The Scandalous Diary of Lily Layton

“Two different paintings?” she whispered as if scandalized. There was a becoming flush on her cheeks, and a

nameless hunger tore through his heart.

“Yes.”

Her eyes searched his with an intensity he did not understand. How he wished he could read her thoughts.

“If you inform me where I should meet you, my lord, and what time, I shall be there.”

Fierce anticipation rushed through him. “Thank you.”

“I am very curious to see your paintings, if you will permit me the honor.”

How shocked her sensibilities would be if she saw his gallery. “I mostly paint classical nudes.”

She visibly swallowed. “I see. And has…anyone ever posed for you in the nude?”

There was that dark, inviting desire coiling in his gut again. “A few.”

Something elusive pooled in her gaze, and she considered him in silence for a few moments. “And if I should ask you to paint me like that, would you take affront, or be intrigued?”

It was his turn to stumble ever so slightly. Who was this woman he held in his arms? The few women he had painted, they had frolicked in debauchery together, but there was nothing sinful or depraved about the widow of a bloody vicar. Unless…

He held her gaze for an infinite time until her lids lowered. The gentle upward curve of her lips hinted at wicked amusement, and devil take it, Oliver was captivated.

Their dance ended all too soon, and regret sliced through him that he wouldn’t be spending more time with her tonight. Brushing aside the perplexing desire, he escorted her to the sidelines. She dipped in a graceful curtsy, and with a nod, he departed. It was tempting to claim her for another dance, but that would only stir unnecessary rumor. And he was on another mission tonight.

Which one of the widows present was his mysterious lover?

Oliver spent the next two hours mingling, dancing, and chatting, disliking that he wanted to be elsewhere. He bantered with several women and found it quite unlikely that any of them were the woman in the secret passage.

Bloody hell. Who are you? Where are you?

Chapter Eight

Muted strains of laughter, accompanied by the orchestra, drifted through the oak door of the library, despite it being four in the morning. His mother’s guests were determined to party until dawn. Oliver had left the ball a couple of hours ago and had tried to immerse himself first in a book and then some business ledgers, to no avail. Restless energy had pounded through him, and he’d escaped to the lawns outside, inhaling the crisp night air into his lungs, trying to center his thoughts. It hadn’t worked. He’d returned inside, determined to pen a few letters, and when he’d entered the library, Mrs. Layton had been curled in the sofa closest to the roaring fire, sleeping, a book lying on her chest.

Oliver had snuck away and bounded up the stairs for his canvas and easel, a few oils and brushes. He couldn’t explain the hunger that had seized him. He had sat on the edge of his desk, the canvas mounted on the easel, and with raw but sensually soft strokes, he’d started to paint her.

She’d come awake as if she sensed his intensity. Her movements had been slow, carnal, like a feline as she’d uncurled and sat up. Oliver had paused, poured whisky into two glasses, and handed her one without speaking.

The woman tentatively sipping whisky before him, to Oliver’s thinking, was the embodiment of temptation. The elegant arch of her throat moved as Lily swallowed the last of the drink, and she leaned to the side and rested the glass on a small table.

Silence lingered. He made no effort to speak, and he was pleased she did not shatter the intimacy. A stroke of the brush that he could imagine to be his fingers on her soft skin glided over the canvas. She sat, quite prim and proper on the edge of the sofa, her hands clenched on the cushions, her body taut, a tightly coiled spring waiting for release. Her eyes were wide and luminous as they stared at him, her lush, rosy lips were wet and glistening, for she had licked them several times in apparent nervousness.

“Are you nervous being alone with me?”

She shook her head, and he wished her movements would loosen the intricate hairstyle and let it tumble across her shoulders. Somehow, he knew the waves would be glorious.

“I need the words, Lily.” Inexplicably, he needed to know she felt safe in his presence.

Another glide of her tongue along her lower lip. “I am not afraid or anxious.” Her answer was husky and filled with an emotion he could not decipher.

Something elusive whispered through him, but it was warm and heady. It had been a long time since he felt this way with a lady companion. There was no boredom, only a sense of muted arousal, anticipation, a peculiar sense of something new hovering on the periphery of his awareness of the woman before him.

“Relax your shoulders.”

She unclenched the cushions and, with a whispering sigh, leaned back on the sofa.