Lady Wild by Máire Claremont

are a delicate, beautiful angel.”
    Ophelia’s cheeks flared scarlet.
    “You are all mine ,” added Rossetti, as if it was the clearest conclusion in all the world.
    “No, she is not,” Andrew gritted, and he slammed his jaw shut before he added a resounding, She is mine. He’d known Rossetti long enough to know the other man would simply view it as a challenge. “And take your bloody paws off her.”
    Rossetti gave him an odd look, dropped her hands and raised his palms in mock supplication. “Forgive me, old man.” Then the blackguard returned to his perusal of Ophelia. “Please, promise you shall sit for me.”
    Ophelia cocked her head. Quite by chance, an errant lock of her fiery hair fell over her brow, a tendril of fire that dared one to reach out and touch it. “What is your recompense?”
    Gabriel, eyes widening with delight as he studied that newly escaped lock, echoed, “Recompense?”
    “Yes.” She nodded emphatically, her admiration tapering to reason. “I am here to work as a model, and shall not do so gratis.”
    “Everyone needs money these days,” sighed Hunt, turning away.
    “Back to the whores.” Gabriel scowled. “They’re sure to be cheaper.”
    Ophelia shifted on her small feet, eyeing the men carefully.
    Andrew curled his fingers into twin fists, desirous to drag her back to his home, ravage her, and ensure she could be good for no one but himself. In fact, he would ravage her so well and so often, she’d have no desire to leave his bed, let alone his room.
    Miraculously, he thrust aside the urge, but only because he knew how she longed to be immersed in London’s art set. “She commands five schillings an hour, and I will be present to ensure her honor.”
    Rossetti narrowed his eyes. “You? Honor?”
    Ophelia’s cheeks, already slightly ruddy against her porcelain skin, bloomed crimson.
    Was she thinking of last night? When he’d pushed her far too far? When he’d nearly thrown his last scrap of honor down along with Ophelia upon his incredibly expensive rug? “When it comes to this young lady, yes.”
    “Is she your mistress?” Rossetti asked.
    Ophelia gasped.
    “No,” Andrew bit out, though his cock stirred at the thought that had crossed his own mind all too often. He could take her to mistress, securing her future once she was friendless in this world. If she would allow him.
    Rossetti’s brow furrowed, his mind no doubt slowed by gin. “Your betrothed?”
    “The idea is preposterous,” Ophelia finally said.
    Rossetti shrugged. “Just trying to make sense of Stark’s protectiveness.”
    Andrew wasn’t entirely understanding of it himself. All he knew was that the idea of anyone, anyone at all, taking advantage of Ophelia was enough to make him wish to rip off balls and break faces. It mattered not that he had ruminated over ruining her.
    No one else was going to touch her. Not if they wished to keep their hands. “I am protective of her for my own reasons. And if you wish me to purchase another painting, you shall obey my strictures regarding Lady Ophelia.”
    Rossetti blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
    “Which part did you not understand?”
    “Ophelia?” Rossetti tested.
    “It is my name,” she replied, a grin tilting her lips.
    Her grin spurred one in Rossetti. He let out a dark laugh worthy of Mephistopheles. “Ophelia, truly?”
    “Yes.”
    “ Lady Ophelia,” interjected Andrew, sending up a silent prayer that her nobility might temper Gabriel’s profane manner. He doubted it would work, but he found himself protesting to the heavens, in any case.
    “The gods are laughing at the irony of it all,” Rossetti said. “Yes. You shall be all mine. And that ponce Johnny Millais can keep painting bucolic claptrap now.” Gabriel smiled a devilish grin. “That’s why you love his painting Ophelia . Because it’s named for you? Clearly, you realize I am the superior artist. That hack—”
    “Your work is admirable, Mr. Rossetti,” she said