When the Duchess Said Yes (25 page)

“My own Lizzie will do, I think.” He rose and took her into his arms, damp and swaddled as she was, and kissed her until she pushed him away, laughing.

“Let me dress, if you please,” she said as Margaret patiently began combing her wet hair. “Tell me of your pictures instead.”

He pretended to be wounded, holding his arms out forlornly at his sides as if to show how empty they were without her to hold. “You must wait until we’re standing before them.”

“Very well, then,” she said, disappearing headfirst into the fresh shift that Margaret held for her. “Tell me the story behind that scar on your chest.”

“That?” He glanced down at his bare chest, as if seeing it for the first time. It was a most exemplary male chest, broad and lean and muscled in all the right places, and looking particularly handsome framed by his open banyan.

But last night Lizzie had also noticed the dramatic old scar that slashed across it, barely visible beneath the
curling dark hair, though she’d been too occupied at the time to ask its history.

“That scar,” he said at last, “is ancient and dishonorable, received in a duel with an outraged husband. It was in every way my own fault, and I learned my lesson.”

“Goodness,” Lizzie said, not expecting quite so lurid an explanation. “So that is how you learned to keep away from married ladies?”

“Oh, no,” he said, nonchalant. “I learned to be a better swordsman.”

She gasped with bewilderment and a bit of wounded indignation, too. Did all noble husbands speak as freely as that to their wives? She wasn’t nearly as worldly as Hawke, and she’d no notion of how she should respond to such a comment. That is, until she noticed how hard he was trying to keep from laughing. She shoved her arms into the flowered chintz dressing gown that Margaret was offering, drawing the ribbons tight around her waist. Then she reached into the tub and scooped up a handful of water, flicking it at him.

“Not so harsh, madam, not so severe!” he said, laughing as he backed out of range. “Truly, if I swore away from married ladies, I’d have to keep away from my own darling wife.”

Her eyes narrowed, she took her time slipping her bare feet into blue heeled mules before she finally let him kiss her again, all of which was much more agreeable than making wedding calls to ancient friends of Aunt Sophronia.

She was thankful she had Hawke to lead her through the house, for she was sure she’d lose her way on her own. The servants wouldn’t have been much help, either, for every maid and footman she saw in the distance vanished almost as swiftly as a mirage, doubtless at Hawke’s orders. Clearly he wished to show her his home
himself, leading her through it like a magical maze. Unlike most grand houses that she’d visited, the Chase wasn’t regular and predictable, but rambling this way and that, with mysterious additions that resulted in halls that ended abruptly and doors with nothing behind them.

To Lizzie’s surprise, Hawke displayed these deficiencies with the same fondness as he showed her the house’s most admirable qualities: the checkerboard marble floor in the towering Great Hall, the terra-cotta cherubs around the fireplace in the drawing room and the collection of antelope horns on the library wall, the elaborate tracery of the plasterwork ceilings, and the transom-and-mullion windows that divided the light into scores of diamond-shaped patches. Hawkesworths had lived in the house for over two hundred years, and each generation had added their own little touches of style and taste.

Unlike the austere classical perfection of the much newer Marchbourne House, the Chase had an undeniable personality all its own, and in an odd way it reminded Lizzie of Hawke himself: exotic, charming, and not what was expected.

Now he stopped before a small bronze satyr, complete with goatish hindquarters and stubby little horns, that stood on a pedestal in a shell-shaped alcove all his own.

“My grandfather bought this rascal in Rome,” he said, resting his hand on the statue’s curly head. “When I was a boy, it was absolutely my favorite thing in the entire house. Somehow or another, I convinced myself that rubbing his pointed ears would bring me good luck, particularly at school. Look, you can see for yourself how shiny the ears still are.”

She did look, and couldn’t resist rubbing the ears herself, which made them both laugh.

“You love this house, don’t you?” she said, intrigued.
“I can tell by the way you’ve tried to show me nearly every single thing in it.”

He frowned, turning unexpectedly wary. “I did not intend to bore you, Lizzie.”

“You didn’t, not at all!” she exclaimed. “I love you, and I love this house, just as it is, because I love you, too.”

His wariness remained. “You’re in a lovesome humor this day, aren’t you?”

“I am,” she said with conviction. “I rather thought you were, too.”

He smiled, albeit reluctantly. “I am, because of you.”

“And a good thing, too,” she said, rubbing the satyr’s ears again. “I pray that one day you’ll be teaching our firstborn this trick, and in time the second- and third-born, too, so that this rascal’s ears will be burnished like pure gold.”

Finally he laughed and slipped his arm around her waist to lead her further through the house. Yet he said nothing about those children that she hoped were in their shared future, which made her uneasy. Considering that children were the main reason their marriage had been arranged, she thought he’d have wished to imagine them along with her.

But perhaps it wasn’t so much the notion of their specific children as children in general that unsettled Hawke. Many gentlemen were like that, wanting nothing to do with their own young offspring until they were of an age to make bows and curtseys and polite conversation. Likely that was all. Resolving not to borrow trouble, Lizzie slipped her arm inside his banyan, taking pleasure in the lean, sleek muscles of his back as they walked together. What could be better than to be with him like this, speaking of personal matters in such familiar, beguiling undress?

“Here we are at last, sweeting.” Hawke didn’t wait
for a footman, but pushed one side of the double doors open for her himself. “My ballroom picture gallery.”

Once again Lizzie was surprised. The ballroom itself was what she expected, ballrooms being much the same in all London town houses: a large, cavernous room with chandeliers, a flat, patterned carpet covering the entire floor, and large cast-iron stoves at either end for warmth in winter. She’d also expected to see the walls covered with pictures clear to the ceiling, the way they were in other London galleries that she’d visited.

But instead the framed pictures, large and small, sat unceremoniously on the floor, leaning against the walls or against chairs, with a few propped on easels. The tall windows along one wall were open to the garden, and before a cushioned settee sat a small table with a white cloth. Doubtless again by Hawke’s orders, there were a decanter of Madeira and glasses waiting for them, plus a plate of biscuits and a silver bowl of blood oranges.

“Benvenuto,”
he said happily, holding out his arms to encompass all the pictures as he backed into the room before her. “Welcome to my most cherished possessions.”

She glanced around the room in growing awe. There must be at least twoscore paintings, more than most people ever saw, let alone owned. “Why aren’t they properly hung on the walls, Hawke? Aren’t you afraid they’ll be damaged?”

“They won’t be damaged,” he said. “No one’s permitted in here except Giacomo. And now you.”

She shook her head, not understanding. “But why not hang them?”

“Why?” He shrugged carelessly, pouring wine into the glasses. “I suppose because I prefer them this way while I’m here. These are my favorites, my fellow rootless vagabonds.”

“Vagabonds? You speak of them as if they’d feet instead of frames.”

He grinned. “Would that they did,” he said, handing a glass to her. “But I expect someday they’ll return home to Bella Collina, just as I will.”

“Bella Collina?” she said uncertainly. She didn’t like this conversation. He was an Englishman and a Londoner, and Hawkesworth Chase was his home, wasn’t it?

“ ‘Beautiful Hill,’ ” he translated for her, choosing an orange for himself from the bowl. “It’s my villa, my home in Naples, overlooking the bay. Here, since I’ve dawdled so long this morning, I’ll show you only a few pictures now, so I don’t overwhelm you.”

“But I want to see them all,” she begged. If she’d been braver, she would have asked him to explain more of this villa in Naples and why he regarded it as his home exclusively and not theirs, the way he’d described the Chase and his other two houses. She longed to ask him what he meant about returning to Italy and how soon he planned to leave. She was his wife; she’d a right to know. But she was also afraid of what he might tell her, and though she hated herself for being so cowardly, she could not do it. “Show them all to me, Hawke, if you please.”

“In time, in time.” He smiled happily and slowly slipped a segment of the bloodred orange into her mouth, the sweet juice slipping over her lips. “We’re in no hurry, are we?”

He kept his word, picking only a handful of paintings to show her. He’d carefully put two chairs before each one, and she sat close to him while she listened and sipped her wine, her head pillowed against his shoulder and her hand resting familiarly on his thigh.

All of the pictures were, of course, surpassingly extraordinary, and even she could tell they were of a quality
far beyond the paintings that ordinarily hung in English noble houses, whether a landscape of ancient ruins, a whimsy of two monkeys beside a huge bowl of fruit, or a scene of some long-forgotten regal procession.

Yet as much as Lizzie enjoyed the pictures, what she liked even better was listening to Hawke’s voice as he described each one, explaining the history and the artist’s life as well as how he himself had come to buy it, and what made the painting special enough to him that he’d brought it all the way back to London. She loved the excitement in his voice, and she loved even more the obvious pleasure he found in sharing something that was so important to him with her.

“Thank you, Hawke,” she said softly when it seemed as if he was done. She leaned up and kissed him. “I hope you’ll show me more.”

“With pleasure,” he said, and went to refill their glasses. She rose, too, following him, only to come to a sudden stop before one painting in particular.

“Goodness,” she murmured, blushing furiously. The painting showed a reclining woman without a scrap of clothing beyond her jewels. It was obvious, even to Lizzie, from the setting and from the woman’s lack of modesty that she was a courtesan, the sort of low, disreputable woman that Lizzie had been raised to pretend didn’t exist. Yet here this naked, scandalous woman was staring shamelessly from the canvas at the viewer—who was, in this case, Lizzie herself.

“What have you found?” Hawke asked, sauntering back to her. When he realized where Lizzie had stopped, and which painting had caught her attention, he grinned. “Ah, my
bella donna
. My mother ordered me never to let you see this painting, you know.”

Lizzie swallowed, miserably unsure of whether she should agree with Lady Allred or not. “She is—she’s very lovely.”

“She should be,” Hawke said, gazing down at the painting. “She’s Venus, goddess of love and beauty. Does she embarrass you, as she does my mother? Should I banish her to some inner closet for the sake of English propriety?”

“Did you know her in Italy?” she blurted out, before she’d time to regret the question. “The woman who posed for the picture, I mean. Was she one of your mistresses?”

“My mistresses?” He laughed, incredulous. “I’d wondered if the harpies had filled your head with tales of my sinful past. But no, this lady was not one of them. The woman who posed for this artist has likely been dead at least two hundred years.”

“Oh,” she said, all she could muster. She knew she couldn’t be glad for anyone’s death, and she wasn’t, but she was relieved. Yes. She was
relieved
.

“As for those other women in Naples,” he continued, “the ones the harpies could not resist describing to you—they were at best passing amusements, Lizzie. They meant nothing to me, nor I to them.”

“No?” she asked, her voice more tremulous than she wished it to be.

“No,” he said firmly. “I told you. When we wearied of each other, they were gone. You’re different. You are my wife and my duchess, and that will never change, not as long as I live.”

He raised her hand to his lips, turning it to kiss the palm. She’d always loved that, the brush of his lips, the way he’d nip lightly with his teeth, and now she knew where it would lead. It was enough to make her body warm with longing for him, the telltale heaviness in her belly and breasts.

She was wrong to question him, to hunt for flaws that weren’t there. She couldn’t expect him to forget entirely about his life in Naples, any more than she could forget
hers in Dorset. He loved her and desired her. What more could she wish?

She chuckled low, her happiness bubbling within her.

“Tell me, Hawke,” she said, her voice husky and low. “Would you like me to have my portrait painted in such a way?”

She noticed how he looked at her, from her slippers upward, and not at the painting.

“I should like it very much,” he said, “but I would have to kill the painter afterward.”

She laughed, and he drew her closer, reeling her into his arms.

“But you could still show me what kind of Venus you’d make,” he said, close to her ear. “Pose for me alone. Here, on this settee.”

She smiled, intrigued, and already toying with the sash on her dressing gown. “What would you do if I agreed?”

“Why, what every gentleman must do in the company of Venus,” he said, his breath warm on the side of her throat. “I’d worship her, exactly as she deserves.”

“Then show me,” she said, sliding free of the gown and the shift with it. “Show me.”

And there in the sunlit ballroom, before a crowd of painted witnesses, he did exactly that.