
DISTRACTING
THE DUCHESS
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“Beddington holds the key.”
—Last coherent message received from
Angus Dalrymple, Esq.
Covert agent for
Her Majesty’s interests
on the
Indian sub-continent
Chapter One
“I’m
going to have to shorten his willie.”
The artist stepped back from her easel and
regarded the offending member with a critical eye. Her name was Artemisia.
“Sounds like amnesia,” her father had complained when her mother insisted
upon the unusual moniker. Artemisia Dalrymple Pelham-Smythe, to be exact.
Such a heavy load might have been a burden for some. But Artemisia was a
duchess, so most people simply called her ‘Your Grace.’
“Of course, it’s absolutely true to life,”
she said finally, closing one eye and holding her thumb upraised to do a
rough comparative measurement. “The proportions are accurate to the model,
but critics tend to find well-endowed males in art to be prurient. I can’t
imagine why. A willie is just a willie, after all. What do you think,
Cuthbert?”
“On the subject of art, Your Grace, one is of no opinion.” Cuthbert
set down the silver tea tray and poured out a steaming cup with extreme
dignity. “But if one may be so bold as to suggest, perhaps Madam would do
well to be more delicate in her speech.”
Artemisia took the offered cup and sipped the aromatic blend. It was almost
as good as the tea she grew up with in Bombay.
“I was being delicate, Cuthbert. That’s why I
called it a willie instead of a pe—“
“Your daily reading, Your Grace,” Cuthbert interrupted smoothly, handing her
a neatly folded newspaper.
Hiding her smile, Artemisia set down her tea cup. She knew she shouldn’t
purposely try to irritate her butler, but his ears turned such a charming
shade of purple when she did.
Artemisia ran her gaze over the headlines. “The
Tattler?” She tried never to read the ubiquitous scandal sheets and
The Tattler was worst of the lot, laden with juicy on dits and
sly innuendo. “You know I’ve no time for such drivel.”
“Indeed. Then perhaps Madam should refrain from giving the writers so much
fodder for their drivel. The article just below the fold could not escape
one’s notice. Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”
“No, I think that’s quite enough,” Artemisia
said wryly.
The butler bowed and retreated with dignity.
Almost as an afterthought, he stopped and turned back.
“A gentleman is waiting to see you, Madam.”
“Ah! That will be the model Mr. Phelps is
sending round today. I’m ready to start sketches of Eros now that Neptune is
finished. Nearly finished,” she amended, silently reminding herself that
there was yet a willie to be shortened.
“It is highly unlikely that this man is one
of your young gods.” Cuthbert shook his head solemnly. “He dresses like a
proper English gentleman.”
“There are so many second-hand clothing shops
in London a stable lad can fit himself out like a lord if he wishes.”
Artemisia bit her lip. She realized she was sounding just like the writer in
The Tattler who last week bemoaned the fact that distinctions of
class could no longer be drawn by dress—not with so many ladies’ maids
larking about London as well turned out as their mistresses. It irked her
that she should be mouthing the sentiments of a scandal sheet. Artemisia
made a mental note not to read The Tattler again even if Cuthbert
shoved it under her nose.
She consulted the Ormolu mantle clock above her fireplace. Even in summer,
she burned a fire for the comfort of her figure models. Goosebumps do not
become an Olympian, after all. “Send the man in.”
Once Cuthbert closed the French doors to her
studio, Artemisia released a pent-up sigh. Perhaps she should encourage him
to retire, but the crusty gentleman’s gentleman probably wouldn’t hear of
it. Cuthbert had been with the estate all his life, serving Artemisia’s late
husband, the Duke of Southwycke, as his father had served the Duke’s father
before him. Even though his master was dead and Cuthbert not-so-tacitly
disapproved of his unconventional mistress, he lived to serve Southwycke.
Anything else was unthinkable.
Artemisia donned a paint-daubed smock over
her simple day dress and began assembling her materials. Today, she’d do a
few preliminary sketches and experiment with poses. Once she settled on a
composition, she’d transfer her ideas to canvas with her brushes and pallet
knife. As she arranged her tools, one of the soft sticks of chalk rolled
from the table’s edge and she bent to retrieve it. She was so intent on her
task, she didn’t even hear the door swing open behind her.
* * *
Trevelyn Deveridge had been warned the duchess had a well-earned reputation
for the unexpected, but he certainly didn’t anticipate being greeted by the
sight of her bottom first.

And a bottom as ripe as a plum, he almost said aloud. She wore no
crinoline, no contraption of horsehair and wires to enhance her form, just a
simple shift covered by a short smock, nothing to obscure what was a
decidedly shapely derriere.
Stick to business, he ordered himself. You’re here to find
Beddington, not to see the sights.
Wiping off his salacious grin, Trevelyn
cleared his throat.
“Oh!” She straightened and turned abruptly.
Trevelyn’s first impression was that the duchess was much younger than he
expected and far more comely. Several locks of her raven hair had escaped
from the loose chignon, teasing along her delicate neck and nape, the curls
off on jaunts of their own, as if she’d just risen from a rousing tussle on
a feather tick. He flexed his fingers, imaging threading the silky tendrils
through them. As if she read his thoughts, a becoming flush kissed her
cheeks. Then her delicately arched brows lowered in a frown.
“You’re late,” she accused.
“Your pardon, Your Grace, but—“
“Spare me your excuses. Surely Mr. Phelps
explained that punctuality is essential to your position. I don’t want to
lose the morning light.”
“Clearly, there’s been a misunderstanding,
Mum,” he began in his best imitation of a rough country burr while he made
an old-fashioned courtly leg to her. He’d been trained to adopt an assumed
identity when the situation called for one. Trevelyn had already decided
this was a job for Thomas Doverspike, his less aristocratic alter-ego.
“Allow me to introduce myself, an’ it please you. I’m—“
“No names, please,” she said crisply. “At
least, not until the painting is well under way. I find calling you by the
title of the work enables us to maintain professional distance.” The duchess
beckoned him closer with a wave of her slim fingers. “Well, don’t just stand
there. Come here so I can get a good look at you.”
Amused by her abrupt manner, Trevelyn swallowed his retort and strode
forward. The first lesson drummed into him when he joined Her Majesty’s
corps of intelligence officers was to listen more than he spoke. He might
learn a wealth of information if he simply let his subject talk. The duchess
had obviously mistaken him for someone seeking employment. Once she realized
her error, she’d be embarrassed enough to tell him anything.
Even where to find the elusive Mr.
Beddington.
She eyed him carefully, walking a slow half-circle around him. Finally she
stopped and riveted him with a directness in her gaze he seldom saw. Her
eyes were a deep, moss green and a faint streak of blue chalk was smudged
near her temple. The scent of oleander, mingled with oil paint, wafted about
her. He inhaled her sweet fragrance, surprised to find his soft palate
aching for him to plant a kiss on the chalk smudge.
She
shook her head. “No, I’m afraid you won’t do at all.”
Trev
blinked in surprise. Women usually found him most agreeable. “An’ it not be
too forward to ask, in what manner do I disappoint Your Grace?”
“The
fault is not yours. I shall have to speak to Mr. Phelps about this. I
specifically requested blond curls and a soft, cherubic countenance for my
Eros. While there is a hint of a wave in your hair, it 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 in decision.
“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. A god of anything was never one
of them.” He inclined his head slightly. “I’m honored.”
“You
will be,” 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? Acceding to her request 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.
Trevelyn never expect 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 so prettily for a fellow to disrobe, how could a
gentleman 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. 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. . .
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