“Cheeky,” she said before glancing up. Their noses almost touched, they were so close. Poppy’s smile faded on an indrawn breath, and his gaze fell to her mouth. Such a lovely mouth, wide yet feminine, the bottom lip a bit plumper than its bowed top. And so very soft. Heat rippled down his chest.
Her cheeks pinked as he stared. Struggling, he cleared his throat. “You started it.” The heat within him grew, making him feel languid yet hard all at once. Her breath smelled of sugar and spice. Everything nice. He leaned closer, ready to take, when the door opened. Poppy jumped as though pricked with a pin, bumping his shoulder with her chin when she turned around. He took an awkward step back and turned as well.
Win had to give the komtesse credit; she obviously knew she’d walked in on something but she took no outward notice of their indiscretion. Though from Poppy’s description of her, he gathered she’d seen worse, and often.
She paused at the threshold of the parlor to survey them, and Win took the moment to study her back. This was one of Isley’s mistresses? Had she suspected she bedded a demon? Had it thrilled her to do so?
Though she was not what he’d expected, Win could see her appeal and why she’d been a favorite of dukes and the supernatural alike. She was tall, like Poppy, and lean as well. Her bone structure was strong, almost masculine, with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a long, expressive nose. But her lips were full, puffed as if she’d just been kissed. Wheat blond hair rippled in twin waves down over her shoulders. The tresses glinted in the light as she came forward. She was a Botticelli, “La Primavera” gazing at them with quiet knowing. The effect was heightened by the white toga-style dress she wore.
Win took all this in like any other man who appreciated beauty. Yet he wanted to sigh in defeat. For all her grace, the woman did nothing for him. No, only the redheaded warrior woman at his side had ever stirred him. He was well and truly cursed. And wasn’t that just splendid?
“Mrs. Hamon,” said the komtesse, holding out a welcoming hand to Poppy, “it is good to see you once again.” Her voice was dark honey. A fine trap for a man. And then Win realized what she’d called his wife, and his insides jumped. His gaze cut to Poppy, who sent him a warning with a mere flicker of her lashes.
Poppy took the komtesse’s hand. “Komtesse. Thank you for seeing us.”
The komtesse’s laugh was light and airy. “Please call me Brit, as we are old friends, are we not?” She smiled at Poppy, but she made her awareness of Win known by the incline of her head and the way her gaze drifted over him.
Poppy straightened. “Brit. This is my associate, Mr. Belenus.”
He caught himself just before he laughed out loud. The imp was using his middle names. Had she always done so? Associate, was he? Very well. He took the komtesse’s outstretched hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Enchanted,” he said, settling into his role.
“We came to talk to you about Lord Isley,” Poppy said, her usual forthright manner a shade more brisk.
The komtesse’s brows winged up, but her expression remained serene. “Let us use the studio.” With a fluid swirl of her skirts, she turned from the room.
No one spoke as she led them down a wide hall whose walls had been papered in gold damask. The sound of laughter and the notes of a fiddle playing a mad tune as some fellow sang along, off key and rather badly, drifted through the house. Paintings covered the walls, although their subjects were not the usual staid compositions or classical portraits, but of life—little vignettes so real that Win felt he could reach into the frames and touch them. He was no true student of art, but he liked to keep educated and thus recognized the works of Whistler, Degas, and Renoir.
“You follow the Impressionists, Komtesse,” he said.
“I prefer to say I follow what art pleases me, Mr. Belenus,” the komtesse answered. “But you may make that assumption if you prefer to place art into neat categorizations.”
He could almost feel Poppy struggle to hide her smile. He kept his eyes on the paintings, appreciating them for the pleasure alone this time. His step slowed as a portrait of a lone young man sitting in languid repose