t mean anything by it, Artemisia was inordinately pleased by his choice of the word. Perfect. She’d been called lewd and feckless and outrageous by people who didn’t understand her dedication to her art. No one had ever called her perfect. Her insides did a jig.
    She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him.
    “Yes, that’s it! Don’t move,” he said with excitement. His dark head bent over the sketchbook and the chalk scritched over the page. “You’re beautiful, Larla.”
    Artemisia’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t even mind his casual use of her milk name. It felt right. He found her beautiful.
    She relaxed into his unabashed approval, enjoying the warmth radiating from her belly each time he looked up at her. The admiration in his gaze set her skin dancing as he followed the curve of her spine from her nape downward. When he focused on her bottom, she imagined the pale mounds must be pinking under his regard. Her nipples were drawn so tight, if she hadn’t been ordered to stand still she might have pressed her own palms against them to ease the ache.
    So this is what it feels like, to be admired, to be accepted, to be beautiful and perfect in someone else’s eyes. To be a work of art.
    Artemisia’s spirit soared. As she bared her body, she exposed her soul as well. She closed her eyes for a moment and felt herself fly free.
    Suddenly she realized this was no longer about art. Perhaps it had never been about art. She wished she’d been brave enough to drop her robe for him head on. She wanted him to see her—all of her—to have his dark gaze search out all her secrets and pronounce them perfect and beautiful.  
    And not just his gaze. She wanted his touch. She could almost feel his hand, the way he’d slid it from her cheek when he kissed her, down her neck to the tops of her breasts. When his square capable fingers had brushed her nipples, she thought she’d burst out of her skin. What if that hand continued trekking south, over her belly and into the patch of dark curls? Would he find her fair?
    And his kiss. Her lips tingled to feel his mouth on them again.