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rant at him now. Or maybe even demand he marry her. Even though he wasn’t the titled lord she obviously sought, he was fabulously wealthy, which made him an attractive matrimonial target and why he avoided virgins as if they bore cholera. Miss Makepeace might just decide to trap him.
    But instead, she ran the pointed tip of her tongue over her bottom lip.
    His cock twitched in agony.
    “Well, that was . . . interesting,” she said softly as though to herself. Then she looked up at him, her Botticelli angel face all flushed and rosy. “Will you explain something for me? Why does a man find what he can’t see compelling?” 
    She’d chosen to ignore the ill-considered kiss. What a sensible female.
    Crispin could have kissed her again!
    Fortunately Wyckeham arrived with the gloves in time to knock that daft thought from his mind.
    “Here. Put them on.” Crispin nearly flung them to her as Wyckeham discretely withdrew. He never allowed anyone but the subject in his studio while he worked, but he was tempted to call his servant back. Wyckeham’s presence would surely keep him from folly, but for some reason, he didn’t want the intrusion of another soul just now. 
    Her fingers trembled as she pulled on the silky gloves. She didn’t seem the nervous type. Even though she didn’t speak of it, the kiss must have moved her as well. Her lips drew tight with concentration as she tried to fasten the long row of buttons.
    “I can’t seem to manage this,” she finally admitted.
    “Allow me.” Crispin bent to help her, trying mightily not to let his fingertips brush her bare skin.
    He failed.
    She was soft and warm and there was a tiny brown mole near the crook of her elbow, one small imperfect spot on an otherwise exquisite arm. His soft palate ached to plant a kiss just there, to savor the salty-sweetness of her skin. He quickly hooked the loop over the button to cover it.
    Her head was bent and turned away. Sometimes, he did the same when his leg ached so abominably that Wyckeham insisted on dressing him. It gave them space, placed a bit of distance between them that made the service more comfortable for both.
    And it seemed to work well enough with his manservant. He could cease to think of Wyckeham as another person while he accepted his help with something a child should be able to do for himself.
    But being this close to Grace made Crispin’s whole body tingle with awareness. She didn’t douse herself in cloying fragrance, but her hair smelled like summer rain. He fought the urge to inhale her down to his toes.
    He only had the barest of guesses who his sire might have been, but he’d never suspected madness might run in his lineage until this moment.
    “Let me try this one.” Grace pulled on the second glove and began to fumble with the row of buttons.
    He stopped her. “No, this one we leave undone. And grasp the fingertips with your other hand so, as if you’re removing the glove. Ah! Perfect. Hold right there.”
    He walked a slow circle around her, checking the angles.
    This was safe. He could shelter behind his art and focus on the composition. Light and shadow, line and form, that’s all she was.
    All she could ever be.
    Her slim forearm was tilted just right. Enough of the glove was off to expose the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb. When he stood behind her, he was offered a peek at her concave palm, hidden in the deep shadow.
    The pose was seduction itself. Several parts of his anatomy would writhe in pleasure under the touch of that smooth palm. With the right man to school her in carnal arts, what might she accomplish with those oh-so-capable hands?
    He took a step back and swallowed hard.
    “Now, don’t move,” he ordered as he took his place at the table to begin sketching.
    After several moments of silence, Grace said, “I assume you’ll allow my mouth to move.”
    “Only if something of interest issues from it.” A little vinegar in his tone would surely suppress the lunacy their