Free Beyond Seduction by Emma Holly Page B

large the sconces did not illuminate all he wished. He wanted bones tonight, bones and planes and shadows thrown by curves.
     
    By the time he'd adjusted the light to his satisfaction, Mary sat cross-legged on a cushion with her weight propped on her arms. She'd been watching him. Her face was as curious as a child's.
     
    "How old are you?" he demanded, suddenly suspicious.
     
    "Twenty," she said, adding cheekily: "How old are you?"
     
    "Thirty-one," he muttered.
     
    She forgot her borrowed manners long enough to snort. "Practically decrepit."
     
    "Baggage," he said.
     
    She grinned as if his insult pleased her.
     
    He almost lost his breath. Her grin was wide and infectious. Open and ageless, it did not increase her beauty so much as make him want to laugh. A precious gift, that, one few people had. Ignoring how much he'd like to see her grinning in his bed, he settled onto the stool. Luckily, his attraction ebbed in
    the oblivion of work. She squirmed more than an experienced model, but at least she did not sulk. With swift, sure strokes, he filled page after page and tossed each one aside. Finally, when his neck began to crick, he told her to stand and have a stretch.
     
    "Are we done?" she asked, locking her hands before her chest.
     
    Something about the way she pushed them caught his eye. She had muscle with her skin and bone, possibly interesting muscle, muscle he could barely see beneath that sacklike gown. He longed to rip it
    off, but suspected he'd scare her silly.
     
    "Nic?" she said.
     
    He shook himself. "Whether we're done is up to you. Are you too tired to sit any longer?"
     
    She shrugged and again he sensed that hidden, fluid strength. He made up his mind. "That dress is
    driving me mad," he said and quickly undid the buttons of his shirt.
     
    She gaped at him. "What are you doing?"
     
    "Giving you my shirt. You can put it on behind that screen."
     
    She peered dubiously at the wall of painted Chinese silk, but took the shirt when he thrust it at her. As
    she walked around the barrier, she held it gingerly by the collar.
     
    "Mary," he said, forcing her to look at him, "wear the shirt instead of your chemise, not over it."
     
    Pink crept up her cheeks. "I knew that."
     
    Nic did not believe her for a minute. In spite of all she'd been through, Mary glowed with innocence like
    a girl fresh from her bath. He hoped she wasn't sorry to be here, that posing for him didn't feel like another step on the road to ruin. For many women, the slide from model to whore would seem a short one. Not that Mary had many options, especially if Monmouth had been too mean to give her a good character. No. She hadn't much choice but to come to him.
     
    An old anger rose, as dark and bitter as the dregs of Farnham's coffee, even deeper for being turned partly against himself. He shoved his vexation away, but couldn't help thinking her former employer a bloody sod. He wondered if Monmouth had forced her or if he simply hadn't been very skilled. Mary certainly didn't act like a happily bedded woman. Perhaps the duke had a problem with performance. Some men preferred to blame that on their partners. Maybe that was the reason the bastard had let
    her go.
     
    By the time she emerged with his shirt hanging over her drawers, he was fuming at the arrogance of his kind. A woman was not a handkerchief to be discarded once it was torn. Nic couldn't deny he'd parted ways with his share of partners, but never since his youth, never, had he left some poor young innocent to the mercy of the Fates!
     
    Fortunately, Mary's reappearance dispersed his anger like a wind. Those drawers must have cost her a good month's pay. They were frilly and foolish, hanging to her knees in a lavish cascade of lace. Beneath her stockings, her calves were a ruddy marvel: tight and round and strong.
     
    "Turn," he ordered, demonstrating with his hand.
     
    She turned and his breath caught in his throat, part artist's pleasure, part man's. His