How To Distract a Duchess (6 page)

At first Trev thought he’d overplayed his hand and scared her shy of him. Still, he thought he sensed a moment when her body melted into his before she shoved him away. He really shouldn’t have held her so closely, but damnation, she felt good in his arms.

He feared he’d been sacked as well as rebuffed, but clearly the duchess meant for him to follow. Else she wouldn’t continue to glance back at him.

“Come along, Mr. Doverspike, don’t dawdle.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he drawled. “The sun waits for no one.”

“Precisely.” She sailed through the halls to her sun-lit studio, claiming the space by right and sweeping all lesser mortals out of her way.

Without further instruction, Trev slipped into the changing room, peeled out of his clothes and donned the comfortable robe. He took several deep breaths before he rejoined Her Grace, willing his lust into quiescence.

The duchess may have once been a married woman, and from the number of covered canvases in her studio, he was sure she’d painted a veritable pantheon of naked men. Yet the way her green eyes flared with alarm when he held her close was more reminiscent of a virgin.

She was seated with her drawing accoutrements at the ready when he emerged in his robe. Light from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her bathed her in luminescence, gilding her dark hair with the luster of polished jet. Fashion favored blond curls, but they seemed insipid to Trevelyn compared to Lady Southwycke’s dusky beauty. Her head was bent over her sketchbook, completely absorbed in her work. She was so lovely, his member rose of its own volition despite his determination against just such a reaction.

Then she looked up, the disdain on her pouty lips reminding him how little she thought of him and his erection shriveled.

That’s for the best,
he thought as he went to collect his helmet and gladius.

“No, no props today.” She stood to adjust her easel. “I only want to capture your basic lines without any distractions.”

No distractions?
The woman herself was a walking distraction. He’d bet any amount of guineas she didn’t know how the light behind her diffused through her thin morning gown, rendering it nearly transparent. He could see the outline of her shapely legs quite clearly. For one who prided herself on keen observation, she didn’t look to herself very often.

Or maybe she did. Maybe she was completely aware of the allure of the unobtainable and used that knowledge against her models with sadistic ruthlessness. Was she certain none of the base-born fellows she employed would dare raise so much as their eyes toward her, even though their rampant cocks showed no such reticence?

“Mr. Doverspike, whenever you’re ready, we can begin,” she said evenly. “I seem to recall your claim that you were not shy, so if you please . . .”

She let the command dangle unspoken in the air. Trev began to mentally count backward from one hundred in an effort to maintain control over his body. He drew off the robe and let it fall to the floor.

Her green gaze slid over him, critical and unflinching. He forced himself to breath normally, counting backward from one hundred to master his responses.
 
99, 98 . . .

Did she feel anything at all when she looked at him? Even the slightest flicker of desire? Or was he just a sentient bowl of fruit as far as she was concerned, an interesting problem for her to resolve in lights and darks?

“If you find the studio too chilly, I can ring for Cuthbert to stir up the fire,” she offered.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.” The idea of another person, even a servant, witnessing his struggle to master himself was too distressing to contemplate. He welcomed the slight chill in the room at this point.

89, 88, 87, . . .
Her gaze dipped to his groin, and he ground his teeth.
83, 82, . . .

Her brows drew together in a frown as she bent to her work. The scooped neckline of her morning dress fell forward, giving him a clear view of the hollow between her breasts. He flexed his fingers, trying to banish the thought of plunging them into her bodice to explore the luscious peaks and tender valley.

76, 75, . . .
Despite his best efforts, his body roused to her.

“I’m most pleased to see that you’ve become accustomed to my presence,” she said without looking up from her renderings. Then she turned her penetrating gaze on him. “Oh!” The hint of a satisfied smile twitched her lips as she flicked his erection with a fleeting glance before returning her attention to her sketchpad. “Well, give it a bit more time and this will all seem quite normal to you.”

“Care to wager on that?” he murmured between clenched teeth.

She appeared not to have heard him for she continued scratching her chalk over the paper with deft, sure strokes.

“For someone who hasn’t much to say now, you certainly were quite talkative in the garden.” Her eyes flashed back at him, this time with repressed irritation. “Since my father fell ill, we’ve tried to speak to him in sensible ways, even when he made little sense in return. Perhaps you thought you were being kind by indulging in fanciful word play with someone whose mind wouldn’t know the difference—“

So she’d overheard the exchange of code between him and Angus Dalrymple. Whatever else may have slipped her father’s mind, he still responded to the set phrases of the Corps properly. Trev didn’t want to endanger her by revealing the true nature of his conversation with her father, so it was best to let her imagine what she would of him.

Even if it was the worst.

“Let me advise you, Mr. Doverspike, I don’t appreciate you making sport of the afflicted.”

“That was never my intention, I assure you,” he said.

“Then what is your intention?” she demanded, her cheeks dashed with crimson. “Asking unnecessary questions, accosting an old man in his garden—just what is your game? Are you gathering a few more tidbits for those gossipmongers you write for? If you make my father a laughingstock, I promise I’ll instruct my solicitor to sue you and your miserable employers for every pot of ink they possess.”
 

“What?”

“You may drop the pretense, Mr. Doverspike. I know Mr. Phelps did not send you to me. The real model came later yesterday, too far gone with drink to be of any use.” She narrowed her eyes at him, daring him to deny his subterfuge. “All those questions about my father and our trustee. You aren’t employed by any counting house. You write for
The Tattler
, don’t you?”

Trevelyn smirked in surprise. He’d been on the receiving end of
The Tattler’s
sharp lash more than once. He had no more use for that yellow rag than she obviously did.

“I promise you faithfully that I do not write for
The Tattler
or any of its competitors. I abhor them.”

“Careful, Mr. Doverspike,” she said in a voice laced with strychnine. “Your Wiltshire accent is slipping. Now, who are you and why are you here?”

Funny how being stark naked made it harder to hide behind an assumed persona. Trev’s mind churned furiously for a plausible ruse.

“I . . . oh, hang it all, you may as well know that I am responsible for your real model’s morning debauch. I chanced to meet him over a pint, and he told me about this job. All he had to do was stand around in the altogether, he said.” Trevelyn shrugged. “It sounded a much easier way to turn a coin than my usual employment so I helped him into a rum pot and took his place.”

“And your accent?”

“I thought you probably used country bumpkins for this post, so it made sense to sound like one.” He cocked his head at her. “But truth to tell, this job is not so easy as it looks.”

The sincerity in his tone seemed to soften her anger.

“No, I suppose it isn’t,” she conceded. “But why were you talking with my father?”

“Does one need a reason to strike up a conversation with a pleasant old man?” A dollop of flattery never hurt, and Trev knew he could be charming when the occasion called for it. “Truly, I didn’t see the harm in humoring him with a bit of nonsense. It will not happen again.”

She sniffed, apparently mollified by his answers. “Indeed, it will not. I encourage my models to speak their minds with me, but I would appreciate it if you did not seek out my father again. From now on, kindly present yourself to Cuthbert instead of skulking around in the garden. There are those who would consider your actions this morning on the order of trespass.” She sent him a frosty glare. “That is how I will consider them if they are repeated.”

“Yesterday you chided me for being late. Today, I was early and you’re still unhappy.” Trev decided a good offense would stand him in better stead than a good defense and Her Grace had just encouraged him to speak his mind. “Is there anyone who can please you?”

It occurred to him that he had yet to see a smile of real pleasure on her lips. He’d like to be the man to coax one there.

But for now, he had to remember his place. He was Thomas Doverspike, a common fellow who’d worked his way into her presence through guile. And she was a duchess, after all. As Trevelyn Deveridge, he might seek to charm her, but Thomas Doverspike needed a job. And he’d just been insolent to his employer.

“I ask your pardon, Your Grace. I misspoke.” He ducked his head deferentially. She regarded him for a few moments, her brows knitted together as if she were trying to weigh him for veracity.

“No, you didn’t. You said exactly what you thought,” she finally said. “No one has done that to me in a long time.”

“I’m sorry if I offend.”

“No, you’re not,” she said with a tight grin. “And I’m not sorry either. In fact, it’s rather refreshing to hear the truth from someone. I am hard to please. But it’s only because I care so deeply about my work and am rarely satisfied with it. I suppose that perfectionism spills over into other things.”

“I’m sure your paintings are quite wonderful.”

“But you wouldn’t know because you’ve never seen them.”

He shook his head.

“No one has. I am doing the entire Greek pantheon and until I finish with the major gods, I won’t have a showing. It’s rather like a symphony. No one would be satisfied with just the first movement. Each painting will be part of a larger whole.”

“Then you intend to sell them all together?”

“Sell them? Why would I do that?” she said with a frown.

“The usual reason is to make money.”

She shrugged. “Fortunately, I have no such needs.”

“Then how will you ever know if your paintings are any good? I mean, unless someone is willing to plunk down a bag of guineas for them, how do you measure their worth?”

“Art is measured by how it affects those who view it,” she said.

 
“And how does painting the gods affect you?” His voice was huskier than he’d intended.

 
She drew a few lines on her sketch pad as she pondered. The duchess didn’t seem to sense his underlying question. He drew a relieved breath.

“The gods were men idealized,” she finally said. “Don’t we all seek perfection?”

“So what you’re telling me, Your Grace, is that you’re looking for the perfect man.”

“Looking for a perfect man?” Her cheeks bloomed with fresh color. “Certainly not. Besides, perfection is only an ideal. It does not exist in men. I can only strive in the creation of it.”

“And thus trump even the Almighty.” He raised a brow at her. She looked back to her sketchpad, but as Trev watched, her knuckles whitened around her chalk. Clearly, he’d struck too close to the mark. Then slowly, her mouth curved into an enigmatic smile.

“Sit down, Mr. Doverspike,” she ordered with calm.

“On what, Your Grace?”

“On your posterior, of course. Mars did not have overstuffed armchairs, you know.”

He did as he was bid, feeling even more ridiculous seated on the cold floor than he did standing. If he sat with his knees raised, his ballocks would dangle between his legs on the polished oak. If he sat with his legs straight before him, he’d feel unnaturally stiff, like a wooden marionette whose strings had been cut. He crossed his legs, Hindu-fashion, but felt too exposed by half.

The duchess sighed. “Let me help you,” she said. “I experimented with a pose last night in my sketching. Place your weight on one hip, legs to the side.”

She left her sketchpad and came to stand over him. It was a maneuver clearly designed to make him feel small.

He stared up at her without a blink, determined not to let her best him. “How do you want my arms?”

“Lean on one palm,” she suggested. “No, a little further. Here, like this, Mr. Doverspike.” The duchess knelt and positioned his hand away from his body so his torso was stretched into a reclining pose.

“You know, I’ve never been naked with a woman who didn’t call me by my Christian name,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I don’t suppose you could call me Thomas?”