She kept her eyes firmly on the canvas as she replied, “I do not think that would be appropriate, Mr. Grayson. I should not even be here with you right now.” Anthony smirked, knowing full well that Miss Beatrice could have left when she was given the opportunity but had chosen to stay because of her appetites – the same appetites that he had for her.
Anthony sighed and shrugged his shoulders beneath the water. “Well, then you had better avert your eyes, dear lady, for this water is getting too cold to tread in.” He knew it was cruel, only giving her a few seconds to shield her gaze, but Anthony could not always resist his rakish tendencies. Dribbles sluiced off his bare skin as Anthony pulled himself from the lake, taking care to breathe deeply to stave off the mounting chill seeping into his bones.
He looked over, half expecting to see the timid young woman rapidly packing up her things, but instead, her hazel eyes were staring unabashedly at his nude form. Anthony smirked. “Do you see something that pleases you, Miss Beatrice?”
* * *
“Do you see anything that pleases you, Miss Beatrice?” he asked, making no effort to conceal what Beatrice had only heard about in hushed passing. It was at once strange and wonderful, for Beatrice had never truly known what to expect to find beneath a man’s trousers, and yet, she found herself starved for it.
While he smirked at her, Beatrice attempted to come up with something clever and worldly to say, but all that came out was a whisper, “I would not know…I have never seen a man like this.” She raised her eyes to meet his searing gaze – stopping only once to memorize the firmness of his naked chest – and suddenly became anxious. The pleasure she was taking in his confidently offered form was replaced with shame, and Beatrice quickly averted her gaze.
She heard his amused chuckle and the rustling of the grass as he stepped over to where his clothes were hanging. Beatrice did not dare look at him again until he spoke, “You do not need to be ashamed, Miss Beatrice. It is not a sin to examine the human form even if you find yourself longing for it.” Beatrice began to perspire even in the cooling breeze and turned her head to face Mr. Grayson again.
He had done her the courtesy of putting on his trousers and boots but had left his torso bare, making it difficult for Beatrice to meet his eye. All she wanted to do, despite her best efforts, was to memorize every curly, black hair dusting over his chest and to follow the path of them to the very thing that made him a man. Her tongue felt dry when she murmured, “I…I do not long for it. I am simply surprised, and I do not know where I should look.”
It was embarrassing for Beatrice to admit this to a rake, whom she could only assume had been with many ladies, and yet, his expression was not unmerciful at her confession. It appeared quite the opposite, actually, full of pitiless sympathy and a well-disguised lust. Beatrice did not realize she was still holding the paintbrush until a drop of watery red cascaded down her brown gloves. This drew her attention long enough for Mr. Grayson to step closer as one might with a frightened horse.
He carefully reached out and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pulling her hand close enough to brush away the paint that she had been fixated upon in desperate need to look at something other than him. “Why are you doing this?” Beatrice asked, voice barely louder than the faint winds swirling in the air. “I thought I had made it perfectly clear that I do not wish for more than your friendship.” This was not entirely true, but to maintain her reputation, Beatrice felt it needed to be said.
Mr. Grayson chuckled, “My dear Miss Beatrice, if that were so, you would have left me to swim alone. I do not wish to assume, for I remember how strongly you feel about such things, but I must ask what is stopping you from…enjoying your time with me.” Beatrice watched his lips move over each of the last words pensively as though he were making a concerted effort to avoid salacious undertones.
Still, the forwardness of his actions and Beatrice’s own thumping heart pushed her to pull away from him and hastily start putting away her art supplies. Tears sprang to her eyes from humiliation, his knowing tone, and feeling overwhelmed as she derided, “You are still as insufferable as the day I met you, Mr. Grayson. Your presumptuous nature is what is getting in the way of ourfriendship. In case you have forgotten, I am here for Miss Saumon’s wedding and nothing more.”
Of course, Beatrice had not forgotten Lord Ivanry’s deal, but her pride would not allow her to think of such degradation at the present moment. Mr. Grayson, who seemed to have a penchant for touching her when she was upset, placed a firm hand on her shoulder. His voice sounded genuinely repentant when he apologized, “I am sorry, Miss Beatrice, if I have offended you. In truth, I have been enjoying our small moments together and was merely hoping that they were blossoming into something more.”
Beatrice faced him, swiping furiously at her tear-stained cheeks, and regarded his now-shivering form. Though the sun was now fully in the sky and beginning to warm the chilled earth, Beatrice noted the bluish tinge to Mr. Grayson’s lips and the never-ending gooseflesh covering his top half. She took a deep breath, allowing the icy air to fill her lungs to calm her, before replying, “It is no secret that you inspire wanton behaviors in me, Mr. Grayson. But we are just too different – you know much more than I, and I am afraid I would bore you with my ignorance.”
“You admit that I encourage your naughty behavior, Miss Beatrice?” Mr. Grayson joked, his lopsided grin earning sudden laughter from Beatrice. She could not help herself for there was mirth in his blue eyes that began to put her mind at ease. He spread his arms wide from where they had been tucked close to him for warmth. “Ah, there she is, my lovely girl,” he exclaimed, looking jubilant as he unintentionally declared her as his.
Beatrice took little notice of it, for she was too busy giggling at his antics and attempting to contain the sound lest they be discovered. He again closed the distance between them, resting his forefinger beneath her chin to tilt her gaze upward. “You do not bore me, Miss Beatrice. In fact, I find you to be one of the most interesting women I have ever known. May I show you the depths of my admiration?”
This caused her breath to hitch, ceasing the joyous sounds erupting from her throat, and Beatrice found herself once again teetering on the precipice. If she let him kiss her again, Beatrice had no doubt that she would no longer be able to resist him even with what she knew about his wager. But if she said no, Beatrice would be giving up the pleasure that Mr. Grayson so readily offered.
Though he was more outspoken than many of the gentlemen she had been introduced to, his earlier apology and elation at seeing her smile gave Beatrice all she needed to forget herself in him.
“Yes,” the young lady breathed, leaning in so that the scratchy wool fabric of her coat brushed against his chest. Mr. Grayson beamed, his face angelic in the morning light even as they descended into sin.
CHAPTERTWELVE
No more words needed to be spoken as he claimed her mouth once more, his touches surer than they had been before. Beatrice found herself moaning into the open air as Mr. Grayson laid agonizing kisses along her throat, her fingers twitching where they hung at her sides before Beatrice dropped her paintbrush in the grass to tangle her hands in his hair.
His resulting growl rumbled through him, sending shivers up Beatrice’s spine and encouraging her to double her efforts. She followed his lead, tipping her head to the side to press her lips tentatively to the skin below his ear, and was rewarded when Mr. Grayson pulled her even closer.
His eyes were wild as Beatrice discarded her gloves, which were tossed somewhere without much thought, to drag her fingertips along the flesh he had exposed to her. With a cry, Beatrice dug her nails in when Mr. Grayson’s own palm reached up to cup her breast, his thumb caressing the tip of it and sending sparks through her.
With his other hand, Mr. Grayson took ahold of one of Beatrice’s, slowly lowering it to the bulge in his trousers. Her responding moan was wanton andlewd, for she had never dared to touch a man like this before. Gently, Mr. Grayson molded her fingers around the firmness of himself, allowing Beatrice to feel the shape and size of his manhood.
When Beatrice blinked up at Mr. Grayson with wide, innocent eyes even as she traced her fingertips along the length of him, the rake smirked, “Do not think I did not see you eyeing me that night in the library, Miss Beatrice. Tell me, is it what you hoped for? I think you should call me Anthony now when we are alone. May I call you Beatrice?”
That question, despite Beatrice’s best efforts to act sensual, made her choke out her next breath and huddle even closer to Anthony as though she could hide her newfound excitement in his embrace. Beatrice continued to marvel at what hung between his legs as she replied in an effort to be cheeky, “I do not think I can make an apt report by touch alone.”
The brisk air crackled with Anthony’s groaning laughter as his hips pushed against Beatrice’s hand. “You are an eager little thing,” he conceded. “Be patient, and I shall give youeverythingyou want.”
Though the frigid autumn winds danced around them, Beatrice and Anthony found warmth within each other, pressing tightly together to stave off the chill. His deft fingers undid the first few buttons of Beatrice's coat, and she arched into him when Anthony’s hand slipped beneath the wool to caress her breast. “You are so soft, Beatrice,” he purred, bending down to kiss the sensitive skin around her collarbones, “and so willing. It’s a wonder you were able to stop yourself before.”
The young woman could sense the playfulness in his tone and responded in kind, “How can I resist when I have a man’s arms around me? Perhaps you should have taken me right there in the library to prove yourself a rake.” He chuckled in her ear, making Beatrice smile and giggle, her chestnut-brown ringlets bouncing where they had fallen from her bonnet.
Anthony’s countenance grew serious when he once again took ahold of Beatrice’s chin to ask, “Do you trust me?” And how could she say no after displaying herself so openly in his embrace? So Beatrice nodded, blinking innocently up at the roguish gentleman, for she did not fully understand what he wanted and yet felt compelled to find out, no matter the cost.