Dearest Joy, my muse—each stroke is but a whisper of my longing for you. You are the light that guides my hand, the dream that stirs my slumber. I am adrift without your presence, a vessel yearning for the harbor of your arms. Come back to me, for in every line, in every shade, you are there, and I am ever yours.
The words penetrated Joy’s heart, delicate yet powerful. Moses had stripped away the veneer, revealing not only his talent but the depth of his affection, his need for her that went beyond the physical entanglement. They were kindred spirits bound by the pencil stroke as much as by the flesh.
Surrounded by the festive air of Christmas and the laughter of children in the distant room, Joy felt a stirring within her, a pull towards the man who saw her not as a staid widow, but as a woman aflame with life and longing. A woman who might, just might, dare to defy convention for the promise etched in pencil before her.
With fingers trembling ever so slightly, Joy closed the sketchbook, her breath caught in a web of longing. Fear nibbled at her resolve, whispering of scandal and the wagging tongues of society’s matrons, should she dare to embrace the desires that Moses’ sketches had awakened. Yet, for every shiver of trepidation, there was a spark of adventure—a yearning for the brush of his hand against hers, not merely on paper but skin against skin, the most intimate of canvases.
The comfort of widowhood, with its unspoken permission to recede into the shadows, suddenly felt like an iron cage. How could she return to the muted existence of polite smiles and solitary evenings when Moses had painted her soul with such fervent strokes? His artistry had unveiled a part of her slumbering beneath layers of decorum—passionate, vibrant, alive.
She suddenly knew she could no longer deny the torrent of feelings Moses had unleashed. She was a vessel filled to the brim, longing to spill over into his waiting arms. Like the heroine of a gothic romance, she found herself perched on a precipice, the wind of change beckoning her to leap into the unknown.
“Joy?” Moses’ voice, rough-hewn yet tender, broke through her reverie.
“Moses.” The name felt like a caress upon her lips.
“Will you...?” he began, the unfinished query hanging between them like a dare.
Joy met his gaze and saw there all the words he was unable to say. She knew then, with the clarity of a winter’s dawn, that she would follow her heart, regardless of the path it chose.
“I believe I need to speak with my employer. And then pack my bag. It’s a good thing the children haven’t grown too attached to me. They’ll have a new governess soon.”
His smile widened, his face brightening like she’d never seen. “I hired a carriage, which is waiting. Will you be long?”
The question struck her like an invitation, opening her thoughts to visions of his seductions. As her cheeks grew flushed, she stammered for a moment, then shoved the sketchbook into his hands. “Hold this. I must find Lady Peasemore.”
Chapter 13
The inn room welcomed them with a warm embrace, the air thick with the sweet scent of burning tallow. Joy crossed the threshold, her body thrumming with the ministrations of Moses’ recent affections. The kisses, stolen within the confines of the jostling carriage, had lit a fire in her veins that now spread across her cheeks and settled deep within her core.
Moses followed close behind, his tall frame filling the doorway before he pressed the door shut with a soft click. The key in the lock turned with purpose under his strong hand, a sound that resonated with finality. In that small gesture, Joy felt a thrill twist through her. They were finally alone, and the room was not rocking like the carriage.
Her gaze swept over the room bathed in the mellow glow of candlelight. The flickering flames cast dancing shadows upon the walls, as if they too were celebrating the clandestine union. The light played upon Moses’ features, softening the rough lines of his face and transforming him into a handsome model, chiseled from shadow and flame.
“Do you want to have some nourishment before bed?” Joy teased, hoping the humor would calm her nerves.
Moses answered not with speech but with a glance that spoke volumes. His eyes held a depth that drew her in.
As Joy stood there, she could almost forget the widow’s weeds that clung to her like a somber shadow, could almost believe that adventure and passion were not solely the domain of whispered rumors and dog-eared romance leaflets. Here with Moses, with his calloused hands capable of both gentleness and strength, she could dare to be the heroine of her own story.
He set aside her bag and stepped closer to her, and a shiver of anticipation danced down Joy’s spine. His hands reached out to frame her face. The warmth from his palms seeped into her skin and she looked up into his eyes, alight with a fervent hunger that matched the pounding of her heart.
He leaned in, and the world distilled to the space where their breaths mingled before their lips met. The kiss was not the tentative exploration of earlier encounters but a fiery embrace that spoke of unleashed yearnings. Joy’s mind spun with the intensity of it, her thoughts scattering, leaving behind only the blooming heat of desire.
As they parted, breathless, Moses began his tender yet determined undressing of her. His fingers worked with surprising delicacy on the ribbon gathering her bodice. Her gown yielded to his patient ministrations, slipping from her shoulders to pool at her feet in a whisper of fabric. Revealed now, the skin of her décolletage glowed with the flush of arousal, a rosy hue that no artful rouging could ever hope to mimic. She felt the cool air of the room kiss her bare arms, sending ripples of pleasure through her.
Moses’ lips left a scorching path from the hollow of Joy’s throat down to the gentle slope of her collarbone, each kiss a brand that seared through to her very soul. He bunched the cotton shift that stood as the last bastion of her modesty and lifted the garment upwards, coaxing it over her head in a slow undulation of fabric against skin. The shift joined the gown on the floor, and Joy felt a rush of exhilaration at the vulnerability of standing before him clad only in her delicate stockings.
Moses sank to his knees before her, his eyes never leaving hers. They were the turbulent sea, deep and fathomless, and she found herself adrift in their intensity. He reached for the soft leather of her boots, his fingers deftly unfastening them. As he peeled away the first boot, a thrill shot through Joy—the sensation of being slowly, deliciously unwrapped by this man whose hunger was evident in his gaze.
With her second boot removed, Joy felt the cool air of the room play upon her ankles, a stark contrast to the warmth of Moses’ breath as he traced a path downward with his kisses following his hands as he gently rolled down her stockings. Each revealed inch of skin was honored by his lips, pressing fervent oaths of admiration along the tender flesh of her thighs.
Joy’s breath hitched in her throat as need pooled inside her. As much as this slow undressing increased her desire, she longed to feel all of him pressed against all of her, rolling and kissing and touching and sighing.
Then Moses stood and began to divest himself of his clothing, agonizingly slowly as he’d done hers. His coat fell first, followed by the soft rustle of his cravat as it joined the growing pile.
Joy watched, her breath caught, as the white linen of his shirt parted from his body. The garment slid away, revealing a landscape of sinew and strength that beckoned her fingers to explore. The flickering light played over the contours of his muscles, casting shadows that danced upon his chest.
After kicking off his boots, he proceeded to unfasten his breeches with steady hands that belied the fervent desire in his gaze. As the last vestige of cloth fell away, so too did the final barrier between them, leaving him as vulnerable before her as she stood before him.
