“Your hair takes my breath away, Genevieve.”

Not his words, but the look on his face—awestruck, reverent, aroused—made Jenny shake her head, letting her hair fall in disarray down her back.

He brought fistfuls of gold forward over her shoulders and buried his face in the abundance of it. “If I live to be a hundred, the scent of jasmine will bring me back to this moment.”

If she lived to be a hundred, how would she recall the memory of straddling Elijah’s lap, of learning his taste and scent, of wanting him so intensely that desire eclipsed all in her awareness?

“When I’m in Paris, I will miss you, Elijah. If I live to be a hundred, I will miss you.”

Something passed through his eyes. Anger, maybe, that she’d remind them both their pleasures were stolen and temporary. That was good, that he’d be angry and not relieved.

“Let me give you something more to miss—or recall fondly.”

As she had done the previous night, he used a single finger to nudge fabric aside and reveal flesh. He didn’t touch her; he let the silk of her nightgown caress the slopes of her breasts until she was exposed to him.

She’d liked the position he’d put her in, once she’d gotten used to it. Sitting on his lap, facing him, astride him, she’d felt as if she had superior control and he was pinned to his fate.

He could not get away unless she allowed it, or so she’d thought.

But her position also meant he could study her breasts, trace blue veins with a fingertip, watch as her nipples ruched up in welcome—and she could watch him studying her.

“Thou art more lovely…”

He was quoting from somewhere; Jenny could not think where. His hands cupped her breasts, bringing warmth and wanting in equally generous measures.

“Before…” Jenny struggled for words. She put her hands over his, so he would not leave her bereft of his touch.

He leaned closer, ran his nose up her sternum. “When you were sixteen?”

Brilliant man, to read her thoughts so easily. She nodded. “I never… he never…”

He cast her a look full of sadness and understanding. “You remained clothed.”

Another nod. Jenny closed her eyes, the better to savor Elijah’s touch. That Denby hadn’t seen her like this was cause for rejoicing, not regret, but that she hadn’t known this… this wonderment, this cherishing caress, was a sorrow.

Elijah’s hands left her. She did not open her eyes because Jenny could feel his gaze yet on her, and then… her nightgown drifted off her shoulders, leaving her entirely, wonderfully naked.

“You are glorious, Genevieve.”

She felt glorious, not wanton, not wicked, but passionate and wholly, completely appreciated by the man who’d untied all of her remaining bows.

He anchored a hand in her hair and tilted her head for his kisses.

“Yes…” Kissing was a wonderful idea. Kissing let her revel in his hair, his lips, his tongue. She sank closer to Elijah, her sex coming against the ridge in his breeches that assured her he shared her wonder.

“Elijah, please…” She got a hand between them, groping the length of his erection. “You… naked… too.”

She had missed the sight of his nudity. Missed the privilege of regarding him as God had made him, even as at each class, she’d wanted to cover him up and keep him for her private perusal.

“Genevieve, love, no.”

“No” was just a sound made by a man who didn’t understand what was needful. “No” was a syllable, a pair of random letters… Elijah’s hand over Jenny’s was not as easily ignored.

“No? Elijah? No? I’m sitting here without a stitch on—”

He stopped an incredulous tirade as well as a shameless spate of begging by the simple expedient of closing his fingers around her nipples. “Trust me, Genevieve. I’m saying ‘yes’ to your passion, but ‘no’ to complete folly.”

She had not the first idea what he was nattering on about, for the term “struck by Cupid’s arrow” had only at that moment become clear in her mind—and in her body. Animal need bolted from her breasts to her womb, swifter than arrows and more piercing.

Jenny arched into his hands. “Do that again.”

He obliged, slowly closing his grip on her nipples, as if the dratted man had eons to explore her responses… which thought made her a little less desperate. “Again, please.”

While Jenny tried not to pant, Elijah experimented with rhythm and pressure, and then—she did pant—with his mouth. She hung over him, helpless, as he teethed, suckled, soothed, and inflamed by turns.

And somewhere amid this conflagration, Elijah had slipped both hands down to cup her derriere and abetted her in establishing a slow rocking of her hips.

“I hate your damned breeches,” she muttered against his teeth. “But I love the feel of you.”

Yes, she had spoken those words aloud, and Elijah had comprehended them, because he lifted up, pushing his cock against her sex in a manner that astonished for the havoc it created, even through his damned, dratted, perishing, bloody breeches.

“Let go, Genevieve. Stop trying to manage everything. Trust me, and let go.”

Even last night, when he’d all but pushed her from his rooms, he hadn’t sounded that desperate, that… passionate. The threat in his voice of unbearable pleasure reverberated through Jenny’s body and gave her permission to obey him.

She took shameless advantage of his generosity, grinding down on him, pushing her breast into his hand, consuming him in a kiss turned wet and devouringly voluptuous.

His hand stroked over her thigh, another first—nobody touched her there; she didn’t even touch herself—

That big, warm hand moved higher, until the backs of his fingers brushed against the curls at the juncture of her legs. Jenny didn’t stop moving, but she shifted her hips to leave Elijah room to maneuver, to brush his thumb down, and down some more.

“Elijah…” She hissed his name as a bonfire of tension lit inside her at his caress.

“Let. Go.”

He did it again, just right, then again and again harder, better than just right, and the bonfire became a lightning strike of wrenching, white-hot, consuming, inescapable pleasure. When it ebbed, Jenny was draped over Elijah’s shoulders, her lungs heaving, and her body that of a stranger.

He shifted, moved a leg, then an arm. Jenny was desperate for him not to set her aside, but could not bestir herself even to cling to him.

“Not yet.” She whimpered this plea—she’d intended a stout command—to the muscles of his shoulder.

Her dressing gown wafted around her shoulders, cool, soft, and comforting. Elijah pulled it close, and thus pulled her close too. “Hush. Settle.”

One could not settle a puzzle whose pieces were cast to the winds. One could not settle a heart fractured along cracks both old and new. One could not…

Elijah’s hand landed in her hair, a smooth, sweet caress, and Jenny found she could settle her breathing. When she woke up, Elijah was still stroking her hair, but the world, the entire universe had shifted off its axis.

Her siblings’ marriages took on a different hue. Procreation became a matter of more than biblical duty. The way the duke smiled at his duchess took on a sharper focus.

And years and years in Paris, even years painting any subject she pleased, became a lonelier and even bewildering prospect.

Nine

Genevieve Windham was brilliant.

She’d seen promise in the sketch of the boy with the old hound, while Elijah had dismissed the effort as unorthodox and off balance. The issue became how to get both boys into the hound’s ambit, and create an image so perfectly composed it appeared spontaneous.

“We wondered if you might start without us.” The lady herself appeared in Elijah’s studio, William affixed to her hip, Kit grasping her hand.

She’d brought the children herself, no harried nursemaid in tow, and the tableau of Genevieve with the children did something queer to Elijah’s insides.

“Good morning, my lady.” He offered her as cordial a bow as he knew how to give, which was cordial indeed. Considering her lack of intimate experience, he hadn’t expected her to risk his company over the breakfast table, but he had wondered if she’d brave the studio today. “You are looking exceptionally well this morning.”

She set William down, and the boy predictably charged over to the hound dozing by the hearth. “Jock! Ride!”

The dog sighed. Kit dropped his aunt’s hand. “Can we wreck the card houses today, Aunt Jen?”

“We’ll see.” She watched Elijah as if he were about to pounce on her, which would have served nicely had the children not been present.

“I missed you at breakfast, my lady.” He could not have told her what he’d eaten, because he’d been so busy staring at the doorway and willing her to appear in it.

The light in her eyes shifted, became less guarded. “I missed breakfast. I slept late, so I took a tray.”

Last night, she’d said she’d miss him too, when she went to blasted, bedamned Paris. Her ambition had apparently coalesced into determination, and yet, he could not allow her to go to Paris.

This thought—this fact—had crystallized in his mind before he’d drifted off to sleep. He’d escorted her to her room—a mere three doors down the guest wing corridor—taken himself to bed, then tended to his own needs within five minutes of kissing her good night.

The relief had been temporary and inadequate, and as he lay among the pillows and covers, he’d come to the conclusion that Jenny Windham had nowhere near the sophistication needed to manage the predators lurking among the artists of Paris.