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Oh yes, Ophelia had seen him. The sight of him was stitched into her eyelids for all eternity. She would go to sleep tonight and see the Duke of Prestwick’s naked back and the cleft at the top of his bottom, and the flexing shoulders and his dark, tousled hair that was too long for fashion. His sharp jaw shadowed with whiskers, his sensual lips.

Stop this madness at once, Ophelia, she cautioned herself inwardly.

“I have, yes,” she murmured, her cheeks as scorching as hot coals. “How did you persuade him to sit for the ladies?”

Theodora laughed. “It was shamefully easy,” she said in an aside. “All I needed to do was mention to the gentlemen that the ladies were engaging in nude portrait painting this afternoon, and I had at least a dozen different volunteers. Naturally, I chose the most handsome one.”

“Yes,” she said weakly. “He is rather lovely to look upon, isn’t he?”

Theodora linked her arm through Ophelia’s and began pulling her through the throng. “Come with me. I’ve saved you a spot in the front.”

In the front?

Ophelia’s knees threatened to give out.

She couldn’t possibly stand before a naked Prestwick for hours and paint him. She would combust.

Or swoon.

Or both!

“I don’t know if I will participate,” she protested. “I’m a dreadful hand at watercolors.”

“Nonsense!” Theodora tossed this dismissal over her shoulder as she plowed through the other ladies. “It won’t even matter how it turns out. The fun is in the painting, darling. And the studying.”

That was what she feared.

She was nearly breathless when Theodora reached the empty easels that had indeed been positioned at the forefront of the gathering. Precisely two feet from where Prestwick sat, naked and manly. And naked.

She couldn’t bear to look at him. But she couldn’t not look at him either. From beneath her lashes, she risked a glance in his direction to find that he had at least possessed the modesty to place a hat over his groin. And thank the heavens above. If she’d been made to face his bare manhood, she might have died. The thought seemed an imminently reasonable one as she jerked her stare back to Theodora.

Her newfound friend was dressed in a scandalous red silk evening gown that wasn’t at all suitable for painting. The cut of her decolletage was, however, no doubt quite productive for attracting admirers. It was low and indecent. And whilst Theodora’s bold lack of concern for propriety had been what had initially amused Ophelia, she now found herself wishing for a second counterpane with which she might also cover her friend’s nearly bare breasts. Prestwick would likely be unable to look anywhere else.

Ophelia became vaguely aware that her friend was speaking to her, but she was so caught up in Prestwick’s nearness—and nudity—that she hadn’t been paying one whit of attention. She had no notion of what the other woman had said.

She cast a helpless glance at Theodora, who seemed to comprehend that she hadn’t heard.

“Shall I make the announcement that we are to commence, or will you, my dear?” Theodora asked again, her voice gentle.

And she suspected she knew the reason. Her cheeks were likely the same shade as Theodora’s silken half mask.

“Perhaps you should do it,” she muttered. “Since this was your idea.”

Although she tried to keep the bitterness from her tone, she worried it laced the last sentence when Theodora’s smile fell.

“You aren’t happy with the entertainment?”

Ophelia stretched her lips into a smile that was so tight, she fretted it may break. “On the contrary. I couldn’t be more pleased, my friend. Thank you.”

Ophelia’s offering apparently appeased Theodora, for in the next moment, she drew the library to a hush and explained that they were all to commence with their portraits of the lovely, mysterious houseguest who was kind enough to sit for them.

“You have two hours to complete your work,” Theodora added. “And the winner of the best portrait shall receive a secret prize.”

Sweet God, now it was a competition? Ophelia truly was going to swoon. And what was the secret prize? This was scandalous. It was outrageous. It was… It was…

Her mind seemed to fracture and forget all words. She had never taken note of how very attractive a man’s hip could be before now. Indeed, she didn’t even know whether she’d ever seen Corbett’s. Prestwick’s hip, however, was positively mesmerizing. It was lightly dusted in dark hair, firm and strong, leading to the delineation of his thigh muscle. Little wonder he had no qualms about presenting himself for the delectation of each person in the room. Every part of him was sheer perfection, as if he had been chiseled in marble by the hand of a Renaissance master.

She swayed, perspiration rolling down the back of her neck to her spine. Her hands were clammy. Dear heavens, how could this be real? How was she meant to endure this torture?