Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)

“Mmmm,” she moaned. “Oh, yes.”


Once, twice, a dozen times. Gray could not hear that word enough. He loved her slowly, relentlessly, until she panted and sighed the words, “yes,”

“Gray,” and “God” so many times they felt like sacred vows. Then he watched her sleep curled up beside him, until dawn painted her nakedness in warm, glowing strokes of light. He’d made love to her four times now, he realized, but this was his first chance to truly look upon her body. She was every inch as lovely as he’d imagined, if not more. He felt a bit guilty, realizing he’d chastised her for sketching his likeness, when he’d been conjuring an image of her nude form nightly for weeks. The only difference was, he hadn’t committed his fantasies to paper. It would take a Renaissance master to capture this beauty. Her hair spilled across the pillow and his outstretched arm, a million threads of the finest silk floss. When she woke, he vowed, he would brush it until it gleamed. He admired the smooth disc of her areola, relaxed in sleep. Then he blew surreptitiously across it, until it ruched to a tight rosette. His gaze wandered lower, to where her navel rose and fell with each breath, like a tiny cork afloat on her slightly rounded belly. An irregular birthmark stood out on the crest of her hip, like a splash of wine on snow. He touched a finger to it, and she stirred.

“Don’t look at that,” she mumbled, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “I know it’s horrid.”

“Horrid?” Despite the pained expression on her face, he had to laugh.

“Sweetheart, I can honestly say that there is nothing about you that’s horrid in the least.”

“My painting master would not agree.”

The bitter taste of envy filled his mouth. “Do you know, that Frenchman of yours had better hope I never meet with him.”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “Not Gervais. Never Gervais. My painting master was an old, balding prig called Mr. Turklethwaite.”

Gray’s bafflement must have been obvious.

She went on, “There was never any Gervais. I mean, you know that I’d never taken a man to my bed, but you must understand … I’ve never allowed another man into my heart, either.” She kissed his brow, then his lips. “I love you, only you.”

God. How brave she was. Tossing those words about as though they were feathers. Could she possibly suspect how they landed in his chest like cannonballs, detonating deep in his heart?

Struggling for equanimity, he asked casually, “So when did this other painting master have occasion to see your birthmark?”

She laughed. “He didn’t. But I painted something like it once, on a portrait of Venus. I told him I thought it lent her an air of reality. Oh, how he scolded me. A lady who paints, he said—” She gave Gray a teasing look. “He would not apply the term ‘artist’ to a female, you see.”

“I see.”

“A lady who paints, he said, should approach the art as she would any other genteel accomplishment. Her purpose is to please; her goal is to create an example of refinement. A true lady would not paint an imperfection, he said, any more than she would strike a false note in a sonata. Beauty is not real, and reality is not beautiful.”

Gray shook his head. “Remarkable. I believe I despise your real painting master even more than I hated the fictional one. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.”

She rose up on her elbows, her expression suddenly anxious. “Gray, how can you wish to marry me? There’s so much you don’t know. Some of it is ugly indeed.”

“I know you are mine.” Wanting to reassure her, he laced her fingers with his. “I meant every pledge I made to you aboard the Aphrodite. You are safe with me, and I will never leave you. I came to you with honorable intentions when we made love. I meant to marry you then, knowing no more of you than I do right now. I may not know your history, but I trust that I know your heart.”

“Better than anyone.” A little smile coaxed her lips apart, and he kissed them. First sipping gently at her upper lip, then savoring the plumpness of its counterpart below.

“And do you trust me? You can tell me everything. You do believe that?”

“Yes, certainly. And I will tell you everything.” A hint of uncertainty flashed in her eyes, however, and she bit her lip. “In time.”

Her reluctance wounded him, but Gray forced himself to feign patience. Pressing her further might yield answers, but not trust. He wanted to earn both. “Very well. In time.”

She toyed with a lock of his hair. “There’s so much to tell, is all. I’m uncertain where to begin.”

“Well then. Let us begin with essentials. Are you free to marry me?” He exhaled slowly, in a pointed effort not to hold his breath.

“Of course. When I come of age, that is.”

“Tell me your birthday.”