“You’re a grown woman, Julia.” He put his hands on her shoulders, firm and strong. He turned her away from him and toward the canvas. “I’ve painted women in the nude.”
“You were naked? Good heavens.”
He laughed. “They were, not me. And I didn’t sleep with...all of them.”
She knew he was trying to shock her and she calmly said, “That is hardly reassuring.”
“I suspect my honor is safe with you, Julia,” he teased. He lifted her hand so the brush almost touched the canvas.
“What if I ruin it?”
“You won’t. We can paint over anything you don’t like.”
“You can take your hands off my shoulders.” She felt the warmth of his palms through his shirt and her frock.
“Not until you make your mark on your portrait, Julia.” He picked up the palette.
“You are infuriating.” She dipped the paintbrush into a mound of red paint. Then she made a small dab in the corner of the canvas. “There.”
“You’re not afraid to paint a canvas, are you? I thought you were going to be a tough adversary.”
“Fine.” She half turned and took the palette out of his hand. Using the kind of style he’d done—modernist dabs and slashes of paint—she tried to do the skirt of her dress. Tried to mimic the way it shimmered in the light. She all but threw paint at the picture. Then she stopped, her chest heaving. It was rather exciting—
She saw what she’d created. “It’s awful. It isn’t anything like what I wanted to do.”
“But I got to prove I’m right and you’re wrong.” He leaned forward. The warmth of his breath caressed her ear. “You are passionate.”
He moved, so his lips touched her cheek.
The whoosh came again, so startling and swift it almost knocked her back into the picture.
“You want to kiss me,” he said huskily.
“I do not.” But her heartbeat rushed up and down as if it was playing a piano scale.
She thought of Anthony, who she had loved with all her heart. And Dougal, who was so noble and admirable. She had loved those men. She didn’t love this man. She barely knew him. And so far she’d learned he was brash and bold and infuriating.
But the temptation to kiss him was so strong she almost wanted him to just kiss her and take all the responsibility for it away.
No, she was modern. Modern women didn’t act like weak waifs.
She turned, and smacked the paintbrush against his lips. “I do not want to kiss you.” She looked straight into his blue eyes. “Now, if you intend to eat anything today, we had better speak to Mrs. Feathers.”
She pulled away from him, and grabbed a rag from a small wooden table near the portrait. She tossed it to him so he could wipe the blue paint from his mouth. Then she held out his shirt.
* * *
Cal rubbed the rag over his lips, taking off the paint in one swipe. Grinning as he did.
If Julia were one of his models, he would put his now-clean mouth to her neck and kiss her until she melted. Until they ended up hot and sweaty in his bed, making love.
After the War, sex had become a hell of a lot more available. Now women weren’t willing to deny themselves pleasure until they got married. Everyone had seen that life could be a fleeting thing. One moment you were laughing, deep in love with someone, thinking of the future. The next you were in bits and pieces, strewn across some European field.
Could he coax Julia into his bed?
He threw down the rag, took his shirt from her hands and shrugged it on. After he buttoned it, tucked it into his trousers, he said, “Let’s go and see the cook.”
“All right.” Julia walked ahead of him, her trim-fitting skirt swishing efficiently around her hips. It was a modest length, reaching her midcalves. But he liked the way it clung to the curves of her hips and hinted at the sweet voluptuousness of her backside.
He wanted Lady Julia Hazelton. He wanted to break through her ladylike reserve and release her passion.
Before he left Worthington for good, he was going to do it.
The Woman with Shell Shock
Cal followed Lady Julia through a green door. This part of the house looked different. The walls were plain white; the stairs narrow with worn treads. No need for beauty where the servants worked.
“Why you?” he asked. “Why didn’t the countess go see the cook? Or Diana, the daughter who’s being forced to flirt with me?”
Julia looked startled, but then said, in her cool, ladylike tones, “They are both too upset. The countess is living in terror. Diana is—She isn’t well. You have not told them of your plans?”
“Not yet.” He leaned against the banister, looking at her. God, she was a beauty. Ivory skin. Full lips lightly colored red with discreet lipstick. Stunning eyes with long, dark lashes.
“You deliberately want to draw it out and be cruel?” she accused.
“I’ve got my reasons.”
Lady Julia had the most impressive poker face. She kept her expression serene but he could feel hot anger inside her under that controlled facade. For a moment, he thought about explaining himself. Telling her why he wanted to hurt the family.
Why should he have to justify himself to her?
“So you’re trying to save the house by keeping the cook from walking out because the others don’t have the courage.”
She gave him a cool stare. “I believed I could convince Mrs. Feathers to stay, so I should try. Whether it is my house or not.”
“And you thought I’d thank you for it?”
“You must not take your grievances out on innocent people.”
“Her ladyship and the earl did.” Cal had to struggle to speak as calmly as she did. “Don’t speak to me like I must be scum because I was born poor. I was born to decent and honest parents who helped other people and were charitable, even when they had nothing.”
He could see the flash of surprise and shock in her eyes. His heart pounded.
He wanted to kiss her. Wanted to push her back against the plain white plaster wall and devour her with his mouth until she was panting against him.
But that wasn’t the way to do it with Lady Julia.
He raised her fingers to his lips. His father used to do this with his mother, and it always made Mam giggle, then melt and sigh and forget worry and despair.
Julia had soft skin. Pretty hands that smelled like flowers. His head told him to be angry that her hands obviously did no work, but lust shot through him at the idea of having such soft, pampered hands gripping his shoulders as he made love to her.
She pulled her hand back. “Stop this, Worthington.”
He loved hearing her speak so primly. It entertained him. “I want to make amends.”
“Then don’t tear Worthington apart. Your father was disowned and that was wrong. But what others did to you should not dictate whether you behave nobly or not.”
“You people would say a man can never rise above his birth.”
“I would never say that.” With