The Education of Mrs. Brimley (21 page)

“The winter snows have passed; the roads improve daily. You haven’t visited a tavern in several months.”

He glanced up quickly. “I hadn’t realized that. I just haven’t had the desire. Do you suppose I’m maturing, Thomas?”

Thomas smiled, a slight curve of the lips. “I noticed the large blank canvas against the wall. I thought perhaps you were planning to render a painting of one of the tavern ladies, sir, as you have in the past.”

“This?” Chambers reached out to grasp a primed canvas of the equivalent size to
Artemis’s Revenge
. “I stretched two canvases just in case something proved unsatisfactory with the first. However, now I’m thinking about using this one for a landscape.”

“A landscape, sir?”

Chambers scrutinized the blank taut fabric. “I’m thinking on taking Mrs. Brimley on a picnic.” He looked up. “Did you know that I’m teaching Mrs. Brimley how to paint?”

“I had no idea, sir.”

“Of course, so far we’ve only discussed theory. I think it’s time she got in some actual brushwork.” He glanced to his jar of brushes, the rudiments of an idea stirring in his mind.

“That sounds like a brilliant idea, sir.” Thomas picked up a gray and white kitten off the desk and dropped it unceremoniously into a nearby cushioned basket. The kitten yowled a protest, then settled in quietly. “Henry mentioned a strange story yesterday.”

“Hmmm . . . what was that?” Chambers only half listened, his imagination heading in an opposite direction.

“It appears there’s been a rash of clothing mishaps at the school. Several of the young ladies have rips and tears in their gloves, just in the fingertips, mind you. According to Henry’s wife, it’s almost as if they’ve been bitten. What do you make of that, sir?”

Chambers’s smile broadened. “Mrs. Brimley.”

EMMA’S OUTSTRETCHED ARMS ACHED FROM holding the same position. Her ribs hurt, her legs trembled. The posing sessions had become physically demanding and downright boring. After so many hours of standing before Chambers in naught but her chemise and drawers, that particular experience no longer assaulted her sensibilities. True to his word, he hadn’t tried to touch her, not even to steal a kiss, preferring to use his lips to speak incessantly about art. She considered revoking her no-touching edict, but feared it would make little difference. Outside, rain lashed against the windowpanes, thunder rumbled the sleepy countryside. Inside, all remained calm, hushed. Her shoulders slumped.

The movement attracted his notice. Chambers’s eyes softened. He laid down his brush and palette. “Perhaps a period of rest is in order.”

“Thank you,” Emma gasped, stumbling the few steps to the divan. “You failed to tell me that posing required so much effort.”

“The flowers and rocks never complained when I painted them,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “I suppose I hadn’t realized how difficult it could be.”

Emma massaged her aching calf muscles and glanced toward the tea service on a side table. “Do you suppose Thomas could bring more tea? I believe this has grown cold.”

Chambers started for the corner bell pull but stopped midway and turned to face her. A hesitant smile teased his lips. “Before I do that, there is one thing more I’d like to teach you about painting.”

She would have groaned, but etiquette forbade it. After so many weeks learning about various color combinations, canvas preparations, and composition concerns, she had hoped for a respite. She was even tempted to ask a question about that other subject of which he was so knowledgeable, but with only her chemise and drawers left, she hesitated.

“Before one can master a craft, such as painting, one needs to be familiar with the tools, in this case, the brushes.” He approached his table of implements, most notably a jar full of upended brushes. “Different brushes produce different effects.”

Emma tried to hide a yawn behind her hand.

“Various animals have sacrificed their hide to produce these tips.” He drew his fingers across the bristles. “Just as each animal’s fur has a unique appearance and texture, so do the resulting brushes. Let me show you . . .” He picked up several brushes and stepped toward her.

“Our agreement,” she reminded him with a bit of trepidation. He hadn’t stood this close for several weeks. A spark of excitement ignited in her rib cage.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said with that same mysterious smile, the one that sounded warning bells in her head. “Extend your arm and tell me how this feels.” He jabbed at the underside of her arm with the bristles of one stubby brush.

“It stings.” She pulled her arm away from his reach and watched an indignant red spot rise to the affected area.

“When used harshly, this brush can bite,” he admitted, without apology. “It’s made from ox, but if I stroke it slow and soft . . .” He motioned for her arm again. Hesitantly, she extended it. “It has a different effect.”

The thick black bristles produced a tingling path up the underside of her arm, teasing dormant nerve endings and leaving a faint blush of pink in their wake. “That’s not as unpleasant,” she admitted.

Chambers slid to the side, then to the back of the divan, all the while dragging the bristles toward the sensitive skin exposed by the armhole of her chemise. A shiver danced down her spine. She attributed the reaction more to Chambers’s near presence than the strange experiment he performed with his brush. “I fail to see—”

“A man can feel like this.” His low voice seduced her senses like fragrant hot chocolate on a cold winter morning.

“Imagine this is a man’s whiskers. Perhaps, my mustache.” The brush dragged slowly across the top of her back, lightly scratching the delicate skin, before dipping between her shoulder blades, tugging at the thin silk chemise. The blunt bristles stimulated more than irritated.

As suggested, in her mind, she allowed the bristles to transform into Chambers’s mustache. She imagined his lips a mere breath away from her skin as he forged a path of sweet torture. The trembling in her legs shifted upward, bringing a renewed vitality to her lower regions. When the brush pulled at the back of her chemise, she imagined it was Chambers’s fingers that lifted the lace from her skin.
Oh please, let it be his fingers.

Instinctively, her shoulders lifted, as if pulled by a string. Gooseflesh tingled down her arms.

Suddenly the sensation changed. A smooth silky texture replaced the harsh bristles.

“What did you do?” she gasped.

“This is sable.” His moist breath bathed the back of her neck. She couldn’t see him, but by the sound of his voice, she judged his lips to be near the curve of her neck, else her nostrils wouldn’t quiver at the faint scent of fine-milled soap and exotic spice. If she turned her head, ever so slightly, she might force his touch. She breathed deep, inviting his scent deep in her lungs.

“Feel how the brush glides and strokes the canvas.”

“That is not a canvas, sir. That is my shoulder,” she said, holding her breath while the mesmerizing brush drifted from one shoulder to the other.

“Your delicate skin is a canvas for my imagination.” Chambers slipped around her side, returning to her front. His voice, combined with the delicate fine brush hairs explored all the curves and valleys of her shoulders and throat, igniting fissures beneath her skin.

She should move. She should stand up and walk to the changing screen. But she remained riveted to the divan, afraid any motion on her part would end the exquisite sensation.

“As smooth as silk and creamy white.” He dipped the sable lower, skimming beneath the top of her low-cut chemise. Her breath caught. Dormant nerve endings exploded, stimulating riotous sensation. Her head tipped back, too heavy to remain supported by her hypersensitized neck. The back of the divan cushioned the fall.

“Do you like the way this feels, Mrs. Brimley?” His lips moved a breath away from the underside of her chin. She could barely breathe much less reply, but she suspected he already knew her answer.

“Imagine that the brush is moist,” he whispered, “like a pair of lips.”

In her mind’s eye, she imagined his lips, his tongue, licking and playfully nipping at her throat, just as he had with his kiss so long ago. Why, oh why, did she make him promise not to touch her? But a proper lady couldn’t very well ask to be kissed, could she?

The brush slipped beneath the lace of her chemise, jolting her nerves in ways she never could have imagined. The whisper-soft tease of the brush head swept her breasts, reaching almost to the tip of her tight, constricted buds. Her jaw slackened with an unspoken cry of pleasure.

“Imagine this brush is a man’s hand.”

Please let it be his hand!
Let him swirl, and tease, and rub with his talented fingers, not an inanimate brush. The long, wooden brush handle tugged at her chemise as the velvety head stroked the fullness of her breasts. She gasped. This could not be decent, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop his manipulations.

Her back arched, seeking more. Fabric pushed beneath her breast almost as if . . . She opened her eyes. The brush handle had pushed the cloth beneath one of her breasts, leaving it exposed to Chambers’s entranced view. He licked his lips, a fraction of an inch from her straining nipple. He looked up through the veil of his long lashes.

“Are you moist for me, Emma? Do you feel an ache deep inside that longs for the satisfaction only a man can provide?”

Dear Lord above, her body reacted as if in tune with his orchestration. Her woman’s core vibrated with urgency to an unheard note. Her hands clenched tight in her lap, longed to wrap around Chambers’s back and pull him close enough to feel the chaos he had released in her virgin body. Was this how her mother felt? Was this love? She took a quick breath, watching the turgid tip of her exposed breast lift to delicately touch Chambers’s lower lip.

“Release me from my pledge, Emma. Let me whisper sweet strains of poetry over your skin. Let me show you . . .”

“Yes.” The word slipped through her lips yet her entire body strained in answer. “Touch me.”

His lips encircled her nipple. She gasped in wild tumultuous pleasure. The brush fell to the floor as both his hands paid homage. He suckled and nipped at her breasts till she cried out in pleasure. Her hands tangled in his thick black hair, pulling him closer, not willing to let him go.

“Magnificent!” He repeated over and over again, kissing his way up to her lips. A fierce desire tugged at her, wanting him closer, needing him closer. Her hands slipped to his back, feeling the powerful knead of his muscles as he stroked and massaged her breasts. She pulled him closer, wanting him nearer. He obliged, pushing her back on the divan till he was lying atop her, between her sprawled legs. His bulge pressed against her exposed tender flesh.

Merciful heavens, this was one of the positions he had told her about. She should stop him. She should demand this go no further. She would be like her mother, ruined and shamed.

Her body hummed with a primitive need. She remembered Beatrice’s words:
At least you’ve experienced what it is to be loved.
Never had Emma desired anything more in her life than this minute. She needed that experience, that love, with this man and no other.

His fingers slipped under the straps of her camisole, tugging it down her arms. His kisses followed the retreat of the material.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “Who knew such treasure lay beneath all those layers of dismal black.”

“And pink,” she added, remembering her discarded corset.

“And pink.” He smiled, chasing her hesitations away in the process.

He slipped down her body until his knees hit the floor, shifting the burden of his weight in the process. She tried to pull her legs together in a more ladylike pose, but he braced his arms between them pushing them even further apart.

Her drawers offered no protection, the slit providing ample access to her inner core. His fingers slipped inside, entering her in a way she herself would never consider.

Her entire body instantly tensed. She bit her lip and tried to close her legs

“Relax, Emma. I won’t hurt you,” he said, his voice a comforting balm. “I just want you to experience one of the pleasures that can be achieved between a man and a woman.”

Before she could reply, he lowered his mouth to the slit and probed her with his tongue. Lightning ripped from her groin to the tips of her breasts and back again.

She hadn’t believed a man would really do such a thing. She swam in a sea of moisture of her own making. His fingers pulled at her nether lips, exposing more of her private areas to his assault. Her hands found the edges of the divan and held tight.

Need, pressure, and desire built one upon the other like the stones in the walls defining the pastures. Increased need, increased desire, increased pressure, until suddenly an explosion blasted them all away. Wave after wave of languid heat poured throughout her body, seducing, calming, titillating even to her fingertips.