How To Distract a Duchess

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Dear Reader,

People always ask me where I find the inspiration for my stories. Sometimes, I truly don’t know, but in this case, the idea behind
How to Distract a Duchess
is easy to explain. It all started with a ceramic horse one of my daughters made for an art class. It was a chubby, ungainly little thing and yet still occupies a place of honor on my mantel. Over time, the wheels of imagination began to churn and I conceived a plot where a similar statuette would figure prominently in a high-stakes game of espionage and mistaken identity.
 

This story was first published in 2008 as
Distracting the Duchess
. It has since been revised and updated and I’m delighted to offer it to you afresh now as a
Rock*It Reads
eBook! I hope you enjoy my artistic duchess and her Victorian ‘James Bond.’

As always, I’d love to hear from YOU! Please feel free to contact me through my website, or catch me on Facebook or Twitter!

Happy Reading,

Mia

http://www.miamarlowe.com

http://facebook.com/MiaMarloweFanPage

http://twitter.com/mia_marlowe

AN IMMODEST PROPOSAL

“When we are finished with the painting, I have another position in mind for you,” she said, surprised at the raggedness of her own voice. Artemisia opened her eyes and met his direct gaze.

“Really? What might that be? Something for Mr. Beddington perhaps?”

Bother his fixation with Beddington!

“No, this is something for me,” she said evenly.

“What do you need, Your Grace?”

She took a deep breath and jumped into the void. “I find I require a lover.”

“Beddington holds the key.”

—Last coherent message received from

Angus Dalrymple, Esq.

Covert agent for

Her Majesty’s interests

on the Indian sub-continent.

“I’m going to have to shorten his willy.”

The artist stepped back from her easel and regarded the offending member with a critical eye. Her name was Artemisia. “Sounds like amnesia,” her father had complained when her mother insisted upon the unusual moniker. Artemisia Dalrymple Pelham-Smythe, to be exact. Such a heavy load might have been a burden for some. But Artemisia was a duchess, so most people simply called her ‘Your Grace.’

“Of course, it’s absolutely true to life,” she said finally, closing one eye and holding her thumb upraised to do a rough comparative measurement. “The proportions are accurate to the model, but critics tend to find well-endowed males in art to be prurient. I can’t imagine why. A willy is just a willy, after all. What do you think, Cuthbert?”

“On the subject of
art
, Your Grace, one is of no opinion.” Cuthbert set down the silver tray and poured out a steaming cup of tea with extreme dignity. “But if one may be so bold as to suggest, perhaps Madam would do well to be more delicate in her speech.”

Artemisia took the offered cup and sipped the aromatic blend. It was almost as good as the tea she had grown up with in Bombay.

“I
was
being delicate, Cuthbert. That’s why I called it a willy instead of a pe—“

“Your daily reading, Your Grace,” Cuthbert interrupted smoothly, handing her a neatly folded newspaper.

Hiding her smile, Artemisia set down her tea cup. She knew she shouldn’t purposely try to irritate her butler, but his ears turned such a charming shade of purple when she did.

Artemisia ran her gaze over the headlines. “
The Tattler
?” She tried never to read the ubiquitous scandal sheets, and
The Tattler
was worst of the lot, laden with juicy
on dits
and sly innuendo. “You know I’ve no time for such drivel.”

“Indeed. Then perhaps Madam should refrain from giving the writers so much fodder. The article just below the fold could not escape one’s notice. Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

“No, I think that’s quite enough,” Artemisia said wryly.

The butler bowed and retreated with dignity. Almost as an afterthought, he stopped and turned back.

“A gentleman is waiting to see you, Madam.”

“Ah! That will be the model Mr. Phelps is sending round today. I’m ready to start sketches of Eros now that Neptune is finished. Nearly finished,” she amended, silently reminding herself that there was yet a willy to be shortened.

“It is highly unlikely that this man is one of your young gods.” Cuthbert shook his head solemnly. “He dresses like a proper English gentleman.”

“There are so many second-hand clothing shops in London a stable lad can fit himself out like a lord if he has the coin.”

Artemisia bit her lip. She realized she was sounding just like the writer in
The Tattler
who last week bemoaned the fact that class distinctions could no longer be made by dress—not with so many ladies’ maids larking about London as well turned out as their mistresses. It irked her that she should be mouthing the sentiments of a scandal sheet. Artemisia made a mental note not to read
The Tattler
again even if Cuthbert shoved it under her nose.

She consulted the ormolu mantle clock above her fireplace. Even in summer, she burned a fire for the comfort of her models. Goose bumps did not become an Olympian, after all. “Send the man in.”

Once Cuthbert closed the French doors to her studio, Artemisia released a pent-up sigh. Perhaps she should encourage him to retire, but the crusty gentleman’s gentleman probably wouldn’t hear of it. Cuthbert’s family had been with the estate for two generations. He had served Artemisia’s late husband, the Duke of Southwycke, as his father had served the duke’s father before him. Even though his master was dead and Cuthbert not-so-tacitly disapproved of his unconventional mistress, he lived to serve Southwycke. Anything else was unthinkable.

Artemisia donned a paint-daubed smock over her simple day dress and began assembling her materials. Today she’d do a few preliminary sketches and experiment with poses. Once she settled on a composition, she’d transfer her ideas to canvas with her brushes and pallet knife. As she arranged her tools, one of the soft sticks of chalk rolled from the table’s edge and she bent to retrieve it. She was so intent on her task, she didn’t even hear the door swing open behind her.

* * *

Trevelyn Deveridge had been warned the duchess had a well-earned reputation for the unexpected, but he certainly didn’t anticipate being greeted by the sight of her bottom first.

And a bottom as ripe as a plum,
he almost said aloud. She wore no crinoline, no contraption of horsehair and wires to enhance her form, just a simple shift covered by a short smock, nothing to obscure what was a decidedly shapely derriere.

Stick to business,
he ordered himself.
You’re here to find Beddington, not to see the sights.

Wiping off his salacious grin, Trevelyn cleared his throat.

“Oh!” She straightened and turned abruptly. Trevelyn’s first impression was that the duchess was much younger than he expected and far more comely. Several locks of her raven hair had escaped from the loose chignon, teasing her delicate neck, the curls off on jaunts of their own. She looked as if she’d just risen from a rousing tussle on a feather tick. He flexed his fingers, imagining threading the silky tendrils through them. As if she read his thoughts, a becoming flush kissed her cheeks. Then her delicately arched brows lowered in a frown.

“You’re late,” she accused.

“Your pardon, Your Grace, but—”

“Spare me your excuses. Surely Mr. Phelps explained that punctuality is essential to your position. I don’t want to lose the morning light.”

“Clearly, there’s been a misunderstanding, mum,” he began in his best imitation of a rough country burr while he made an old-fashioned courtly leg to her. He’d been trained to adopt an assumed identity when the situation called for one. Trevelyn had already decided this was a job for Thomas Doverspike, his less aristocratic alter-ego. “Allow me to introduce myself, an’ it please you. I’m—”

“No names, please,” she said crisply. “At least, not until the painting is well under way. I find calling you by the title of the work enables us to maintain professional distance.” The duchess beckoned him closer with a wave of her slim fingers. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come here so I can get a good look at you.”
 

Amused by her abrupt manner, Trevelyn swallowed his retort and strode forward. The first lesson drummed into him when he joined Her Majesty’s corps of intelligence officers was to listen more than he spoke. He might learn a wealth of information if he simply let his subject talk. The duchess had obviously mistaken him for someone seeking employment. Once she realized her error, she’d be embarrassed enough to tell him anything.

Even where to find the elusive Mr. Beddington.

She eyed him carefully, walking a slow half-circle around him. Finally she stopped and pinned him with a direct gaze. Her eyes were a deep, moss green and a faint streak of blue chalk was smudged near her temple. The scent of violets, mingled with oil paint, wafted about her. He inhaled her sweet fragrance, surprised to find his soft palate aching for him to plant a kiss on the chalk smudge.

She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid you won’t do at all.”

Trev blinked in surprise. Women usually found him most agreeable. “An’ it not be too forward to ask, how do I disappoint you, Your Grace?”