My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman (Surrey SFS Book 3) Page 2

  The artist in him could only admire the eclectic mix of old and new, red brick and cream stone, sculpted columns and wrought iron railings, and houses that ranged from three bays to eleven bays wide. And yet he felt so out of place and conspicuous, standing on the narrow footpath with several large leather satchels of sketchbooks slung over his shoulders and brown paper-covered portraits to showcase his skill in oil under each arm. Father’s fortune would be a drop in the bucket compared to those who resided here. Not that it mattered since he’d been cut off, but never had he felt more like the quintessential starving painter. Bloody hell, he needed this commission for new paints and brushes, and to pay the rent and bills from his tailor and bootmaker which were all due.

  Straightening his shoulders, Clayton lugged his supplies up the shallow front steps of the cream stone, three-story townhouse, leaning well forward so he could rap sharply on the polished brass knocker.

  Seconds later the door opened, to reveal a silver-haired butler who gave him a surprisingly friendly smile. “Ah, Mr. Irving. Her ladyship awaits you in the drawing room. Do you require assistance carrying your paintings?”

  Clayton almost smiled. Sure, they might be wrapped in brown paper secured with string, but accidents happened, and he didn’t want to be responsible for an elderly butler expiring at the sight of a just-fucked woman wearing nothing but an emerald necklace, a demi-mask, and a sultry, satisfied smile. Or a leather-clad lady demonstrating her skill with a riding crop on her lover’s disobedient backside. His charcoal and pencil sketches of willing courtesans were even more explicit—pages and pages of languid eyes, kiss-swollen lips, taut nipples, and spread thighs. Sometimes he’d drawn the women pleasuring themselves and occasionally each other with fingers and dildos. “Thank you, but no. If you could direct me to the drawing room and Lady Fenton, I would be most grateful.”

  “Of course, sir, right this way. His lordship is also waiting to meet with you.”

  Clayton almost stumbled as he followed the butler across the marble-floored entrance hall. Christ. Both of them?

  “Excellent,” he croaked, as his mouth dried in dread and anticipation.

  “Just in here, sir,” said the butler, inclining his head as he held the door open.

  The drawing room was blue. Not a cold, pale hue like Calamine, but a richer more vibrant shade, the color he would paint a perfect summer sky. Cushions, drapes and rugs, cream silk walls, and gilt accents around the paintings, several of them by the master of landscapes, John Constable. But the fabrics, hell. Never had he seen such lustrous embroidered satin cushions. As for the heavy velvet drapes, women across London would probably offer their firstborn even for a gown or pelisse made from them.

  This was wealth. Modern wealth. And yet not gaudy, as new money could often be, but elegant and restrained. Much like the Fentons themselves.

  “Mr. Irving. Welcome to our home.”

  Clayton caught his breath as Susanna Fenton rose from a chaise and walked toward him, a polite smile on her face. Up close the petite beauty was even more enchanting than he’d realized. Brunette was such a lame word to describe the richness of her hair, like dark chocolate, and yet in the light it held a faint tint of mahogany also. Her eyes were so dark blue they almost appeared indigo. And her skin, the purest cream with a touch of rose at her cheeks. Christ, he positively itched to rip away her green gown, petticoats, chemise and stays so he could observe her fully. Discover the shape of her breasts, the color of her nipples in their natural state, and after he’d sucked them raw. The exact pink of her labia. If the curls between her legs were the same shade as her hair, lighter, darker, even black perhaps. The contrast of pearly cunt juice as it trickled from her center onto his demanding tongue…

  “Mr. Irving?” she asked again, in a light, musical tone as she held out one slender hand.

  Wake up, you damned fool!

  Carefully setting down the wrapped paintings and satchels, Clayton curled his fingers around hers, then bowed over her hand. He couldn’t stop an uneven exhale as need pounded through him, and Lady Fenton’s hand trembled. “Do forgive me, my lady. I see a scene and immediately begin pondering the colors for my easel. I am indeed Clayton Irving, at your service.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, her lips slightly parted, before flashing him a shy smile. “Oh, I understand. I do something similar when I see a bolt of fabric. What it might become, and who it might suit. If it could be enhanced by embroidery or gilt thread or left…ah…”

  “Naked,” he said without thinking.

  Lady Fenton coughed, but her eyes twinkled. “Unadorned, yes. Oh dear, I’m being terribly rude. Permit me to introduce my husband, Lord Fenton.”

  Clayton’s heart thudded frantically as Joseph Fenton left his place by the nearest window and joined them. If the baroness was noon on a summer’s day, the baron could only be described as midnight in winter. Ebony hair and equally dark eyes. Several inches shorter than his own six feet in height, but with massive shoulders and chest, slashing black brows, and an air of utter aloofness. God. He would wager everything he owned that this attractive lord had a very thick cock. Lady Fenton might struggle to circle it with her delicate hands, but he would master that glorious erection as he fucked him hard and deep, break the man with harsh pleasure until he surrendered his inhibitions with a wild cry.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Irving,” said Lord Fenton, a rich hint of Irish brogue caressing the words, as he held out his hand.

  As Clayton gripped it a jolt raced up his arm, but he forced himself to shake the baron’s hand rather than slide it under his jacket and shirt to see what those slightly callused fingertips felt like against his skin. “My lord,” he rasped.

  Fenton’s gaze dropped, and he quickly pulled his hand away.

  Damnation.

  Clayton almost groaned. A few minutes into the meeting and he was behaving like a man ready for Bedlam. This commission could open all sorts of doors for him, and potentially settle his bills. He needed to concentrate on that, not on how much he wanted to fuck both the Fentons senseless. They were married and eminently respectable. Rumored to actually be faithful, so not interested in dalliance. Hell, there was a chance that Lady Portia had glossed over the truth with them regarding the actual type of portraits he did, and the couple were about to be shocked beyond belief.

  He had to face the truth. Joseph and Susanna Fenton were just not meant to be his.

  Meeting Clayton Irving in person had been a test to reassure himself that he had changed. No longer Joseph the poor Irish tailor, but Lord Fenton the wealthy English baron. Not the weak, confused sinner who lusted after men as well as women, but a proper, respectable husband with eyes only for his wife.

  And he’d failed utterly.

  Joseph stared at the drawing room floor, fiercely willing his pulse to slow, his palm to cease tingling, to regain some semblance of control. Bad enough he’d almost spoken like a damned Irishman instead of the Etonian blue blood he always tried to mimic to be accepted. But every part of him wanted to drop to his knees at the artist’s feet and beg to be allowed to please him with mouth, fingers, ass, whichever way he liked.

  Which was ridiculous and dangerous. Irving wanted women, not men. That was well documented in every scandal sheet London possessed, and offering yourself to the wrong man was a swift way to get arrested, or even hanged. Besides, he didn’t want to be that wretched fool anymore. The fool in the shabby Dublin room who had willingly performed and submitted to those sordid, illegal acts for money, acts that had promised such ecstasy and yet delivered none. If Susanna, the sweet and pure sunshine of his life, ever discovered the way he had earned his ticket to London, she would be horrified. Disgusted. Probably cast him out. So every day he strived to be the perfect lordly spouse: polite, restrained, and courteous.

  Even now, he could scarcely believe such a beautiful, kind-hearted woman had said yes to his proposal. The first time he’d met her at Lithgow Imports, her father’s business,
he’d been nearly struck dumb. The same again on their wedding day, when she’d smiled and pledged her troth. But the nights…Christ Almighty. He tried to stay away, knowing how unworthy he was to be near her let alone inside her, but then his need for her floral-scented softness, her tight, hot little quim would become too great. His one saving grace was swiftness, not sullying her perfection with his rough hands, or burdening her with the possibility of a child with his bad blood.

  And now he risked the entire new life he’d created, because he hadn’t been able to resist inviting temptation in the form of tall, muscled, golden-haired Clayton Irving into his home.

  Say something, you damned Irish fool.

  Joseph cleared his throat and raised his head to meet the other man’s emerald gaze. It was almost hard to look at him, he was so handsome. And knowing the artist had more talent in his little finger than he could ever hope to possess in any area, even with a barony, was both humbling and humiliating. “Perhaps we should take a look at your portfolio? I know my wife is eager to see examples of your work.”

  “Of course, my lord,” said Irving, nodding. “I’ve brought my sketchbooks and two oil paintings. Before I do though…you are both aware my portraits are not, shall we say, conventional? I believe the popular term is scandalous.”

  Susanna hopped from one foot to the other, her slipper heels unnaturally loud on the drawing room floor in the moment of silence. “Yes. We do. I mean…I know they are scandalous. And that is what I want. A scandalous portrait without my clothes on.”

  Blinking in shock, Joseph glanced at his wife. She sounded so defiant. The Susanna he knew would never want such a thing, or speak like that. Yet the fact that she had, called to that other unnatural part of him, a bone-deep yearning to submit to the commands of his lover. That insisted he obey her wishes. “Of course, my dear.”

  Irving closed his eyes briefly, then a half-smile appeared. “Well. Then allow me to set up. The paintings will be best viewed by the window for natural light, and I’ll spread out my sketchbooks on the chaise and table if that is agreeable.”

  “Certainly,” said Susanna, twisting her fingers together.

  Their guest worked quickly, expertly unwrapping two oil paintings and displaying them to catch the early afternoon sunlight from the tall, street-facing windows. Then he spread out perhaps a dozen sketchbooks of varying sizes along the embroidered chaise and low gilt-edged table. Susanna immediately crossed the room to view the paintings, and seconds later her fingers rose to cover her mouth, even as her other hand reached out and nearly touched the canvas. Hell. His wife was both scandalized and enraptured.

  Swallowing hard, Joseph walked to the sketchbook collection and picked up the one closest to hand.

  Christ Almighty.

  Talented didn’t begin to describe Clayton Irving. The sketches were so lifelike, so vibrant and real, Joseph half expected the people in them to move. To turn their heads and tell him to get out of their room because they were busy. And they were all busy. A naked woman on a cushioned window seat with her fingers buried in her nether curls, her head thrown back as she climaxed. A well-dressed masked gentleman fucking a well-dressed masked lady spread across a desk in a library. An older man with his hands bound behind his head, lying on a disheveled bed with a woman’s quim hovering over his extended tongue, as though teasing him with the prize of licking up her honey. And then, oh God, then, a muscled young buck reclining on a chaise, his huge, thick erection in one hand, his smile challenging and eyes heavy-lidded with arousal, his curled finger beckoning.

  Get on your knees and suck me down your throat, Joseph. Deeper. That’s it. Now use your tongue. Mmmm…

  “Yes,” he whispered, his breath hitching as his cock strained against the confines of his trousers.

  “Seen something you like?”

  Irving’s voice was soft, yet it had the impact of a shout, and Joseph almost dropped the sketchbook. The other man stood behind him, not touching, but he could practically feel the heat emanating from his body, a slight puff of air on the side of his neck, and Joseph bit his lip to suppress a needy moan. Then, in the most inexplicable moment of his life, he turned around.

  “I…ah…”

  He knew the exact moment his guest saw the state of his trousers, as Irving sucked in a breath. Yet instead of moving away, of putting distance between them with a laugh or cutting remark as any sane lord would, Joseph stood paralyzed as his cock grew impossibly harder.

  “You picked up my favorite sketchbook,” said Irving lazily, a faint grin lifting his lips. “Further along, I introduce accessories. Different sized dildos mainly. But also a riding crop, and an adorable set of pearl-encrusted nipple clamps. The ladies are quite taken by such things, but why should they have all the fun? Gentlemen should be free to beg for such pleasures as well, I say. And have their wishes granted.”

  Oh no. He was going to come. Ruin his trousers like some green lad, not because of a firm touch or tight quim or avid mouth, but bloody words. Words! And yet he couldn’t send Irving away. Not when Susanna wanted this portrait so much, and he wanted to please her.

  “I have to leave,” Joseph said abruptly. “A meeting at the docks. But I shall engage your services for Lady Fenton’s portrait. Can you return in the morning? We’ll agree on a sitting fee, and you can get underway. Excellent. Good day.”

  Without even waiting for a reply, he nudged Irving out of the way and fled the drawing room.

  An evening’s worth of time and space, perhaps a session of self-pleasure, and these ridiculous feelings would pass. Yes, that was it. He just needed some decent brandy and an overdue tension release. Then control would return, he would be a proper English peer attracted only to women, and everything would be fine.

  Surely.

  Chapter 2

  Today he would truly earn his pay.

  Shivering a little despite the pleasantly fire-warmed temperature of the cleared-out music room, Clayton leaned down to again smooth the length of exquisite blue satin covering the square, low daybed that Lady Fenton had decided she wanted to pose on. The room was small, situated to the rear of the Fenton townhouse, however it had windows on two walls so plenty of natural light, and a lovely outlook on a walled garden. An ideal place to create art really, but for what the Fentons were paying him, he would have happily painted in a dank alley or perched in a henhouse.

  Fifty guineas! Even now he could scarcely believe they’d offered such a sum for a portrait. That put him in the realm of the late masters like Thomas Gainsborough or Sir Joshua Reynolds, perhaps even the Prince Regent’s current favorite, Thomas Lawrence. And not just offered but actually paid; half his bounty sat in a leather drawstring purse in his satchel, with the rest due on completion. The generosity also meant that he’d been able to burn without qualm a letter from his father promising funds if he returned to Cambridge. While it was true that money didn’t buy happiness, it did buy choice and freedom, and bloody hell, that was almost as good.

  Equal to his joy at impending financial ease, though: soon, oh so soon, he would see Susanna Fenton naked. The lady had stunned him yesterday with both her knowledge and rosy-cheeked admiration of his work, although by the look on Joseph Fenton’s face, there had been more than one stunned man in the parlor. As for later, when he’d watched the baron flicking through sketches of fucking and a gentleman self-pleasuring with true absorption and a hard cock…well. How very intriguing. Because it seemed that the Fentons might not be nearly as stuffy as the faces they presented to the ton, and the wicked, contrary part of him wanted to prod and tease and coax until he discovered exactly where their boundaries in propriety really were.

  “Mr. Irving? Are you ready for me?”

  Oh darling, you have no idea.

  Clayton turned and smiled at Lady Fenton, who hovered in the doorway wearing a heavy brocade dressing gown. “I am indeed, madam. Come on in.”

  “No easel?” she said, her eyes wide as she entered the room.

  “Not t
oday,” he replied. “Today is for preliminary sketches, trying out different poses, deciding how you want to be portrayed on canvas. I can paint whatever you wish, really. Anything from a naughty angel to an Amazonian warrior to a Shakespearean wood nymph.”

  The baroness laughed as she perched awkwardly on the daybed. “Oh my.”

  “Shall we get started, then?”

  “In just a moment. Fenton will be joining us. He would like to, um, observe.”

  Clayton almost groaned as he knelt to retrieve his charcoal and pencils from his satchel. The unobtainable woman of his dreams naked in front of him would be torment enough, but her brooding, broad-shouldered husband who indeed possessed one hell of a bulge between his legs in the room as well? Pure torture. “Of course.”

  “How long have you been painting your, ah, special portraits?”

  “Several years now,” he replied, swiftly sharpening his favorite pencil with a fine razor blade. “There is something marvelous about the human form. Endlessly fascinating shapes, curves, and colors for one thing, but what I enjoy most is revealing my subject’s inner self. Nakedness is a true equalizer. Without clothes, jewels, and other trappings, the soul shines through. Needs. Desires. Hopes and dreams….”

  Lady Fenton sat forward on the daybed, twisting her dressing gown belt around one finger. “Oh, don’t stop.”