“Shall I also tell you a truth?” he rasped.
“The truth and I parted company long ago,” she found herself saying.
A low chuckle emanated, the hand departing from her wrist. “I knew you were there as soon as I opened the study door.” The villain leaned close – aged whisky and new leather. “I heard you breathe.”
Her own breath ceased.
“And I will keep your secret…for the time being.” And with that, his scarlet coat swirled and swept down the hall.
Evelyn exhaled in a gush, heart knocking louder than Zeus’s thunder.
Gosh. What a…compelling character.
She straightened her dress to calm her pulse, put a hand to her stomach, and then drifted down the hallway to knock on what must surely be the study door. And indeed, she now recognised a small Reynolds work on the hall wall.
“Come,” a voice of gravel decreed. “Have you forgotte–” The Duke of Rothwell’s question trailed at her entry, eyebrows raised, a brandy glass clasped in his fist. “Mrs Swift? To what do I owe this pleasure?”
The Prince had kept his word. There was still time to disappear. Still time to sell the painting…if she could purloin it.
“I have come seeking answers, Your Grace.”
The ducal eyebrows lowered. “Have you indeed, my Newgate bird, and here I was thinking it should be quite the reverse.”
Oh.
She tugged her sleeves, noticed his eyes catch upon the stretched black material at her bosom, considered what answers he might seek of her.
“But I see, Your Grace, that I have caught you…unawares.”
Bereft of jacket, with unbuttoned waistcoat and loose cravat, she was aware she should turn, to allow him to dress, but he made no effort to do so, and in any case, Evelyn was a few years beyond maidenly shock.
In fact, he appeared almost relaxed, a mien she had not yet witnessed, as he leaned against his splendid desk, the polished border reflecting his equally splendid backside.
A lifetime ago, she had walked into her father’s studio to encounter a wholly naked Poseidon – a living one – and so a half-dressed gentleman ought to have no effect.
Except it did. More so than that naked well-endowed god who had made her stutter, blush, put hand to eyes and flee.
This golden deity inspired delicious tremors: the way his arm shifted, linen bunched to the elbow, forearm bronzed and strong. How his lips curved around the crystal glass. The manner in which his throat jogged as he savoured the brandy, illuminated by a lantern.
“I must beg your pardon,” he said, “I am indeed not dressed for visitors.”
“Except the Prince?”
A smile seized the duke’s lips. “You know him?”
“Only by reputation and black feather. Everyone fears him.”
A candle sizzled as it gutted, casting one corner of the study to night, and Evelyn sought to remember why she was here, to ask questions and attempt to reclaim her painting. But the intimacy of the room quelled her tongue, the Rubens behind his desk mocking her boldness.
“Well, now you are here, Mrs Swift, come view this painting and tell me your thoughts, if you will.” The duke placed his empty glass upon the desk and grasped the lantern. “You said you knew your art.”
Set in the corner was a stand with a canvas upon it, half-draped in darkness, and she slowly approached. Every nerve stood to attention within her, ears attuned to every sound: the rasp of shirt linen, his footstep, her own heartbeat.
He halted behind her. The lantern was held aloft.
“Oh! How beautiful,” she cried.
A girl stood in a poppy and wheat field, blond curls blowing loose and wild. Her gown was buttercup yellow and appeared to drift away within the golden stalks. A red ribbon was tied beneath her bosom, its silk ends dancing in the wind, as did the poppies on their slender stems.
Gentleness and grace: a painting of a girl at one with nature. Free as the fair wind yet tethered to the fertile land.
The duke’s arm brushed her shoulder as he brought the light near, casting them both within its secluded glow, the outside world forgotten, questions abandoned. She felt his breath on her cheek, heated and fragranced with rich brandy.
“Where did you find it?” she whispered.
“The Prince brought it to me.”
“Did he steal it?”
“No.” The duke sounded amused. “He did not.” Surely if he stood any closer, his lips would graze her skin. “And if you are sensible, you will forget you ever saw the Prince here.” He paused. “You are sensible, are you not?”
Sensible?
Had it been sensible to lie to a duke?
Was it sensible to crave that duke kiss her nape?
Would it be sensible to turn into the lure of his arms?
Evelyn focused on the painting once more, thought of the Prince, a sinister brigand who’d slunk away in the dead of night from this patron of art’s house. Could that villainous hand be the creator of such grace and beauty?
“A-are you saying the Prince painted thi–”
A finger brushed her lips. “Some thoughts are best left unvoiced.”
Like kiss me.
Never had Evelyn been a slave to lust or passion. Oh, she had admired the muscular coalman’s shoulders as he’d heaved his sacks and she’d smiled at the grocer’s sweet words whilst choosing apples, but never had she felt such desire – visceral and sharp.
It was disconcerting – to feel an emotion which overcame all else, and temptation beckoned to spill her secrets, to ask what he wanted of her.
But he was a duke. Soon he’d marry a lady of pure bloodlines and dainty manners, who would bring land and wealth, or status and connection. Evelyn knew what Mrs Swift, a lying widow who lived in Covent Garden, was good for…
Mistress.
Even her true identity would remedy little – a baronet’s daughter, yes, but one fallen on hard times, with no reputation to save or relatives to threaten him, just the wolves circling her door.
Perhaps she was being presumptuous in her assertion, but what else could the duke’s interest herald?
Yet despite the temptation before her and the liberal upbringing of her past, she remembered the love between her parents. They may have made errors in life, but they’d been faithful and true unto one another.
One day, God willing, she may find that love and marry also. But if she became the duke’s mistress, Evelyn knew he would ruin her for other men in more ways than one, and when it all turned sour with the duke, as was inevitable, only her deception would be remembered.
And so, she pulled away from the scent of spice and richness, from the glow of candlelight and into the shadows.
Answers. She’d come here for answers.
“Your Grace, pray tell, why have you brought us to this house?”
Casper had no answer.
Indeed, his mind had forgotten all about her lies, Sir Henry, and for a brief moment – no, in fact longer than a moment – even accounts and estate paperwork had faded. He’d merely enjoyed sharing a beautiful painting with a beautiful woman. One who appreciated the artistry, whose hair and smile lit his study brighter than any lantern, whom he craved to possess like an artist craved to paint.
Evelyn had retreated to the shadows of his study but the candlelight still glinted upon her curls. She could never fully blend to the dark.
Anger still burned low in his gut at the redness to her cheek, that he hadn’t been there to prevent such violence, but she was here now, and all he had to do was answer her question.
There was time enough for Evelyn to answer his, when exhaustion did not cloak her eyes and tremble her hand.
Leaning forward, he covered the exquisite painting with a cloth.
“Call me Casper.”
At his audacity, no gasp escaped her lips. It ought to.
No other acquaintances were permitted to address him as such.
Ernest solely uttered it to be annoying, and Uncle Virgi
l because he’d bounced Casper on his knee as a nipper and liked to remind him of the fact.
No one else.
To be frank, he wasn’t sure others even knew it. Past mistresses had addressed him as Rothwell, even in the heat of passion – their desire was for the duke, not the man. Casper could be the name of a clerk, hawker or butcher.
Ah, and there it was.
The word had revealed itself hidden in that last thought.
Mistress.
Slithering into his mind unawares. Comparing her with past women.
But nothing compared.
Because Evelyn was an original. An exquisite dichotomy.
A lying mouth with innocent eyes.
Was she a swindler looking to feather her nest or a lady in hardship? A brave woman who fought for a future or a jade who shamelessly wielded her wiles?
Yet if Evelyn Swift really was a shameless jade, jockeying for acceptance as a duke’s mistress, she would have turned into his arms as they’d viewed that painting.
He’d wanted her to.
Hell, he ached to press his mouth to those plush lips. Longed for the touch of her fingers, yearned to tear that goddamn awful black dress from her shoulders and lay her bare upon his chaise. They’d be skin to skin by now. Her glorious breasts crushed against his chest, groaning into each other’s mouths, his hands on her hips and lush derriere, seeking, demanding and…
But instead, she’d skulked to the shadows.
And he’d be damned if he knew why he’d brought her here and what he was to do with her, could not provide the answers she sought.
So, he revealed a truth that he did comprehend.
“I want The Fall of Innocence Unveiled.”
“Poor little rich duke,” she replied from the gloom.
Doubtless he’d sounded like a petulant child but frustration gnawed within – for both Evelyn and his defiant one’s twin.
“Why do you admire it so?” she enquired. “Your painting?”
He strode to view the portrait, knew if he stood close to Evelyn long enough, he’d join her in the dark, smother her resistance with pleasure.
Instead, he traced his finger along the lemon ribbon of the girl’s corset, the oil smooth then ridged and peaked. “I respond to something within her.”
“Her allure? Availability?” Evelyn came to stand by his side with curled lip.
Casper shook his head. “No. I see strength. Strength and fragility. She faces away – you don’t often see that – but not in fear nor shame, rather she confronts her predicament directly.” He lingered on a brown curl, frowned. “She has an honest power in this moment that lies unaware – courage and tenacity, the will to prevail, and all I know is…” He tilted his gaze to Evelyn’s bent Titian head. “…that if I ever met this woman, I would want her.”
Evelyn’s eyes flitted up, ivy green in this dim light. “Some thoughts,” she said softly, backing away to the door, “are best left unvoiced.”
Chapter 17
Play your cards right…
“Potato soup, Ma’am?”
Not that Evelyn ever wished to refuse nosh, especially served in a Royal Worcester tureen, sitting within the grandeur of the Queen’s dining room, but really? And although it did appear a superior concoction with leeks and cream, it still was, in essence, a soup made with potatoes.
Artemisia snickered.
“I believe I will pass, thank you.” After all, there remained potage of roasted lobster with mussels and cockles, rabbit collops and stewed scallops so she would hardly starve.
And this was only the first course.
She noted the duke’s frown but ignored him in favour of the divine lobster, and as the other diners enjoyed their soup, Evelyn’s gaze wandered the colossal room.
It did indeed have three windows, which overlooked the square, and its walls were decked in crimson and emerald-green flock paper, whilst a marble fireplace with gilded eagles surrounded a glow that held the cold spring air at bay. The table, in itself larger than their lodgings at Hop Gardens, dominated, and although they all sat at one end upon delicate rosewood chairs, there remained enough space for a Canaletto Venicescape between each diner.
The most luxurious prison known to woman.
Upon arriving at their chambers to serve morning chocolate, Flora had been all atwitter at how the servants’ quarters had an indoor boghouse, how the butler was devilishly ’andsome and that the footmen had been ordered to keep their peepers on the three of them.
Rothwell had left the house at dawn and she’d pondered on how a duke would occupy his day. He’d mentioned business meetings previously but surely dukes were more likely to spend the hours boating on the Serpentine or counting their acres – and so the only person they’d conversed with had been Lord Virgil Brook, who’d insisted they call him Uncle and asked what they’d thought of his tasselled Arabian robes.
Very Byronic, if one wished to know their diplomatic reply.
Whilst Artemisia had rested in the afternoon, Evelyn had explored the townhouse and…got lost, its three floors and basement a confusing muddle of oak doors, lavish paisley rugs and tapestries of triumphant Rothwells in armour.
Luckily the trailing footman had directed her back to her bedchamber via the Occasional Breakfasting Room – truly, she’d not the words.
Now here they all sat, summoned for dinner at a half after five.
The duke ruled from the head of the table, appearing hideously handsome in an indigo-blue tailcoat that matched his eyes. Evelyn fidgeted to his left with Artemisia beside her, whilst opposite sat Uncle, still resplendent in his robes, and a debonair Lord Ernest Brook, who had smiled with rakish charm at the introductions. Last of all, there sat a certain Lady Owlswick, tucking into the soup with gusto.
Curiously, the seat placements were not according to rank and a firm ducal hand had guided her to this particular chair, speaking volumes: you are to stay close…
Whilst dressing for dinner, Evelyn and her sister had discussed their predicament and arrived at the uneasy conclusion that they must merely watch and wait, to see if the threat of the gallows loomed in their future. But for now, they had food in their belly, soft sheets to lie upon and the duke had insisted another doctor attend her sister on the morrow as the cough had not diminished.
Nevertheless, two concerns remained.
Filgrave being one.
How were they to pay their debt?
The other was Rothwell’s kiss. Did he mean to offer her a carte blanche? Or was he purely amusing himself whilst he sought the answer to the painting’s riddle?
Evelyn huffed and concentrated on the rabbit collops. They required… “Could you pass the mustard, please, Your Grace?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The duke’s tone was as though she’d asked him to comb Cleopatra for fleas.
“The mustard? It’s beside your left cuff.”
Keeping his eyes uniquely focused on her, he sipped claret, all hauteur and refinement.
Artemisia sighed at the delicious sight – traitor.
“Copperhouse?” he intoned. “Could you attend Mrs Swift.”
The butler conveyed instructions to the first footman who hastily arrived at the table to raise the container with white gloves from beneath the duke’s gaze, take two steps, and present it to her as though ’twere a crown.
She graciously nodded. Then plopped three spoonfuls onto her rabbit.
Silence fell, and a silver salt and pepper set was also placed before her, the intricate pair worth more than her debt to Filgrave, notwithstanding the exotic spice within…
“Rothwell!” a shriek summoned from halfway down the table, and they all glanced to Lady Owlswick, whose allegedly short-sighted eyes pinned Evelyn like a Red Admiral butterfly in a case. “Who’s the girl? Speak up.”
“I told you earlier, Cousin Lydia,” shouted the duke. “She’s a distant relative.”
“Are you quite sure? Redheads in the ancestral tree?” One silvered
eyebrow raised as pursed lips downturned. “How vulgar.” And her attention was once more consigned to the soup.
The duke’s head dipped close – or as close as it could. “I am maintaining that you are a distant cousin whose normal residence has rats, so there is no tittle-tattle amongst the servants or neighbours.”
Evelyn nodded.
Hush descended once more, and all in all, Evelyn almost wished they were back at Hop Gardens, cheek by jowl with Flora and spiced buns.
But second course arrived.
Duck in caper sauce, roasted pigeon au jus, braised leveret and a chine of salmon were set before them, and she noticed Artemisia’s lip quiver.
She would have squeezed her sister’s hand if she could have reached, but instead they gazed at each other with moist eyes.
Such luxury and bounty whilst others lived in abject hunger.
With heads bowed in gratitude for gifts bestowed, they heaped spoonfuls onto their Worcester chinaware and Evelyn’s troubled thoughts wandered to the paintings that adorned the walls: an austere lady in gloomy black silk and Tudor ruff eyed Evelyn in distaste, whilst above the mantel a golden-curled cavalier bedecked in silver lace raised a haughty Rothwell brow.
“Mrs Swift…” She peered to Lord Ernest, whose demeanour was one of sensual ease. “How is the pigeon au jus?”
“Oh.” She’d been shovelling it in like coal to a new-fangled steam engine. “Perfectly…pigeon-like.”
The dapper lord tasted a morsel, and as he peered over his spectacles, eyes alight with wicked enticement, she concluded he must cause many a female bosom to rise in agitation.
“Indeed, it is,” he agreed. “And I have to say that it is most pleasant to dine with female company for a change but do tell me of yourself. I believe you deal in art. Do you paint also?”
Her heart stuttered and she fired a glare at the duke. Had he requested his brother to probe?
“I cannot paint for a fig, my lord.” She crossed her toes beneath the table.
“I was under the impression,” the duke drawled, toying with his crystal goblet, eyes stalking her, “that you were a scene artist at a theatre.”
The Duke of Diamonds (The Games of Gentlemen Book 1) Page 12