How To Distract a Duchess (2 page)

“The fault is not yours. I shall have to speak to Mr. Phelps about this. I specifically requested blond curls and a soft, cherubic face for my Eros. While there is a hint of a wave in your hair, the color is definitely chestnut and the planes and angles of your face are far too jarring to belong to the god of love. With those brooding dark eyes and strong jaw line, you’re much more a god of . . .”

She stopped and her eyes seemed to go out of focus for a moment, as if she were seeing something other than him. One of her brows arched.

“There’s nothing else for it,” the duchess said. “You shall be Mars, my god of war.”

“I’ve been called many things, Your Grace. Never a god of anything.” He inclined his head slightly. “Expect I should feel honored.”

“You will,” she said with certainty. “When I’m finished, your face and form will be immortal. Now then. Let’s begin, shall we? The dressing room is through that door. There’s a robe in there for you. Remove your clothing—all of it, if you please—and return in the robe. Pray be quick about it. The sun waits for no one.”

And neither evidently did the Duchess of Southwycke. She wanted him naked as God made him, did she? Trevelyn never expected to have to pose as a figure model to serve his Queen, but he’d done far more difficult things for the sake of Victoria Regina. Besides, when a lady asks a gentleman to disrobe so prettily, how could he in good conscience refuse?

Especially when the lady is a well-favored, widowed duchess,
Trevelyn decided.
No marriage trap here, even if the session ends in something more involved than etchings.

He might have thought better of it if the duchess had been a wrinkled old hag, but a leisurely morning spent unclothed in the company of a lovely woman would be far more interesting than the quick interview he’d expected. And if all went well, the job would certainly provide him with an opportunity to spend enough time with her to glean all the information he sought, probably without her ever knowing his true business.

He squared his shoulders and decided to play the hand dealt him. Trevelyn headed for the dressing room, whistling
Rule Britannia
between his teeth.

The things one does for one’s Queen and country. . .

* * *

Artemisia tapped her toe with impatience, waiting for her newest subject to emerge from the dressing room. She could see why Cuthbert had confused him with a true gentleman. His doeskin breeches were soft and clean-looking, but her keen eye spotted the slightest shininess of wear on his waistcoat, and once he spoke, his accent clearly marked him as a young man trying to dress a notch or two above his station.

Pity her time in London had taught her to look for such distinctions. The rules were much more relaxed during her upbringing on the frontier of British India. She was used to gossiping with her Indian nursemaid, visiting the
Maharajah’s daughters, taking tea with the viceroy’s wife and dancing with enlisted men all on the same day. In London, she had to be ever mindful of her place or the scandal sheets would flay her for some breech of acceptable behavior.

Her gaze fell on
The Tattler
still on the tray next to her teacup. She knew she shouldn’t, but her curiosity got the better of her.

“Well, let’s see what’s got the wind up Cuthbert’s drawers, shall we?” Artemisia said to the marmalade-colored cat sunning itself on the window sill. She perched on the settee and spread the scandal sheet across her knees. The tabby leaped from the sill and tiptoed across the back of the settee, hovering near Artemisia’s shoulder to rumble unquestioning approval in her ear. A smaller gray cat crept under the settee to weave about her shins. She leaned down and scratched beneath his chin absently while she read.

London’s favorite Merry Widow, the infamous Duchess of S, made quite a splash Sunday last—literally. She was found cavorting in the St. James fountain with unnamed associates of the lower sort. The peeress with pretensions to artistic inclinations claimed to be researching how a water nymph feels for her current work in progress—rumored to be a scandalous set of paintings of the entire Greek pantheon in the altogether.

Truly, the bon ton would delight in shunning the feckless widow, if only Her Grace hadn’t stolen the march on London society and shunned it first.

“At least they got the subject of the paintings right, Castor,” she said to the orange cat near her shoulder. “But precious little else. Isn’t that right, Pollux?”

She lifted the gray cat to her lap and let him knead her thighs till he was ready to settle in a furry ball. The scandal sheet’s words stung. But even to herself, she wouldn’t admit vulnerability, so she took refuge in irritation.

“‘Pretensions to artistic inclinations,’ indeed.”

When she was barely old enough to hold a quill, her
ayah
had recognized her innate talent. The Indian nursemaid reported Artemisia’s skill to her father, who engaged drawing tutors for his precocious eldest daughter. By the time she was twelve, her portraiture was in much demand among the wildly eclectic British community associated with “John Company” in that remote outpost of the Empire. Now she was grown, she wanted more than anything for her work to be recognized, not as that of a gifted child, but as an artist in the full bloom of her talent.

So far, London society had done its best to discourage her. The proper range of subject matter for female artists was forget-me-nots or sparrows, certainly not scantily clad or—perish the thought!—naked young men.

“Nude, not naked. There’s a world of difference,” Artemisia murmured. “Honestly, Pollux, you’d think the
ton
had nothing better to do than peep and snicker over its peers. Busybodies, every one of them.”

Artemisia cast the scandal sheet to the floor and purposefully trod it under foot on her way back to her easel. What did she care what they thought?
 
 

And yet her chest ached strangely.

Growing up riding elephants on tiger hunts hadn’t prepared her for dealing with the sharp claws of the
bon ton.
When her husband had been alive, his exalted rank and impeccable decorum insulated her from society’s scratches. Now that Artemisia was on her own, the self-appointed arbiters of acceptable behavior lost no chance to express their disapproval. The young Duchess of Southwycke was judged decidedly “odd.” Small wonder she became reclusive.
 
When she did venture out, it was often in the company of those considered far beneath her station.

The romp through the fountain was probably ill-advised, especially since she hadn’t anticipated how transparent wet muslin became, but she credited the outing with infusing her
Neptune
with a wonderful sense of motion.

“Ah! There you are.” Artemisia looked up when she heard the door hinge squeak. Ordinarily, she’d speak to Cuthbert about such a defect, but now she was grateful for the warning. She was not in the habit of greeting her models posterior first and the incident had thrown her strangely off balance.

The new fellow sauntered toward her, a tuft of dark hairs peeping from the deep vee in his robe, hands in his pockets as if he were in his own dressing room. Unlike her previous models, he seemed totally at ease.

“Let’s just try a pose or two before you disrobe, shall we?” she said, determined to ease him gently into the work. “Most of my models find it more comfortable to get into character prior to—”

“I have my share of faults, Your Grace, but my old gaffer always told me it don’t pay for shyness to be one of ’em,” he said as he shrugged out of the plush velvet dressing gown she’d provided for him. He let the garment drop to the parquet floor.

He cocked his head at her. “How do you want me?”

How did she want him?

“Yes, well, let me think about that for a moment,” she all but stammered as she averted her gaze. A quick glimpse of him was enough to quicken her breath. His boldness unnerved her. “Have you done this sort of work before?”

“No, Your Grace, but there’s a first time for everything they do say. Do I still disappoint?”

Heavens, no,
almost escaped her lips. She’d rarely seen such a specimen of male beauty. Like most of her models drawn from the working classes, this man was well-muscled, vigorous labor having sculpted his limbs and torso. Yet his skin was smooth and his hands and feet beautifully shaped. His nails were clean and neatly trimmed, enough of a rarity to be remarkable among those worked to earn their daily bread.

While it never quite made sense to Artemisia, popular notions of male attractiveness currently required small hands and feet. She was pleased to see this man’s were not. His fingers were long and powerful, but with a certain aristocratic grace. His feet had high arches and the bones of his ankles formed a strong curve into his thickly muscled calves. He stood proudly, his weight evenly distributed on both feet, his arms relaxed at his side.

He made no reflexive ‘fig-leaf’ gesture, so Artemisia’s gaze followed the thin strip of dark hair that started at the indentation of his navel and led to his groin.

There’s one willy I won’t whack off, no matter what the critics might say.
As she looked at him, his member rose, the smooth skin darkened with engorged blood.

“Please don’t be embarrassed,” she said quickly. “This sometimes happens.”

“Indeed, Your Grace, it happens with regularity,” he said with a wicked smile. His teeth were very white.

Artemisia clamped her lips together. With other models, the first session was always awkward. This man, however, seemed totally at ease in his own skin, as if he often paraded nude before strange women.

“From what part of London do you hail?” she asked, wondering if Mr. Phelps had hired a male prostitute for her instead of a model. This man was a bit older than her usual subjects. Based on the sharp delineation of his features, she judged him nearing thirty, though his muscle tone rivaled the younger workmen she’d used on previous canvases. “Where did you say Mr. Phelps found you?”

“I didn’t say.” The infuriating smile hadn’t faded. “How did you imagine your Mars?”

“Right then,” she said, grateful to get down to business. “Mars needs to be contemplating a battle. Turn your head and gaze into the distance. Kindly refrain from smiling, if you please. I seriously doubt the god of war has a sense of humor.”

When he complied, she was immediately relieved to be able to look at him without his dark eyes focused on her, hot and knowing. His member was still swollen and potent.

“You want me to just stand here?” he asked, his brown- eyed gaze flicking back to her for a moment.

“Perhaps you should point toward an imagined goal—with your hand, I mean.”

Heat crept up her neck and spread over her cheeks. The man had her blushing, for pity’s sake. She’d been a married woman. She’d painted any number of men in the nude. An erect willy shouldn’t be enough to reduce her to stammering. With her other models, she’d always been in complete control. This man’s lack of self-consciousness made her uneasy.

He made a noise in the back of his throat, suspiciously like a stifled chuckle, as he lifted his arm in compliance. “Perhaps Mars should have a weapon of some kind,” he suggested.

He already had a formidable one between his legs, but Artemisia took the opportunity to escape to the table at the far end of the room where she kept an assortment of props in a disordered heap. “Yes, quite right. Good idea.”

She hurried back to him with a Greco-Roman helmet, a round shield and a short sword called a
gladius
. He bent his head so she could crown him with the helmet. She was forced to step near him as she adjusted the strap beneath his chin. His lips curved into an inviting smile. Standing this close to him, she noticed the faint shadow of his beard and had to restrain herself from running a fingertip along his jaw to feel the tiny bristles. His heat radiated toward her, and his scent flooded her nostrils. Her mouth went suddenly dry.

“Here.” She held out the shield and gladius, while stepping back to a safer distance. “Try a few poses and I’ll tell you to stop if I see something I like.”

“You don’t see anything you like yet?”

Artemisia’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He was
enjoying
her discomfort! She should sack the impudent wretch now and be done with him. But he did have the most amazing eyes, and for a dazzling moment she’d glimpsed an image of what a marvelous god of war he’d make. She was loath to give up a perfectly good subject just because he made her squirm in her pantaloons.

She turned from him and settled on the straight-backed chair, her sketch pad balanced on her knees. Work, that’s what she needed. Once she was firmly ensconced in her art, he’d become merely a pleasing arrangement of light and dark, lines and angles, not a disturbingly well-made, flesh-and-blood man.

She’d been a widow for nearly two years now, and she had no intention of marrying again. The legal status of a married woman was on par with a child or an imbecile and she refused to be treated like either. Still, two years was past time when other women might be tempted to take a discreet lover.