Page 116 of Their Master

“I don’t suppose you’d consider selling it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Smith was disappointed, but not surprised. The painting was one of Nora’s best, Smith just so happened to be the subject.

“If you agree to help me recover my information from Clayton, however, I will give it to you.”

Smith couldn’t help laughing. “You must think I want it very badly.”

“Don’t you?”

Smith mentally rolled his eyes at his own vanity. Yes, by God, he wanted that bloody painting with a vengeance.

The door to the studio opened and a woman entered bearing a tea tray. Only when she came closer did Smith realize it was the model from earlier. She was garbed in a severe black gown of the sort normally worn by housekeepers. Her long brown hair had been neatly plaited and wound into a tidy bun. Even her conservative gown could not disguise her magnificent figure.

Once again Smith was entranced by the woman’s elegance and grace as she lowered the tray to the coffee table and then sank to her knees in a continuation of the motion.

Smith’s cock twitched at a different image, that of her sinking to her knees before him, her pale slender fingers deftly opening his placket rather than fussing about with a pot of tea.

“How do you like your tea, Mr. Smith?”

It was the first time the woman had spoken and her voice was pleasingly low, not precisely refined, but inflectionless, like her employer’s.

“Black, please.”

“I can offer you one more incentive,” Selkirk said.

Smith pulled his attention away from the kneeling woman. The earl’s gaze was as opaque as ever, but his severe features were softened by an almost imperceptible curving of his thin lips, as if he knew what thoughts were going through Smith’s mind and enjoyed them.

“More incentive?” Smith taunted. “Do you have evenmoreportraits of me?”

“In a sense.”

The woman rose and came toward Smith with a cup and saucer, two small biscuits perched on the side.

“Thank you,” Smith said, taking the woman’s proximity as an opportunity to look closer at her face. She was older than he’d first thought—closer to thirty-five than thirty. Up close he saw that her irises were an attractive pale brown, the only pretty thing about her rather plain face.

She turned to give the earl his tea—minus the biscuits—and then lowered to her knees beside his chair, her submissive pose sending blood rushing to Smith’s cock.

He looked up to meet Selkirk’s gaze.

Although the other man’s expression hadn’t altered, he radiated a smug dominance that Smith recognized given he was often guilty of feeling it himself.

“You were speaking of an incentive?” Smith asked, his voice rougher than normal.

“Are you familiar with my work?”

“I have the good fortune to own one of your paintings.”

“Indeed? Which one?”

“It is titled #6.27.”

“Ah, yes. Six was one of my favorites.” Before Smith could ask him whatSixmeant, the earl went on, “So you are aware of my tastes and style.”

The painting in question was one of the most erotic—and blasphemous—in his collection. It would probably land even an earl into hot water if the wrong people got their hands on it. Malcolm had given it to Smith as a birthday gift several years back.

“I have some idea,” Smith said dryly.

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