His kisses had always been so polite, so respectful, so gentlemanly. On their wedding night, he’d even whispered, “I’m sorry,” in her ear before he worked his way into her. She’d always thought he was apologizing for the pain he knew their initial coupling would cause her. But now she was left to wonder if he’d harbored guilt because he’d known their passion would always be cool and reserved, their coming together a perfunctory thing, a duty, a task.

He’d commented often on her beauty. He’d never made her feel as though he didn’t like her, wasn’t fond of her. But neither had he ever gazed upon her with the hunger Aiden Trewlove had tonight.

Closing her eyes, she drifted off into slumber and did exactly as the club owner had predicted: she welcomed him into her dreams.

Within the attic of his club, surrounded by numerous lamps because the solitary window provided insufficient light in the wee hours before dawn, amidst the chaos of clutter that soothed his soul, Aiden studied the face he’d sketched onto the canvas. It wasn’t much of a face, really. Her jaw, her chin, and that luscious, luscious mouth that haunted him still. The flavor of it, the desperation of it, the way she’d explored his with equal abandon, as though it were all new, a mystery to be solved. Not his particular mouth but kissing in general. Surely her husband had not denied her that pleasure.

He’d lightly etched in her eyes, but the shape was wrong. He needed to see them without the mask because, unlike his other renderings, he yearned for this one to be a perfect reflection of her.

He always sketched out what he saw before painting the image in oils. Few knew he had this talent because he never signed his artwork, but always hidden away faintly, obscured by brighter colors, was the word Ettie. In honor of Ettie Trewlove, the woman who had taken him from his father’s arms and given him reason to believe he had value.

He was passionate about creating items of beauty, scandalous though they might be as he seldom covered his subjects in clothing, preferring instead the flow of lines that comprised the naked human form. But even those were often shadowed, faded, or blurred leaving much to the viewer’s imagination. He created illusions and allowed others to determine the reality. A woman waiting for her lover. A man haunted by unrequited love. Couples kissing, embracing, fornicating. One saw what one needed to see, what one felt inside. That was his talent, not so much the stroke of a brush, but bringing secrets out of the shadows, desire out of the darkness, allowing them to exist and flourish in the light.