Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait

More than that, she loved him because he’d taken her seriously and he’d insisted that her family take her seriously.

Mostly, though, as her body began to sing with the joy of intimate congress with his, Jenny admitted to herself that she loved Elijah because she was leaving, and this was the last they would ever be together.

* * *

Elijah watched as pleasure suffused Genevieve Windham’s features, watched as she shifted from beautiful to transfigured. Her body clutched at him, wrung every ounce of self-restraint from him, to the point that he had to close his eyes or lose control.

And that he could not do, not when she was so close to realizing her dream, and he was… a gentleman.

As Jenny subsided onto his chest, Elijah wrapped his arms around her and revised his word choice. No gentleman would take a lady other than his wife to bed, though he might take other women to bed under certain conditions.

And Elijah had, from time to time, but he could not recall their names, their faces, their scents, anything about them.

“Hold me, Elijah.”

Always. He kissed her hair and snugged his arms more closely around her. “You’re all right?”

“Mmm.” Not even a word, but it conveyed profound contentment.

The moment was tender, dear, and for Elijah, not content at all. His cock throbbed with wanting, and while he could not recall his previous partners, he would not be able to forget Genevieve. He could follow her to Paris, of course, and she’d probably bestow more of such moments on him.

More crumbs for him, more risks to her safety, her reputation, and her dreams.

“I want more, sir.” His sleepy, sweet tempest began to move.

“Then you shall have it.”

He’d never intended to spend. He’d intended to let her have her pleasure of him, to stretch out this joining as long as he could, to make as many memories with her as she could bear to share with him.

A man in love treasures even the pain of his affliction, after all.

Jenny ambushed him, though, moving on him with increasing power and speed, her arms lashed around his shoulders, and then, without warning, she pitched off to the side, dragging him over her.

Exactly where he longed to be.

“Genevieve…”

She silenced his warning with kisses, with her body determined to shower pleasure upon them both, with her hand gripping his hair, and with—a curious, fierce sensation—her fingernails gripping his buttocks. “Don’t beg, Elijah. Never beg. Love me. Love me now.”

He could not refuse his lady’s command. He loved her, and he made love with her, and when she slept in his arms, sated and sweet, her hair in complete disarray, he only loved her more.

* * *

Jenny watched as Elijah tugged on his boots then paused while he examined his footwear. “If there’s a baby—”

She cut him off with a look and a nod. “Of course. I wouldn’t visit illegitimacy on my child. Our child.”

The words, even the very words, our child, weakened her knees to the point that she had to sit on the bed. She might have just conceived a future Marquess of Flint. The notion was upsetting, for any number of reasons.

Paris had loomed like an artistic haven, of course, and like a sanctuary from her family’s well-intended, smothering attentions. Paris was the antidote to everything stupid and backward about the present version of English chivalry too, and to all of Polite Society’s idiot notions about a true lady being a useless, decorative, porcelain figurine.

Paris was where she could keep her promise to Victor and put her entire focus on her art.

At what point had Paris also acquired the lure of a coward’s way out?

Elijah took the place on the bed beside her and extracted the brush from her limp fingers. “I’ll do that.”

He tended to her hair, just as he’d assisted her to dress, with brisk competence that suggested regret for what had passed between them.

“Elijah, are you angry?”

He tucked the last pin into her hair and drew her back against his chest. “If I am angry, I am angry for you and with myself, not with you. We’d best be going.”

Not an answer she could comprehend, not with her body that of a sexually sated stranger, her mind in a complete muddle, and her heart…

Her heart breaking.

She let Elijah lead her through the house, sensing darkness gathering even earlier than usual.

“The snow has picked up,” Elijah said as they donned coats, gloves, and scarves. “You will take my hand, Genevieve, damn the appearances, until we’ve reached a cleared path on Morelands property.”

That he’d understand she needed some lingering connection with him was a relief. That he’d do her the further courtesy of making it a command was a blessing.

“I don’t need to hold your hand to make my way through a few inches of snow.”

He tucked the ends of his scarf under her chin. “Perhaps I need to hold yours.”

She held his hand until they’d reached the very steps of the Morelands back terrace.

* * *

“Lovely. Lovely, lovely, lovely.”

Jenny watched while His Grace the Duke of Moreland gushed—that was the word—gushed about the portraits on display, and the duchess quietly beamed her satisfaction with the duke’s praise.

Also with His Grace’s portrait, which, now that Jenny considered the image dispassionately, emphasized not only the man’s ducal consequence but also his regard for his duchess. Percival Windham as rendered in oil on canvas was a man capable of humor and sternness, of loving his country fiercely and his duchess gently.

Elijah had caught that heart, and caught it wonderfully. He might also have caught a sudden case of lung fever, because the entire family had assembled in anticipation of the open house, while the artist in residence had yet to come downstairs.

“Both portraits are quite good,” Her Grace said. “I am particularly pleased with how my surprise turned out.”

Her surprise being the portrait of her, done for His Grace’s holiday present.

When Elijah dared to venture down the steps, Jenny was going to ask him some pointed questions about that portrait, but for now, her siblings and their spouses were adding their choruses of appreciation for the art they beheld.

“I do think that portrait of Her Grace is better even than the one he did of the children,” Sophie allowed. “Sindal, would you agree?”

Everybody agreed, and in the middle of all this smiling and agreeing, Louisa sidled up to Jenny, bringing a hint of cinnamon and clove with her. “Have you told them yet?”

“You are like the bad fairy, Louisa, insisting on difficult tidings when they’ll easily keep for a day or two. I don’t intend to leave until after the New Year. There’s time yet.”

Louisa’s mouth flattened, but she kept her voice down. “You cannot hare off as if you’re eloping with a disgraceful choice, Jenny. That’s not fair to you. It’s even less fair to Their Graces. They’ll need time to adjust, to strike terms.”

“I am going to move to Paris,” Jenny said, just as firmly. “I do not expect you to understand, Lou, but I do expect you to keep my confidences, within reason.”

Louisa opened her mouth to say something, likely something articulate, insightful, and painful—though not mean—when her expression shifted. “It’s a bit late for that.”

Jenny glanced over her shoulder to find both of her parents hovering only three feet away, the good cheer of the season apparent in the eyes of neither.

* * *