What I Did For a Duke (19 page)

The satyr was busy spitting water in the center of it.

“My wife did love it,” the duke told them.

Everyone suddenly wondered if that was the reason he never visited.

But he’d said it strategically. And he wasn’t patient. Moncrieffe hadn’t undertaken the trip to be sociable, truly, or to do more meandering about green Sussex land. He’d undertaken the trip for selfish reasons.

So though he didn’t quite rush them through the house when they entered—he was greeted with genuine delight by the small staff—he did set the pace for the tour, and his pace was generally always a swift one. He pointed out the marble in the foyer was Carrera, that the chairs in the sitting room were Chippendale, that the carpets had been purchased in Turkey by his wife’s father.

And then he brought them to the gallery.

“I
t’s this one.”

He watched Genevieve breathlessly as her eyes fell on the painting.

And then she went still. And as he watched it was if the sun itself rose inside her.

He caught his breath and turned, wonderingly, following her eyes.

What
he
saw was an appealing image of a nude woman stretched on a chaise. The woman’s gaze was very direct—almost as direct as the gazes his friend Wyndham painted on the women sprawled on his canvases destined for bordellos—and her breasts were bare. It was perhaps not the sort of painting mixed company ought to be staring at in a concentrated fashion. Still, the bosom, as bosoms went, was modest, and the woman’s hand rested modestly over her mons.

His wife had loved this painting.

To Moncrieffe, it was decorative and nude; it was an asset on his books.

His staff kept it dusted.

He knew what it was to Genevieve.

“It’s . . .
Titian
,” Genevieve breathed. “I’m sure of it.”

A slow, awestruck, disbelieving smile took over her face. Stunned pleasure shone from her eyes. And he was certain her heart was racing with the sheer delight of being in the
presence
of the thing.

Because his heart was racing at simply watching her love it.

She turned to look at him as if he himself had painted it. Her radiance rendered him absolutely silent. He could only bask.

One was either moved by something or one was not, he knew. Certain tastes—for fine wine or teas, for instance—could be acquired.
Skill
could be acquired, but talent could not. And passion was either innate . . . or it was not.

He still in truth didn’t care to know much about the painting.

He only cared about what it did to Genevieve Eversea.

And it was
this
that gave it its value in his eyes. Not the name of the artist, or the pigments he had used.

He felt her joy as his own.

“Venus,” he finally said.

She laughed at the obviousness of that. “Yes!”

“You can touch it.” He laughed softly. “Gently now.”

She flicked her eyes toward him, and by the slight lowering of her eyelids knew she’d heard the innuendo precisely as he’d meant her to.

“Oh, I cannot. It’s priceless.”

“Oh, it has a price. Ask my bailiff what the current valuation is. Everything has a price,” the duke said unsentimentally.

She simply quirked the corner of her mouth.

“It’s Titian, all right.” Harry peered at it critically. He said it quickly and almost nervously. He clearly wanted his voice heard, because all at once it was apparent that he and Millicent were somewhat forgotten. “Look at the pearly skin on the girl, Genevieve, and the little dog sleeping next to her. . . . That red of its hair is so singularly Titian. The dog in the painting typically represents fidelity. And you’ll notice that it’s asleep.”

The duke saw a dog sleeping next to a naked woman.

He only cared whether Genevieve cared. He liked to listen to her talk about art.

“And I believe Veronese was Titian’s assistant at one time,” Harry continued, speaking almost too quickly.

“Venus and Mars,” Genevieve and the duke said in unison.

Harry fell abruptly silent.

Millicent was staring at the painting, too. The image actually looked rather like Millicent, with the wide doe eyes and open face, but since the painting was of a nude, no one was going to say it.

In front of two women, anyway.

“It’s very pretty, but how can she just sprawl there, uncovered, for everyone to see?”

Millicent wrinkled her brow. She didn’t sound as though she were condemning it, necessarily. She sounded authentically curious and a little amused and just a bit repelled.

Millicent was perhaps the most literal young woman the duke had ever met.

Harry was looking at her incredulously. Undecided as to whether to smile or smack a hand over his forehead.

“Quite so, Lady Blenkenship,” the duke agreed somberly. “She is rather brazen. Perhaps a bit too exposed. I like a Venus one can uncover a bit at a time.”

And this was so obviously, obviously an innuendo that everyone stirred a little, disconcerted.

Genevieve went very still, as if that particular innuendo had drifted over her like gliding hands. He awaited a scorching blush, a sideways scolding look.

Genevieve suddenly turned to Harry and said hurriedly, “And look, Harry, the young ladies in the painting in the back . . . her servants. They are rummaging about in the clothes trunk.”

Harry looked very directly at her. “Perhaps they’re in a hurry to cover her. To protect her virtue.” He made it sound like an admonishment.

The implication was as bald as the woman on the painting was naked.

“I thought you loved Titian, Harry.”

He hesitated. “I
do
.” The words were almost—not quite, but almost—a moan.

A short, awkward, confusing silence followed. The duke decided to call a halt to this particular portion of the tour.

“You asked about the greenhouse, Osborne. Would you like to see it?”

It, too, was a gauntlet laid down. A very, very subtle one.

“Perhaps a visit to the greenhouse can wait until after we have a bit of a picnic,” Genevieve said brightly and too quickly.

She knew exactly what they would find in the greenhouse.

“I should like to see it now.” Harry was uncharacteristically firm.

“I should like to see it, too,” Millicent said in solidarity with Harry. “I like flowers! I should like to sketch any interesting flowers you may have.”

“
I’m
feeling a bit peckish,” the duke said.

And as he was a duke, he won. And so they went off to enjoy their picnic, and Genevieve won a greenhouse reprieve.

Chapter 17

T
he footmen and Harry carried the picnic hamper down to the grass near the lake, on which a half dozen or so enormous, irritable, gorgeous white swans floated. The willows had lost most of their leaves, otherwise they would have wept all over the banks very picturesquely. Millicent followed after Harry and the footmen, whipping out her sketchbook the way one whips out a sword, as though she couldn’t face another moment without capturing the idyllic scene.

And surely Harry wouldn’t propose to Millicent surrounded by footmen. Though now Genevieve was a bit worried he would be sorely tempted to trot off and do it in this lovely little place. She would love to receive a proposal here.

Genevieve was walking and thinking about the strained expression on Harry’s face in the gallery. His distressed rush of words. Some suspicion had just been subtly acknowledged and he disapproved.

Harry was
jealous
.

Or Harry was concerned about her.

She preferred to think of it as
jealous
.

But why should this make her unhappy? Because she only felt truly at peace when he was happy. Which, she had to admit, had been nearly all the time until the arrival of the duke.

“I could imagine being very happy here,” she said aloud. “It’s so lovely. Serene without being dull. Snug and welcoming.”

Oh, God. Please don’t say that describes me
.

But the duke never did take up obvious temptations. “We never lived here long. But it was one of her favorite homes.”

We. Her.
His wife.

What had she been like? What had become of his first duchess? She still didn’t feel free to ask the question. Still, she thought the house she loved said a good deal about her.

Genevieve hoped he’d been loved by his wife. She was certain he hadn’t made it easy for her to do it, however.

In the absence of banal conversation, last night’s kiss echoed in her. Today he was every inch a duke; last night he’d felt very human, vulnerable and alone. His clothes askew, his skin warm, his lips . . . she had to stop to take in a breath at the rush of pleasure that shot through her body at just the thought of his lips. She’d felt a right to him; she’d taken as much as given in that kiss.

But in truth, the Titian had made her feel shy again. She of course knew he was wealthy and powerful and influential, but for some reason the possession of that small wonder of a painting delineated this even more sharply.

She knew he’d wanted to show it to her because he’d known she would love it.

She was uncertain how she felt about that.

He said nothing else for so long she wondered if
he
was in fact at a loss over what to say. She’d never once during their short acquaintance heard him clear his throat or stammer. She’d never seen him fidget or blush. But she had no doubt he suffered doubts of his own. He composed himself
inwardly
. Sparing the world his awkwardness, hiding vulnerability. Preserving his pride.

“Well, Miss Eversea, I think our plan is working a treat,” he said finally. “Did you see Harry’s face when he saw the Titian?”

“Yes. But he’s suffering.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Of course he’s suffering. It’s precisely the point.” He was half amused, half irritated.

“But . . . he’s my friend. And I . . .” She didn’t know how to put into words what it was she felt.

“Yes, yes. You love him. And etcetera. Though he has
entirely
taken you for granted.”

She bristled. “He hasn’t, you know. He cares for me, I know it. And please don’t allow him to gamble anymore! He’ll lose his inheritance.”

“Your concern for the man who hasn’t a clue whether or not he loves you or another woman is touching. But he’s a grown man and I am neither his father nor mother, and it is not my place to stop him from gambling if he wishes to do it.” The duke was curt.

“But you
don’t
have to take his money.”

“And he doesn’t have to gamble,” he said simply.

He was right, of course. She sighed a short frustrated sigh.

“He’s either suffering pangs of pure jealousy simply because he’s used to your slavish devotion, Genevieve, or
my
attentions to you have cast you in an entirely new light and his heart has been swung ’round like a weathervane. And if that’s the sort of man you want, that’s the sort of man you will have, if our plan works. Has he said a word to you about me?”

She said nothing. Of course he hadn’t.

“But he looks unhappy.” She was wretchedly torn. She had never been able to bear seeing Harry unhappy. Even while he was making her miserable.

“Wait until he sees the greenhouse,” the duke said with ghoulish glee.

“I think we ought not look at the greenhouse,” Genevieve said firmly.

“What do you suppose you’ll find there?”

“Roses the size of baby heads.”

“They all were sent to you. He’ll see nothing.”

“Then we don’t need to see it.”

“Very good. If I refuse to allow him to see it, then the mystery will deepen.
Imagine
the torment.”

He was right, of course, about everything, and this shut her up. Strategy was indeed the answer, and it seemed to be working.

“Though he could even now be proposing to Millicent.”

He
would
have to add that. He did have a sadistic streak.

The two of them paused a moment. The duke shaded his eyes.

“Though she’s getting too close to the swans, and they might snap off one of her limbs. I think those swans are carnivorous. That one in particular. Lucifer.”

Millicent was indeed trying to lure one closer with a crust of bread. Genevieve bit back a smile. Millicent’s bonnet was of course already precariously askew.

Genevieve looked up at the duke again to discover him watching her so peculiarly, so intently, her heart leaped.

“Genevieve.”

“Yes?”

“I should like to kiss you again soon.”

Oh.

Her breath left her in a gust. Not a word-mincer, the duke.

He smiled faintly. “You thought I would pretend it didn’t take place?”

“I knew you would never allow me to forget it took place.”

The smile became something else, and that’s when she saw how and when he deployed that enveloping, wicked smile. “Well?”

She breathed in deeply, nervously, her hands burrowing into the fabric of her skirt. “I . . . I don’t think I should allow it.”

He actually laughed. “Let’s stop pretending, shall we, that you’re someone who approves or disapproves of things, or allows or doesn’t allow them or what have you. You and I, at least, know that isn’t true. Allow me to phrase it differently: I think we ought to kiss again. Soon.” She could tell by the way he said “soon” that he was amusing himself by tormenting her.

“It’s not archery or a picnic or a casual pastime.” The calm discussion of something that had turned her inside out was spinning her head. She heard the taut beginning of hysteria in her own voice. “You might at least try a different tone.”

“You prefer me to sound ardent?” He sounded dubious. “I can certainly
try
.”

“Please don’t!” That would be worse.

She walked on quickly.

He caught up easily.

Up ahead of them, Harry was assisting the footmen in unpacking the hamper. She saw the half wheel of cheese emerge. He looked toward them and smiled, white teeth flashing. Lest she forget how it felt to be smiled at by Harry.

And here she was striding next to a man whose erection had pressed against her last night, with her complicity.

“I just don’t think it’s wise,” she said again nervously.
Damn, damn, damn
.

“Wise!” The duke was amused. “Of course it isn’t
wise
. We wouldn’t be doing it for the
wisdom
of the thing.”

She gave a short, breathless, incredulous laugh. “But . . .
listen
to yourself. It’s just that you sound so . . . as though I should meet you again in some specific location and we should set to it? Like a shooting party?”

“I’m so glad to hear you making the arrangements—”

“I’m
not
making
arrange
—”

“—as I’m not a gifted planner.”

“You plan
everything
,” she said irritably, which made him smile again. She did like his smile. “And besides, what can you possibly
gain
from another . . . kiss?”

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Footsteps over leaves on the path as they walked. He seemed to be considering his reply.

“I enjoy it. I enjoyed kissing you. You enjoyed kissing me. What more reason do we need to do anything?”

Heat rushed over her limbs.
I enjoy kissing you.

“We are not in love.”

He sighed, and the sigh evolved into a short exasperated laugh. “For heaven’s
sake
, Miss Eversea. Last night alone should have taught you that love and desire do not necessarily go hand in hand, and one can indulge one without . . . enduring the other. It wasn’t virtuous, what we did. And I shall not believe you if you claim virtue as a reason for not wanting to kiss me, for I’m very certain you are not the sort.”

He was so darkly wry.

“But you
know
that
we
won’t ever . . . that I’ll never entirely . . .” Her voice was choked and faint. She couldn’t say it.
That you’ll never see me stretched out nude like Venus on the chaise in your gallery.

He stopped abruptly.

She stopped abruptly, too. Like a bloody pet called to heel.

Infuriatingly, the duke got one eyebrow slowly, sardonically up. “You won’t ever
what
, Miss Eversea? Make love to me?”

She was scarlet again, judging by the temperature of her face. But the
things
he felt free to say . . . !

If she’d had any sense at all, she’d run as fast as her legs could carry her to join Harry and Millicent. But safety was hardly available there, either.

Harry glanced back then, sensing . . .
something
. As he always seemed to. He shaded his eyes, watching the two of them.

Clearly his equilibrium had been disturbed.
Oh, Harry.
He does care for me, he
does
know me.

Oh, bloody, bloody hell.

“I don’t want to kiss you again,” she said faintly. Emphatically.

She wasn’t certain whether it was true, but it was certainly the right thing to say.

He rolled his eyes. “Of
course
you don’t,” he soothed insincerely. And continued walking swiftly.

The swans seemed to have massed and were advancing on Millicent, who still appeared to be cooing and holding out a slice of bread.

“And I think we ought not,” she called to him firmly and conclusively.

“Of course you do,” he called back with mocking equanimity.

She made an exasperated sound. She should have stalked in the opposite direction.

She hurried to catch up to him.

“Unless your plan is to . . . inveigle an indiscretion and compromise me in order to . . .”

He paused again and mulled, head tilted.

So she paused again. She’d begun to feel like his shadow.

“Ah. I see what you’re saying. A trap? Clever! But now, now, Miss Eversea, now what did I just say about planning? And how it isn’t my forte? I hardly lured you like a spider into a web last night.
You
arrived and accosted me with your irresistibility, and in my drunken helplessness, what choice had I but to kiss you? I’m a creature of instinct. You really ought to have known better.”

She snorted inelegantly. “You plan your every
breath
.”

He smiled at that, tipping his head back, and she saw that double set of dimples at the corners of his mouth made by his smile, like a stone skipped across water. The wind ruffled and lifted his black hair.

And her heart skipped, too.

Black, that was, apart from a frost of gray at each temple.

He was old. He was almost forty.

“I did
not
plan . . . last night.” And now he was sincere. She could tell by the falter. He was almost bemused. And the way he said “last night” made the words seem like a euphemism for splendor. They encompassed a world of sensations and memories, those words.

It was one of the most terrifying, exhilarating conversations she’d ever had.

She felt buoyant and helpless, like a leaf that could be borne away on the wind and end up anywhere at all. Someplace marvelous, higher and higher still. Heaven.

Or crushed beneath a foot.

She felt sickly nervous.

“And speaking of traps, one might be tempted to believe the
trap
was all for me,” he continued on an air of feigned injured indignation. “Can you imagine what would have happened had your father happened upon our tableau? Of the two of us,
I’m
the one with the title. He’d shoot me on the spot or hold me at gunpoint until a special license could be obtained.”

She didn’t like the reference to marriage. She cut her eyes nervously to Harry and Millicent again.

Only to discover that Millicent was quite a distance away now because she was fleeing a swan, her skirts clutched up in her hands to free her ankles. The swan made shockingly good time on its webbed feet, long neck outthrust as it tried at intervals to take snaps out of her. They were trailed by a footman who fruitlessly pelted it with bread, and by Harry, who was waving his hat madly and shouting.

The footman’s wig flew off and smacked Harry full in the face. He stopped to claw it off.

The duke shrugged. “Lucifer has a temper. He’ll get bored in a moment.”

“But I’m the one with the fortune. I needn’t trap anyone,” Genevieve said, believing him about the swan.

“Touché,” he said almost happily. “No, you are a prize. You’re no
Olivia
, of course,” he reiterated, mocking her again. “But you’re hardly a consolation prize.”

“Is this a trick? Do you plan to seduce and abandon me to punish Ian?”