“Fortunately, I’m an unusual sort of woman. Mrs. Barrington did her best to change that, but she never succeeded, bless her.”

“Why should she want to change you?”

Beth warmed. “My lord, I do believe you are the most flattering man of my acquaintance.”

Ian paused, his expression unreadable. “I state truths. You are perfect as you are. I want to see you bare, and I wish to kiss your cunny.”

The heat there flared. “And as always, I don’t know whether to run away from you or stay and bask in your attention.”

“I know how to answer that.” He snaked his strong fingers around her wrist. “Stay.” His hand was heavy and warm, and he traced a circle on the inside of her arm. “I must confess that your plain speaking is refreshing after the acrobatics I must perform to keep up with Isabella’s friends.”

“Tell Isabella’s gentlemen friends to keep far from you. I don’t want them touching you.”

His fingers clamped down, and she glanced pointedly at his large hand still wedged into her skirts. “Only you can touch me?”

He nodded, brows together. “Yes.”

“I don’t think I mind that,” she said softly.

“Good.”

He moved her deftly onto his lap, her bustle not letting her sit quite against him. Disappointing things, bustles. The blue rosette at her bosom crushed against Ian’s waistcoat, and he cupped his hand around her bottom. She didn’t argue, didn’t gasp at him for taking a liberty. She wanted to take even more of a liberty with him. She wanted to undo the buttons of his trousers and put her hand inside. She wanted to work through layers of cloth until she could stroke his swollen organ, to feel it against her hand. Never mind that they sat in Isabella’s front drawing room; never mind that the curtains were wide open to the busy Paris street.

“I am a wicked, wicked woman,” she murmured. “Kiss me again.”

Without a word he swiftly slanted his lips over hers. His tongue stabbed inside her mouth, and he pressed his fingers to the corners of her lips, opening her wider. These weren’t the kisses of a man flirting. They were the kisses of a man who wanted to lie with her, damn the timing and damn the circumstances. Every part of her that touched him throbbed.

“We should stop,” she whispered.

“Why?”

Beth couldn’t think of a reason. I am a widowed lady, well past the age of innocence. Why should I not kiss a handsome man in a drawing room? A little carnality won’t hurt me.

She snaked her wanton hand between his thighs, finding the hard ridge behind his trousers.

“Mmm.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “Do you want to touch it?”

Yes, please, said the wicked lady. “I can hear the china breaking now.”

“What?” His brow furrowed.

“Never mind. You are a rogue and a scoundrel, and I love every single second of it.”

“I don’t understand you.”

She cupped his face. “Never mind, never mind. I’m sorry I spoke.”

Her lips felt raw, swollen from his kisses. She kissed the curve of his lower lip, tasting the corners of his mouth as he’d done with her. He chased her tongue, pinning it inside her mouth before he proceeded to lick every inch of it.

He wants me to welcome him into my bed and not be ashamed.

This was a world she didn’t know, one she’d only glimpsed through half-closed curtains behind which diamond bedecked women smiled at cigar-smoke-wreathed gentlemen. So many houses, so many windows, so much warmth inside, and this was the first time she’d been invited in. The door suddenly banged open, and Isabella strolled into the room in a blue silk dressing gown. Beth tried to jump away from Ian, but he was holding her too tight. She ended up half sitting on, half sliding off his knee. Isabella peered blearily about. “Ian, darling, what are you doing here playing Gilbert and Sullivan at the crack of dawn? I thought I was having a nightmare.”

Beth finally slid to her feet, her face flaming. “I beg your pardon, Isabella. We didn’t mean to wake you.” Isabella’s eyes widened. “I see. I beg your pardon for interrupting.” Thank heavens for corsets, Beth thought distractedly. Her ni**les were hard little points against the fabric, but the thick boning would hide it.

Ian didn’t rise. He leaned one elbow on the piano and studied the moldings behind Isabella.

“Will you stay to breakfast, Ian?” Isabella asked. “I’ll try to prop my eyes open long enough to join you.” He shook his head. “I came to deliver Beth a message.” “Did you?” Beth asked. How ridiculous, she’d never thought to ask why he’d suddenly appeared in Isabella’s drawing room.

“From Mac.” Ian continued to stare across the room. “He says he’ll be ready to start your drawing lessons in three days. He wants to finish the painting he’s working on first.” Isabella answered before Beth could. “Really? My husband was always so good at doing two things at once.” Her voice was strained.

“The model is Cybele,” Ian answered. “Mac doesn’t want Beth there while Cybele is.”

Pain flashed through Isabella’s eyes. “He never bothered about such things with me.”

Ian didn’t answer, and Beth couldn’t help asking, “Is this Cybele so awful?”

“She’s a foulmouthed tart,” Isabella said. “Mac introduced me to her to shock me when we first married. He loved to shock me. It became his raison d’etre.”