The Duke of Diamonds

by Windsor, Emily

  She’d wear a hat. A big one.

  * * *

  Casper stifled a groan as the town carriage swung a corner, jolting his bruised body, but a grunt was nigh-on impossible to stifle as Evelyn twisted and a sludge-green hat the size of a cart’s wheel walloped his swollen cheek…for the thrice occasion.

  The pretend maid sniggered; he was surprised Copperhouse hadn’t taken such insolence in hand.

  “Have you ever previously attended an Academy Exhibition?” he enquired of Evelyn. Surely that could not be conceived as a probing question, as if she enjoyed art, it was likely, but he sensed a hesitation.

  “Yes,” she said softly, without turning.

  “Which year was that?”

  “1804.”

  “You would have been a child.” It surprised him and the clue set his thoughts to a gallop. Perchance he should have let her reveal the truth earlier, but it had been so long since he’d planned a morning purely for enjoyment and he would not spoil it now.

  Besides which, Evelyn Swift was not leaving his sight any time soon, so the truth could wait a while yet.

  “Yes. I had but eleven years.”

  “And did you enjoy it?”

  “Very much so.” She turned and he managed a dodge ’n weave that Hawkins would have been proud of. “I remember a wonderful seascape of Mr Turner’s. There were grumbles about placements of the pictures that year and his being beneath Mr Copley’s with all its white drapery, but it made no difference to me.”

  Casper attempted to concentrate on her words, but her eager expression and bright eyes stole his wits. When those words did finally penetrate his befogged brain, he realised she must have been fairly immersed in the art fraternity to possess such knowledge.

  He cleared his throat. “As patron, I receive endless petitions from my own artists asking if I hold sway over the location of their works.”

  They sent anguished letters – which room would theirs be placed in? On which wall? Would it be overshadowed by neighbouring art or would it be shoved up high where one required a telescope to even view it?

  “I tend to focus on the painting,” Evelyn said, “and am oblivious to that which surrounds it, so they needn’t worry.” She peeped out from the cruciferous hat. “Forgive me…if I go quiet during the showing. But I enjoy just…looking at them.”

  Casper shared the trait, the absorption, and a deep craving for this woman raged through him.

  Years back, he’d attended this exhibition with a group of acquaintances but they’d wittered throughout the entirety – striding past masterpieces to flirt with chits.

  A place to be seen, not to see…

  Smiling, he fingered his bruised cheek. “Turner is showing again. Two works, I believe. But of the nine hundred or so pictures this year, a large number are related to Napoleon’s defeat.”

  “Your female artist?”

  “She did not wish it shown and even if she had, it might have been difficult.”

  “If she’d painted a daisy in watercolours, I suppose that would’ve been a different matter.”

  “Most probably,” he accepted ruefully. “’Tis difficult to believe that two ladies were involved in the Academy’s founding as nowadays–”

  “Nowadays they believe women should sit on one side of the canvas only – voiceless and decorative, not showing what they are capable of,” she grouched. “But at least you recognise that lady’s talent.”

  A huffy compliment but he relished it.

  All too soon, Horatio flung open the carriage door.

  “Dorset ’ouse,” he proclaimed with a sweep of arm more suited to a lace-clad French courtier. The job had clearly gone to his head.

  “I think you will find, young Horatio, that this is Somerset House.”

  He shrugged and wiped his nose. “Same meat, different gravy.” And he clambered to undo the steps.

  “Shall we?” Casper extended an arm.

  Her glove with its frayed embroidery reached out and fitted perfectly.

  Waiting as the duke acquired a catalogue, which included plans and index, Evelyn perused the steep narrow staircase which led attendees to the Great Room where the finest paintings were hung.

  Memories assailed of her previous visit to the exhibition. To view Father’s first canvas that had been accepted in the days when he painted elegant ladies’ portraits, not half-nude wantons selling their wares.

  “I’m all aflutter to see them naked sculptures,” Flora enthused, licking her lips. “I’ve heard there’s a bronze Jupiter having his wicked way with a Europa who looks exactly like m–”

  “Let’s begin with the paintings,” Evelyn gushed as the duke returned with the catalogue, and before Flora could protest and drag them to the Model Academy, Evelyn manoeuvred for the stairs, hat down and elbows out.

  She stumbled, knocking into–

  “Forgive me, Ma’am. It is rather a squash.” That drawled accent and she instinctively gazed up into the face of an elderly and distinguished gentleman.

  Oh, lud, no.

  When she’d visited as a child, Father had been delighted at being placed in the inner room with Fuseli and she’d raced up the staircase to view it, knocking straight into the Academy President. The handsome Mr West had righted her and patted a curl, his exotic accent causing her to giggle.

  Evelyn tucked an escaped red curl beneath her voluminous hat. “My sincere apologies, Sir.”

  “Mr West,” boomed the duke from her side whilst shaking the gentleman’s hand. “How do you do?”

  “Quite well, Your Grace, I thank you, although it’s grey days like this that I miss Pennsylvania. Surely spring will arrive soon. And who is your delightful companion?”

  “Mrs Swift, may I introduce Mr West, the Art Academy President.”

  The gentleman bussed the back of her hand. “Charmed, I’m sure, Mrs Swift.” And cocked his head. “Have we met before?”

  Evelyn gulped. He was eighty if a day but had the eyes of a hawk and she cursed her misfortune. “Er,” she squeaked. “I once attended years past.”

  His gaze slid to another damn runaway curl and she hastily shoved it within the confines of her hat. Truly, one could fit three sacks of potatoes in the hideous creation, yet it refused to contain her locks.

  “That must be it,” he murmured…with a wink. “I’d never forget a girl with the hair of a Titian masterpiece.”

  The gentlemen warmly shook hands once again and bidding adieu, they all weaved up the giddy-inducing stairs until with a deep breath they emerged into the light-filled galleries of the upper floor.

  Oil and frame crowded the walls, flooding the eye with vistas and colour; vast masterpieces hung cheek by jowl, three foot above the head for maximum visibility, whilst smaller works cluttered the lower positions.

  Lesser-known artists had to be content with being placed so near the roof, one required the supplied binoculars to study detail, although they were tipped forward from the wall surface to lessen the glare of feeble daylight which peeked through the high-up arched windows on all sides.

  A trill of elation escaped her – of home and the past.

  “I’m glad this gives you pleasure.”

  And through moist eyes, she beheld the duke smiling. Evelyn yearned to hug him, then smother his noble physog with joyous kisses for this thoughtful outing because even though she’d hidden so much from him, he’d noted her delight in art and endeavoured to arrange an entire morning away from his precious desk…

  Such a rare gentleman.

  And all she could do was return his smile.

  They whirled in wonder, with Rothwell pointing out artists he patronised, and they discussed the two Turner’s, the duke preferring the refinement of these more formal Classical paintings whereas she enjoyed the rougher and wilder seascape she’d viewed in 1804.

  More than a few attendees nodded at the duke in recognition and gazed at Evelyn in speculation as they sauntered the Anti-room, but no one approached for a chinwag or clappe
d him on the back in welcome, and she supposed his exalted position in life was in fact a solitary one.

  An entrance fee, together with a shilling for the catalogue, had been introduced to discourage the riff-raff from this affair, but it still attracted an eclectic range of motley persons – rakes sauntered with eyes for more corporeal works of art, debutantes tittered at rendered masculine arms, and critics studied with monocle and a superior air.

  Flora trailed behind, and although many a rake ogled her angelic appearance with interest, she remained oblivious, eyes flitting and mouth wide as a chimney pot.

  With a light hand to Evelyn’s lower back, the duke steered her to a painting tucked in a corner, but his touch did not deign to depart as the two of them stood in comfortable silence, the chatter of the room waning as they were drawn into the small canvas.

  A girl in periwinkle blue lay asleep in a hay meadow, imbuing peace and joy.

  Evelyn’s own peace was being disrupted quite successfully by audacious fingers caressing in circles upon her waist.

  The duke leaned close. “Would you recognise the artist?”

  She stared into the depths of his eyes. “The Prince?” she mouthed.

  Pleasure flickered across his features. “Quite so.”

  “Beautiful.”

  His eyes never left hers. “Indeed, it is.”

  To the bystander, he simply removed his hand, but to Evelyn, he stroked her spine, dallied with a button and lingered at her hip in farewell.

  They moved on from the serene canvas and wandered the galleries, but now her senses had heightened – to Casper’s every breath, every guiding touch, every scalding glance.

  With the Antique Academy room came victorious leaders, their eyes appraising the viewing mortals from their regal green walls – commodores, officers and admirals – heroic and immortalised in their moment of glory.

  One large battlescape also depicted the agony – fallen horses and clutching men. For herself, it could not match the emotion of that lady’s painting in Casper’s study, of Captain Miles Firth and his men, but perhaps talking to the soldiers had added a nuance, a depth to that composition.

  Evelyn wished she could spend a whole day within each gallery, to absorb every artist’s work, guessing at their techniques and admiring their skill, but Somerset House had now become crowded with laughter and conversation, further visitors ascending the staircase, wet hems trailing the floors and tall hats crowding the most famed pictures.

  As though both reluctant for this allotted time to end, they meandered their way through the final picture gallery, but a small canvas at low level caught her gaze and she peered at the Classical scene to find a centaur impossibly seducing an angelic-looking nymph with blond hair, porcelain skin and rose-petal lips.

  The duke leaned close to the work. Then closer. “Upon my word, is that not your mai–”

  “Flora, my lovely, where have you been of late?” A diminutive gentleman preened with lilac handkerchief and a neckcloth so stiff he must have to kneel to view the lower pictures. “We’ve missed you at life class.”

  All eyes swapped to her maid, who tittered and offered a gloved hand. “Why, Mr F, I didn’t think you’d recognise me face.”

  “How could I not,” he replied diplomatically as he held Flora’s palm to his heart and perused her form. “You’re dressed as a maid. Have you been posing?”

  “Well, in a manner, yes, Mr F.”

  “I don’t suppose…” He peered to the duke, then back to Flora. “Are you finished here? Could one presume to whisk you away to discuss a commission. I’ll buy you a pie and escort you home afterwards.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if I can. I’m–”

  “You have my full permission,” the duke drawled. “I will attend to your mistress’s needs.” He smiled – a lion’s grin before supper – and drew an attendant aside to order their equipage.

  Evelyn bit her lip, yet she knew her friend would far prefer to be feted as a beautiful model than pose as a modest maid. “Don’t worry, Flora. Pie is pie, after all.” She leaned close. “And I am a widow.”

  Those blond eyebrows rose. “And I’m the Moaning Lisa, but ta. Mr F paid me five quid last time.” And off she skipped, the least likely maid in all Christendom.

  Rothwell twisted and proffered a forearm.

  Evelyn hesitated.

  “You can trust me to behave myself,” he growled. “I’m a duke.”

  Chapter 24

  A ghost of his former self.

  Rain lashed the carriage, pounding the window in frantic splatters.

  The dash from Somerset House had soaked Casper’s breeches and boots despite Weston’s finest caped greatcoat, and the hem of Evelyn’s skirt was similarly saturated, that preposterous hat left sagging somewhat.

  Without her wet pelisse, he observed her constant shiver, and so throwing caution, good sense and all propriety to the howling wind, he awkwardly raised himself up and hunched to lift the cushioned seat, finding wool blankets and a hipflask of brandy – after all, a gentleman should always hope for the best and prepare for the worst. This situation encompassed both scenarios.

  Not wishing to appear the rake, he nevertheless crossed to sit beside Evelyn, just as the rain hardened to hail…in May.

  What damn foul weather this year. ’Twas as though this little island had fallen into disfavour and the heavens sought their wrath by assailing it with anything to hand.

  Not a word passed Evelyn’s lips as he tucked the blanket about her and then offered the flask. She took an unladylike gulp and as their fingers brushed, he noted her gloves were likewise sodden.

  Grasping hold of her wrist, he began to peel away the wet material, revealing blanched palms and reddened knuckles, the cotton no match for such a vile day. Each glove tip was patched.

  Casper shoved them in his pocket and stared to the misted window.

  Through the veil of white, he glimpsed hawkers and beggars huddling in doorways, slatterns gripping insubstantial shawls to their quivering shoulders and a mangy hound cowering against a shop window to avoid the pelting ice.

  Come June, the haymakers from Ireland would be arriving on English shores, with fiddles on backs and tall yarns upon lips, but with this weather the work would be scarce. He must remember to set aside funds for food and shelter.

  “You’re frowning,” Evelyn stated to his side.

  “The rain. This terrible year will be difficult.”

  Bare fingers sneaked out from under the blanket and sought his.

  Never had he just…held a lady’s hand but he could now appreciate the benefit. Its tender clasp gave an indefinable comfort, smothering the loneliness and gaining strength from another.

  In days past, he’d sought solace from his paintings – his defiant beauty – but never had she sent a unique warmth stealing throughout his chest. Never had he felt such cold calloused skin beneath his own fingers and so yearned to soothe. Never had another touched him with such affection – real and shared.

  Never had he enjoyed a day more…

  But then Evelyn’s other hand reached up to stroke his cheekbone and that effected an altogether different sensation. A primitive one.

  “How did you bruise yourself?”

  Being so distracted by thoughts of you, I got repeatedly clouted.

  Obviously, he couldn’t say that, but equally he had no wish to sound as though he’d lost the bout – how emasculating.

  “I box. But you should have seen my opponent’s face.”

  “Hmm.” Suspicion underpinned her murmur. “Is boxing how you stay all…” Evelyn swallowed, accompanied by a cough and he hoped she’d not caught her sister’s ailment. “…muscly. I’ve never seen a nobleman with such a…firm physique.”

  Casper attempted to view her eyes as she spluttered anew but her head was slanted to the window and that damn hat prevented close observation.

  Grumbling, he reached out and unravelled the ribbons at her throat, heard her gasp but ignored it
and proceeded to pull the repulsive article from her head.

  It caught in hairclip paraphernalia and she yelped, so he tugged the clips loose as well, until the hat came away like an octopus, all waving silks and dangly bits.

  He hurled the abomination to the opposite seat, twisted and gaped.

  Evelyn’s hair now tumbled to her shoulders in a profusion of wild curls, a crimson lake red which he wished to plunge into and never breathe again. He stretched out a hand and stroked the mass.

  “You claimed I could trust you,” she whispered.

  And he kissed her.

  Evelyn had always imagined that embracing in a carriage would be an uncomfortable affair, the jolting and rumble not conducive to amatory encounters.

  How wrong could a girl be?

  This being the Rothwell sprung carriage, it scarcely rattled at all over the cobbles, instead producing a pleasant joggle which encouraged their bodies to rub, lips sliding and hands trailing.

  She recalled all the reasons why this was dangerous, but the duke did not wish to hear the truth today and she herself no longer wished to be bound by it. Rather like a convict let loose for an hour before their hanging – she would grasp freedom and pleasure whilst she could.

  Large hands sank into her hair, Casper’s mouth travelling her neck as though he wished to map every inch, an explorer searching a river’s source.

  “You wore this dress when we first met,” he murmured huskily. “And how I longed to wrench it from you.”

  To know he’d suffered from that same intangible passion since the outset bewattled her senses, and her spine arched as he yanked at the shoulder of her gown to mouth scorched kisses upon her bared skin.

  A street corner was taken too fast, wheel clipping the kerbstone, and she gasped as his body was thrown close, the blanket slipping, only for it to be replaced by Casper’s thigh, similarly heated, tangling with her skirts – dangerous and wicked.

  She clutched his hair, welcomed the rush of repressed desire as it gushed forth, his lips upon her décolletage, nipping and kissing and tasting.