They didn’t call her the Painted Paramour for no reason, for the woman was nothing if not bottled sensuality steaming for escape. A passion for portraits indeed. With her talk of overwhelming sensations and unique responses, she’d all but likened art to physical intimacy in a way that made his blood simmer, his appetites yearn. Though she maintained her innocence throughout, he couldn’t help wondering if the famed Signore Alessio had been the victim, snared in a carnal web of Miss Thorngoode’s making. He had tried seeking refuge in a conversation with Belinda, pretending to hang on her every word while his gaze shifted countless times against his will to Miss Thorngoode. To her pretty mouth, her delicate bosom, those graceful arms he’d very much like to feel wrapped around him. Hence his present difficulty, and blast the other men for so blithely leaping to their feet and dispensing with the tradition of port and cigars following supper. That might have given him sufficient time to collect his composure and tame the beast even now straining for a good thrust or two with the lady in question.
