Free Three Weeks With Lady X by Eloisa James Page B

The hooves and tail suggest he’s a satyr.”
    “What’s a satyr?”
    “Half-man, half-goat, from Greek mythology. My governess didn’t teach me much about satyrs, because they are invariably naughty.” She took a quizzing glass from her reticule, bent over, and peered at the base. “That looks very like Cellini’s mark.”
    The goat man had a beautiful back, muscled in a way that India imagined few English gentlemen’s were. And although she probably shouldn’t look, his behind was very attractively shaped. Rounded, one might say. And muscled.
    “Benvenuto Cellini was one of the most famous sculptors in Renaissance Italy,” Adelaide said. “My husband spent a terrible amount of money on a silver salver depicting Neptune. Naked, of course, so it couldn’t be used even among friends.” She sighed.
    The late Lord Swift had been prone to extravagant decisions. Luckily for Adelaide, he died before he could lay waste to the entire estate.
    The satyr was not alone. He was embracing a damsel, one arm curved around her waist and the other flung in the air, curving over their heads.
    They were kissing.
    His lover wore no more clothes than did he.
    “Thank goodness your mother didn’t raise you to be straitlaced, as you’d likely faint at this,” Adelaide commented, taking a closer look at the way the two figures clung to each other.
    It was true that India’s mother had favored dancing naked in the moonlight over instruction in ladylike behavior. At any rate, the sculpture made her feel more feverish than faint.
    “I think the satyr is actually the god Bacchus,” her godmother continued. “Do you see that grapevine around his forehead? Or a follower of Bacchus, because it seems to me that the god didn’t have hooves.”
    India was more interested in the fact that she couldn’t see below his chest in the front: the satyr and his beloved blended together below the waist.
    Adelaide strolled away to inspect a female nude leaning against a surprisingly large bird. “This is presumably Leda and the swan. Do you suppose that Mr. Dautry was aware that these statues came with the house?”
    “I had no idea.” The sunlight darkened for a moment as Dautry walked through the door. “I damn well wouldn’t have brought Rose with me. I’ve put the coachman in charge of her, but I can’t stay long.”
    Adelaide began chattering to him about Cellini, and India drew out a piece of foolscap and a pencil and began making a list of the statues, the better to ignore the silly, craving ache that the satyr’s kiss had aroused.
    It was ridiculous.
    Absurd.
    That whole conversation outside with Dautry hadn’t helped. She had never seen a man flaunt an erection the way he was doing—again. Adelaide had made certain that India recognized the signs of male arousal, if only so that no man could surprise her unawares.
    But she hadn’t known that men were regularly lecherous. In fact they likely wore long coats just to disguise the fact. The thought of Dibbleshire’s breeches drifted through her mind; she shuddered and pushed the image away.
    There were ten statues in all. She waited for a pause in Adelaide’s lecture about Renaissance sculpture, then asked, “Do you wish to keep these pieces, Mr. Dautry?”
    He was standing before Leda, who had very large breasts and looked merry, as if swans were just her cup of tea. “Perhaps I’ll keep this one,” he murmured. But then he glanced sideways at India. He was trying to shock her, the way little boys did when they dropped their breeches.
    “She looks like a village barmaid,” she said indifferently. “I find the satyr far more interesting.”
    Dautry pivoted and gave the bronze statue a good long stare. India looked again too. The satyr’s hand was curved above his lover in a gesture both exuberant and protective. Unwillingly, she felt another pulse of warmth.
    “If they were both female, I would,” Dautry said, with a wicked grin.
    He was trying to provoke her again,