A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,98

The other woman was his art, and she was a jealous and demanding mistress. Do you know, Dirk never took me for an ice at Gunter’s?”

Oak hadn’t taken Vera for an ice at Gunter’s—not yet.

“We were in Town for months at a time,” she went on, “and my children have seen more of London’s sights in the past week than I saw in all the time Dirk and I lived here. He couldn’t be bothered to escort me sightseeing, not when we were attending this supper or that lecture night after night, and he was painting by day.”

She rested her cheek against Oak’s chest. “I was so lonely here.”

Oak was lonely, but he hadn’t put that label on his feelings. Homesick, unsettled, at sixes and sevens…. the honest term was lonely.

“Come to bed with me,” he said. “I have been lonely for you.”

The next kiss was different, slower, more honest, more of an admission of longing and desire. Oak scooped Vera into his arms and carried her to the bed.

“We’re not to christen the wall of your brother’s home?” Vera asked when Oak came down over her.

“Maybe next time. I am abruptly in a tearing hurry to be out of my breeches.” He sat up and dispatched with the last of his clothing. “Do you know why I am in such a hurry?”

“Because you’ve missed me.”

“That too.” He settled over Vera again, and now his flesh was as willing as his spirit. “I want to love you witless, then take you for an ice at Gunter’s.” He wanted to give her something Dirk had not, wanted to share with her an experience Dirk had denied her, however prosaic.

Vera still had on her chemise, but she scooted and wiggled and soon had it rucked up to her waist.

“I want to love you witless too, Oak Dorning.”

The sight of her—braced on her elbows, naked from the waist down, legs splayed, chemise bunched around her middle and barely covering her breasts—was a composition of such perfection that Oak took a moment simply to drink in the picture she created.

The pinks and whites and in-betweens, the afternoon sun creating mellow golden light and soft shadows, the attitude of frank erotic welcome and unsatisfied desire… If he painted for the next hundred years, he could never do this version of Vera justice on canvas.

So he would do justice to her on the bed. Oak settled into her embrace, joining them as slowly as he could bear to. Vera set a deliberate, demanding tempo, but soon pleasure threatened to swamp Oak’s control.

“Let go,” Vera whispered. “Please.”

He held out for another half-dozen slow, hard strokes, but his will was no match for her passion, and they were soon thrashing their way to glory. When the pleasure had burned down to embers, Oak levered up enough to let cool air eddy between their bodies.

“When I make love with you,” Vera said, stroking his back, “I am thunderstruck, or lightning struck. I feel like that tree I saw as a girl at my grandmother’s. Consumed by a fire from within.”

“An apt analogy.” Oak did not want to move, did not want to leave Vera’s embrace. He eased away, used a handkerchief to keep the resulting mess from the sheets, and sat back. “Let me hold you.”

They arranged themselves spoon-fashion under the covers, Vera fitting against Oak like the familiar treasure she was. She was soon breathing in an easy, steady rhythm, but Oak could not manage to join her in slumber.

His mind was busy, full of the Finchley portrait and of Mrs. Finchley’s less than subtle attempts to inveigle him into her bedroom. Tolliver had accommodated the lady—his nickname was Jolly Tolly for a reason—and thank God the portrait was all but finished. Longacre had made no more mention of the other two subjects, and Oak had a sneaking suspicion those commissions had gone to other artists.

Then too, Mrs. Finchley hadn’t paid him. She’d asked for an invoice and said something about her husband having the final say on all expenditures.

London in reality was not quite the portrait Oak had painted of it in his mind.

“You mustn’t let me fall asleep,” Vera murmured, rolling over to face him. “Richard Longacre has asked me to pay a call. He says he has some painting or other that I’m apparently supposed to gush over. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”

Oak would rather avoid Longacre until the Finchley painting was done and delivered. He’d packed up the unfinished work to complete in his