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

“Is there any more tea?” Gray asked.

“No.” She took up a handkerchief and pressed it to her brow, then her glistening, flushed décolletage.

He shifted uncomfortably, feeling a new source of heat pool in his groin.

“I’ll get after Stubb to bring water. In a minute.” He bent his head and closed his eyes and tried to think of anything cool. Those pretty flavored ices all the fashion in Mayfair, the ones he’d be certain to take Bel to sample. The trout stream in Wiltshire where he’d spent that summer between years at Oxford. Ale, fresh from the cellar in winter. Snow. Gray had a sudden image of Miss Turner standing in an English winterscape, dressed in rich velvet and dusted with powdery white snowflakes. Tiny crystals of ice clinging to her fur-trimmed gloves, her mantle, her hair, her thick fringe of eyelashes. Her pale skin contrasting with plump, flushed lips. An angelic apparition.

Except that he couldn’t do to an angel what Gray saw himself doing with this snow-covered siren. He imagined himself licking a snowflake from her cheek, and his tongue curled around the sharp burst of cold. In his mind’s eye he tasted another, and another—and they were sweet. She was a rose-flavored ice, a delicacy beyond anything he’d ever tasted, and he was devouring her, taste by impossibly tiny taste. Snowflake by snowflake. Until he tumbled her back into the snow and bared the creamy mounds of her br**sts, the plump berries of her ni**les, the juicy curves of her delicious body—and feasted.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sophia counted six clangs of the bell before Mr. Grayson jolted fully awake. He looked up at her, startled and flushed. As though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

She smiled.

Rubbing his eyes, he rose to his feet. “Will I shock you, Miss Turner, if I remove my coat?”

Sophia felt a twinge of disappointment. When would he stop treating her with this forced politesse, maintaining this distance between them? How many tales of passionate encounters must she spin before he finally understood that she was no less wicked than he, only less experienced?

Perhaps it was time to take more aggressive measures.

“By all means, remove your coat.” She tilted her eyes to cast him a saucy look. “Mr. Grayson, I’m not an innocent schoolgirl. You will have to try harder than that to shock me.”

His lips curved in a subtle smile. “I’ll take that under advisement.” She watched as he shook the heavy topcoat from his shoulders and peeled it down his arms. He draped the coat over the back of a chair before sitting back down. The damp lawn of his shirt clung to his shoulders and arms. A pleasant shiver rippled down to Sophia’s toes.

“It doesn’t suit you anyway,” she said, loading her brush with paint. He gave her a bemused look as he unknotted his cravat and pulled it loose. She inwardly rejoiced. Now, if only she could convince him to do away with his waistcoat …

“The coat,” she explained, when his eyebrows remained raised. “It doesn

’t suit you.”

“Why not? Is the color wrong?” The sudden seriousness in his tone surprised her.

“No, the color is perfectly fine. It’s the cut that’s unflattering. That style is tailored to gentlemen of leisure, lean and slender. But as you are so fond of telling me, Mr. Grayson, you are no gentleman. Your shoulders are too broad for fashion.”

“Is that so?” He chuckled as he undid his cuffs. Sophia stared as he turned up his sleeves, baring one tanned, muscled forearm, then the other.

“What style of garments would best suit me, then?”

“Other than a toga?” He rewarded her jest with an easy smile. Sophia dabbed at her canvas, pleased to be making progress at last. “I think you need something less restrictive. Something like a sailor’s garb. Or perhaps a captain’s.”

“Truly?” His gaze became thoughtful, then searching. “And even dressed in plain seaman’s clothes, would you still find me handsome enough? In my own way?”

“No.” She allowed his brow to crease a moment before continuing. “I should find you surpassingly handsome. In every way.” She mixed paint slowly on her palette and gave him a coy look. “And what of my attire? If you had your way, how would you dress me?”

“If I had my way … I wouldn’t.”

A thrill raced through Sophia’s body. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes dropped to her lap. She forced her gaze back up to meet his. Now was not the moment to lose courage. Nothing held sway over a man’s intentions like jealousy. “Gervais once kept me naked for an entire day so he could paint me.”

He blinked. “He painted a nude study of you?”