How To Distract a Duchess (31 page)

She climbed off him, tucked the covers across his chest and smoothed his hair from his forehead.

“Why, thank you, Mummy,” he said.

“Cheeky devil.” She gave him a playful swat on the shoulder. Then she crossed to the dressing table and picked up the fussily decorated bandbox. She opened the box and pulled out the small intricate mechanism. “England’s luck is still intact. You didn’t really think I’d let Cuthbert throw something as important as Beddington’s key into the Thames, do you?”

Trev sat bolt upright. “You’re joking.”

“Not a bit,” she admitted. “You told me to make certain it didn’t fall into unfriendly hands. The only way I could think of to do that was to make a decoy, as you had suggested. If it came to choosing between you and the real key, well, I knew I couldn’t put the Crown’s interest before my own.” With a growing heaviness in her chest, she handed the cylinder to him. “So there it is.”

Tears pricked at her eyes and she turned away lest he see. “And there you go,” she whispered.

“No.” He caught her hand in his. “There we go.”

She looked back at him.

“I know this isn’t the way such things are normally done, Larla,” he said. “I should speak to your father, then arrange to be on bended knee in your wild garden with a ring in my hand, but the truth is, I don’t think I can wait.” He rose from the bed and stood before her, as heedless of his nakedness as Adam before the Fall. “I have no title or lands to offer you, Larla. There’s only myself, and if I’m to play the Great Game in Hind, there may be little enough of that. But I do love you as I never thought to love anybody. And I hope that you love me.” He brought her palm to his lips and planted a soft kiss in the center. “Be my wife and come with me.”

Joy leapt inside her. She’d never wanted to be a bride the first time. But now she was offered the chance at life with a man she loved beyond all expectation.
 

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely. “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you.”

Trev kissed her deeply. Then he scooped her up and twirled her around, her long skirt draping around them like a banner wrapped around a flagpole. She laughed for pure joy, too caught up in the moment to care if anyone heard her through the closed door.

“There’s just one thing,” she said, slightly dizzy from the twirling. “Well, two actually.”

“Name them, my heart.”

“Mr. Shipwash has learned a great deal, but he still needs some guidance. You won’t mind if I continue to be Mr. Beddington from time to time, will you?”

“You don’t intend to grow a beard and mutton-chop sideburns, do you?”

“Of course not,” she said.

“Then I’ll be pleased to have Mr. Beddington in my bed as long as you wish to play him.”

She stroked his jaw line, dark with the stubble of his heavy beard. “I’ll send Cuthbert in to shave you. Of the two of us, you’re the only one in danger of sprouting mutton chops at the moment.”

“Point taken,” he grinned. “What else do I need to agree to if I’m to become the luckiest man in the British Empire?”

“It’s so silly of me to worry about this. You’ll laugh when you hear.” Her heart fluttered in her chest like a caged bird. “You won’t have any objection if I continue painting?”

“I think you’re a splendid artist, Larla. Of course, you must keep painting.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” She hugged his neck again. “I was afraid you might not understand how important it is to finish my work.”

“I’ve enjoyed posing for you so far. I can manage for a while longer, I suppose.”

“Good. You have such a natural bent for this sort of thing. After we’re finished with Mars, perhaps you could help me find the right model for Eros.”

His smile flattened. “You mean you intend to keep on painting
other
naked men?”

“Not naked. Nude. There’s a difference.”

“Damned if I can see it.” He set her back on her feet and crossed his arms over his chest. His scowl would have frightened most men, but it only served to stiffen Artemisia’s spine.

“Trevelyn, all major artists have used the human figure as subject matter for their greatest pieces. Our own Queen is having a bacchanalia painted on the walls of her boudoir. You can bet Pan and his nymphs will be scantily clad. Good Heavens, even the Vatican is filled with nudes,” she said heatedly. “There’s no cause for you to use rough language.”

“Let me understand you. After we’re married, you still intend to spend hours and hours with strange men. Naked strange men and you don’t think it cause for rough language. By God, madam, rough language is the least of your worries. You’ll be lucky if I don’t take you over my knee and—”

She took a step backward. “You would not.”

“Try me.” Mayhem glinted in his dark eyes. “No man in his right mind would allow his wife to do such a thing.”

Artemisia lifted her chin. “Then it is my great good fortune to be no man’s wife.” She turned and strode to the door, head high, heart drooping to her ankles. “I will send Cuthbert to you directly. Then if you are feeling quite recovered, I ask you to leave this house.”

Her voice caught in her throat and she couldn’t bear to look at him. Her resolve might crumble if she did.

“Larla, wait—“

“Good-bye, Trevelyn,” she whispered before she slipped out of the room. The latch caught behind her with a soft click. The door that closed in her heart nearly deafened her with its resounding thud.

How could he profess to love her and yet understand so little about her? She needed to paint, needed to create as other women needed children. The pull of her art left a yawning ache if she was forced to abandon it for even a few days.

As she fled down the long corridor to the top of the stairs, she realized an even larger gap had formed in her chest. Her heart was missing the piece that Trevelyn still had in his keeping.

It would never be whole again.

Trevelyn stormed down the cobbled street, his long-legged strides eating up London’s uneven and twisting blocks. His head still pounded, but he refused to hail a hansom to take him back to the Golden Cockerel. He needed to move. Needed to hit something.

Preferably his head against a brick wall.

The angry words had spilled out his mouth before he thought better of them. His jealous rage had cost him the most infuriating, most disturbing, most wonderful woman he’d ever known. She was the only one he’d ever considered spending his life with.

Now she wanted nothing to do with him.

If only he’d exercised restraint, remembered his training and taken a conciliatory tone, she might have been brought to a more reasonable frame of mind with time. He could be persuasive when the occasion called for it. He’d been recruited for his ability to charm and disarm, hadn’t he? Artemisia was an intelligent woman. Surely she’d understand his position. How would she like it if he spent his time in the company of naked women?

Nude
, he heard her voice correcting in his mind.

Was there really a difference? Could she somehow disconnect that part of her nature and view a male body as merely a collection of lines and angles? God knew the sight of her stirred him to aching lust even when she was fully clothed. Could it be that different for women?

Even if it wasn’t, he realized now it didn’t matter. None of it mattered except for the part when she said good-bye.

He had only himself to blame. Good God, he’d threatened to paddle her. He could still picture it—Artemisia draped across his knees, her skirt hiked around her waist, her luscious heart-shaped bottom rosy and warm, and his palm stinging. He was ashamed to admit that thought stirred his blood. What was wrong with him?

A great deal, evidently.

Now his thoughts chased each other furiously around his brain, trying to see a way past this obstacle of his own making. He was so intent; he didn’t even notice the gilded open carriage with the Warre crest emblazoned on the door. It slowed to match his pace.

“Trevelyn, a word with you.”

The earl opened the door and beckoned Trev to join him with an imperious gesture. The top was down, all the better for the occupants to see and be seen. Apparently, his father felt the need to humiliate him publicly.

His misery was complete. Not only had the woman he loved rejected him—with reason, he added crossly. Now his father was here to torment him further.

No less than I deserve
, he decided ruefully.

He climbed into the carriage and settled opposite the earl.

“Sir,” Trev said tersely.

“Well, what have you to say for yourself?”

“About what?” Trev silently added
this time.
Whenever his father had administered a dressing down, he started with the same preamble. Occasionally, Trev had no idea how he’d offended the earl. More often, he wasn’t sure which of his indiscretions his father referred to, so the safest course was feigned ignorance about all of them.

“About maintaining a double life. About engaging in dangerous activities without my knowledge,” the earl said as he handed him a copy of
The Tattler
. “About securing the Crown’s interests at great personal risk.”

“Sir, my involvement in this matter has been exaggerated beyond recognition.”

“Horse feathers,” his father said with uncharacteristic inelegance. “As a member of the House of Lords, I have access to information that exceeds that of the yellow press. Yet, only this morning was I made aware that my son is not the layabout I took him for.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Don’t be insolent. It doesn’t become a Deveridge.”

“No insolence. Very well,” Trev said woodenly. He was far past any pain his father might be able to inflict upon him. “I shall add that to the long list of behaviors unbecoming to a Deveridge.”

“I was informed you were injured—a blow to the head, I believe, in addition that shiner.”

“I’ll mend.”

“I’m gratified to hear it,” the earl said stiffly. Then he turned his gaze to the members of the
ton
strutting along St. James Park, the better to be seen by their peers.

The Warre carriage bounced through the fashionable district, and the earl took time to nod at those he deemed worthy of his notice. As they neared Westminster Bridge, his father turned his attention back to him.

“Trevelyn, in the past you’ve given me ample cause for grief, Lord knows,” the earl said, his lips tight with suppressed emotion. “But in this instance, I must say I can feel only . . . hearty approval for your actions and . . .” he paused to tear the words from his throat, “genuine pride for your heroics.”

There it was. Finally. All his life, Trev had longed for some hint of approbation from the earl, the slightest crumb of affection from this most emotionally constipated of men. And now that the moment was here, it lay in his belly like a lump of underdone mutton.

“Thank you,” Trev said, more to break the silence that stretched between them than from any sense of gratitude. All he could feel at present was self-loathing.

He’d lost the love of his life. And nothing else would fill the void.

“Of course, the world isn’t privy to your identity as the unnamed hero in this article, but I will see that those who have need to know—men of power, you understand—” the earl laid a sly finger alongside his nose “—will be made aware of the full facts of the matter.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Nonsense, son,” the earl said. “False modesty is also not—”

“Becoming to a Deveridge,” Trev finished for him. The blood pounding at the base of his skull made him light-headed. But the weight of Beddington’s key in his waistcoat pocket anchored him firmly to earth. He placed a protective hand over it now.

“I haven’t the least bit of modesty, sir, false or otherwise.” Trev had certainly proved that when he made the irretrievable error of posing as Artemisia’s model. “But if I am to continue my work, anonymity is essential.”

“Perhaps you’re called to work of a more public nature.”

“I think not.”

“Sometimes we cannot make those choices for ourselves. Some things are thrust upon us.” The earl adjusted the monocle in his left eye and skewered Trev with an assessing stare. “Your birth, for example, compels certain things from you.”

Trev had never envied his brother the title. He knew as soon as he could toddle that one day, he’d have to make his own way in the world. Theobald would stand in their father’s shadow, waiting to step into the earl’s shoes once he vacated them. Theobald was still waiting, but it was time for Trevelyn to move on.

“Which is why I shall shortly be departing for India to continue my work in Her Majesty’s intelligence corps,” Trevelyn said. “There will be little opportunity to send personal correspondence.” Particularly since he’d almost certainly be living under one of his aliases. “However, in the event of my death, I’m sure you would be advised.”

The earl cleared his throat loudly. “That is out of the question. We cannot chance your untimely demise.”