by Mia Marlowe
“I didn’t know you were political,” Artemisia said with a frown.
Constance laughed musically, as if her daughter had just uttered a witticism. “It’s not the politics. It’s the power. That’s all it ever is, really. The Dalrymple name is joined to Southwycke, but you must admit, a dowager duchess only counts for so much. Once the house of Angus Dalrymple is entwined with both Shrewsbury and Warre, I defy anyone to ever snub me again.”
Artemisia bit her tongue. Even though they were discussing her sisters’ futures, as usual, her mother had managed to turn the situation so it was about her. Artemisia tried to remind herself that her mother had grown up barefoot in a Highland hovel. That might account for being overly self-conscious about her station—or lack thereof.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt for Constance to think of her girls for once.
The string ensemble struck up a stately gavotte and Artemisia looked back to Florinda and her dancing partner. The gentleman bared his white teeth in a dazzling smile. Then he bent in a courtly bow and finished it with a flourish. He excused himself and retreated from the dance floor.
Artemisia gasped and had to force herself to close her gaping mouth. The man her sister had been dancing with, the man her mother claimed was Trevelyn Deveridge, had just bowed as smoothly as that wretched pretender, Thomas Doverspike.
Chapter 12
Trevelyn pushed his way through the throng, making obligatory acknowledgments as he passed members of the ton he recognized beneath their costumes. He’d never been too fond of masquerades, but his father was keen on his attendance at this one. The earl had all but shoved him onto the dance floor with that tongue-tied little peacock.
Lord Warre had tried numerous times to see him wedded to a socially prominent wife. So far, Trev had eluded capture, but there had been some near misses over the years. As long as he was careful not to compromise some darling debutant, Trevelyn planned on enjoying his bachelorhood for the foreseeable future. After all, he wasn’t destined for the earldom. It wasn’t as though he needed to sire an heir and a spare.
His work in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, which he took pains to be sure his father knew nothing about, nearly made being single mandatory. Especially once he made the transfer to the Delhi office. A man couldn’t disappear into tribal regions to play the Great Game for months at a time if he had a memsahib and a passel of little ones depending upon him.
Besides, the girls his father shoved him toward—he couldn’t think of the simpering creatures as women—seemed even shallower than ever since he met the unconventional Duchess of Southwycke. There were more layers to her personality, and surprising sensuality, than a dowager has petticoats. He’d have been delighted to peel them back one by one, but not as her kept fancy man. As Trevelyn Deveridge, he’d have had no objection to making her his mistress, but as Thomas Doverspike, he was still furious that she thought she could own him as if he were one of her damn cats.
Part of his mind recognized the inconsistency in that view, but he wasn’t prepared to examine it more closely. If not for the urgency of locating Beddington, he’d avoid her completely.
Angus Dalrymple was no help, even to himself. The duchess was cagey and secretive about her trustee. Mr. Beddington had shown an almost wraithlike ability to disappear into thin air. Trevelyn practically met Lady Southwycke coming out of the office door in his guise as Terrence Dinwiddie. But when he arrived at the business address of J. S. Beddington, Esq. the only person in the well-appointed suite was the be-spectacled James Shipwash. Lady Southwycke surely hadn’t spent the better part of the morning closeted with Beddington’s assistant. He’d met with another dead end.
A suspicious dead end.
Beddington holds the key. Since Angus Dalrymple trusted him with it, surely the man must realize its vital importance. If the key wasn’t found soon . . .
To escape the press of people, Trevelyn slipped into the duchess’s dark studio. He slid the bolt home behind him to make sure of a few moments peace. With his luck, one of the debs would follow him in, claim he took liberties, and before he knew what was what, he’d be led down the aisle.
The strains of the string ensemble and the nattering small talk that reminded Trev of a gaggle of geese faded behind the closed door. The smell of oil paint and chalk and the sweet lingering scent of violets, the fragrance the duchess always wore, greeted him. It was almost as if she were there in the dark. He brushed away the unwelcome longing that thought stirred.
With only the light of the moon shafting in the long windows, the room was awash in shades of gray. The canvases of Her Grace’s work stood around the room shrouded with white linen to protect them, like so many disembodied souls. Curiosity niggled at him. This might be his only chance to see Mars. He crossed over to the draped easel nearest the windows, pulled back the covering and stared at his own likeness as the god of war.
In battle, Trevelyn had done his part and been commended for valor more than once. In the midst of smoke and blood and cannon fire, a man couldn’t think. He could only act. But he’d never become inured to the suffering of the wounded and dying. It was what had led him to resign his commission. His records had been sealed lest the numerous honors draw undue attention to him, and he embarked on a career in intelligence. With the right information in the right hands, he’d help avert future bloodshed.
The background of the painting was fuzzy and indistinct, but the figure of Mars nearly leaped off the canvas. Somehow, the duchess managed to capture his sense of needless waste and despair in a few thousand brushstrokes. The expression on the god of war’s face was grim. His muscles were strained and taut, his long limbs stretched out as if on a rack of agony, cleanly defined by her deft hand. He was just about to pronounce the unfinished work a masterpiece, till his gaze swept down the torso of Mars.
The duchess had rendered his balls pea-sized and his penis the length of a cigar butt.
A very short cigar butt.
“Something vexes you about my painting?”
She stepped from the shadows into a silver pool of moonlight. He should have trusted his instincts and his nose when he first entered this dark lair.
Much as he’d hoped to avoid her this evening, still he had to admit she was dazzling. The jewel on her forehead winked at him. And, Good Lord, was there one in her belly button as well? The pale skin of her bare midriff made his palms burn to touch her there, to feel the silken softness of her abdomen.
She was as enchanting and exotic as the Eastern princess in Richard F. Burton’s salacious missives from Aden. The princess in that tome neglected the short-sleeved half-blouse beneath her sari, her breasts proudly displayed for all eyes. Trevelyn dared not let his mind wander that route as he gazed at the duchess. But his mouth went suddenly dry.
“Bonsoir, Your Grace.” Trevelyn affected a thick French accent in keeping with his costume. The Gallic nasality should mask his voice’s normal timbre. He hoped that even though he saw through her disguise quickly—by Heaven, there was little enough of it—she’d have no reason to associate a musketeer with her erstwhile model. “What makes you think something vexes me?”
“Possibly the little snorting sound you made a moment ago,” she said with poisonous sweetness as she came to stand beside him, seemingly as intent on the canvas as he had been. “I don’t usually allow my work to be seen before it is finished, but since my model for this piece has disappeared, it’s likely this one will remain forever in its current state.”
The thought of his image depicted with miniscule genitals for eternity bothered him more than it should have.
“Are you sure this is an accurate likeness, madam? The model seems somehow . . . disproportioned.”
“Really?” she said with incredulity, stepping forward to squint at the offending portion of the canvas. “It’s exactly as I remember him.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed,” she affirmed. She drew herself up to her full height and removed the filmy veil covering the lower hal
f of her lovely face. She extended a regal hand to him. “You seem to know who I am, my fine D’artagnon. I can return the compliment, though we’ve yet to be properly introduced. You are, I believe, the Honorable Mr. Trevelyn Deveridge, son of the Earl of Warre, are you not?”
“Your Grace does me honor.” He bowed over her offered fingertips and brushed a kiss on her knuckles, hiding his disappointment that she’d ferreted out his true identity. She was clearly furious with his alter-ego for deserting her. If things were different between them, he’d have turned her palm up and pressed his lips into her soft hand. “Surely, a second son is unworthy of your notice.”
“Oh, there’s where you’re wrong. You’ve done a great deal that’s come to my notice. In addition to being Mr. Deveridge, you are also Terrence Dinwiddie, a stoop-shouldered, graying scribe in want of a position.”
He froze.
“Though why you should solicit employment at the office of my trustee, I can’t imagine. Not receiving enough of an allowance from the earl, are you?”
“Your Grace, I—“
“Or perhaps you were dissatisfied with your wages here. Is that it, Mr. Doverspike?”
She smiled at him, her teeth silvered by moonlight. It was the feline smile of a tabby directed at a mouse she intends first to toy with, then to devour.
“Have there been any other incarnations or did I get them all?”
He straightened and met her smoking gaze. “There are others, Your Grace.” Some of his disguises were far less salubrious than Doverspike and Dinwiddie. Several extortionists and one wife-beater were still quaking over their run-ins with the ruthless Tobias Dunsworth. He took a step toward her. “But you’ve no cause to have met them. Not yet anyway.”
“You’re not terribly good at it, you know,” she said. “If I can see through you, your disguises can’t be that effective.”
“Before I saw the unfortunate proportions you’ve given your Mars, I would have said your powers of observation are keener than most, Your Grace,” he said smoothly. “In truth, you are the first to connect me with either of those alternate identities.”
“Are you a criminal, Mr. Deveridge? Or were you merely trying to learn more about the family you intend marrying into?”
Trevelyn swallowed hard. “What?”
“You needn’t be so circumspect. Mother assures me the arrangements are nearly complete.”
“Arrangements for what?”
“Your betrothal to my sister Florinda, of course,” she said. “I suppose I owe you a word of thanks. I must say, I now understand your reluctance to become my lover since you are destined to become my brother-in-law. This canvas of Mars is somewhat awkward, though. I never expected to paint a family member in the nude.”
“Naked,” he corrected as he took another step closer. Her scent worked its way to his brain and drove caution to the winds. “I was naked. And so were you, madam. Gloriously, splendidly naked.”
He thought the pulse beat at the base of her throat spiked a bit.
“Yes, well, under the circumstances, I shall have to rely upon your discretion in the unfortunate matter,” she said, her confident bearing slipping. “Pray banish that episode from your memory. I certainly have.”
“Liar,” he said.
Her eyes flared at him. “You, sir, will not insult me in my own home.”
“The truth is no insult.” He grabbed her and pulled her close. She struggled, but couldn’t break free of his arms. “And this is the truth between us, Your Grace.”
He covered her mouth with his. At first, her lips were hard and unyielding and she pummeled his chest with her fist. She almost convinced him her protest was genuine. But just when he was about to concede defeat and release her, he felt the stiffness drain from her body and she relaxed into his.
Her mouth softened and her lips parted, an unspoken welcome. He claimed her with his tongue, first in gentle exploration and then in bold thrusts. Her fists uncurled and she grasped the shoulder tabs on his tunic, tugging him closer.
His hands found her waist and pulled her tight against his aching groin. His fingers played in the indentation of her spine, tracing the length of her exposed flesh. Everywhere he touched she was warm, almost feverish.
God love the Hindus for inventing the sari, he thought as he plucked the gem from her navel and explored that secret space with his thumb. She moaned into his mouth.
He began unwrapping her, pulling end of the sari that was draped across her breasts.
“No, please,” she whispered.
“There are a hundred people on the other side of that door.” He continued to slide the silk over her shoulder. “The only way you’ll convince me you truly want me to stop is to scream.”
He cupped her chin and sampled her lips again. She was sweeter than spun sugar. “What’s it to be, madam?”
She looked up at him, her eyes enormous in the moonlight.
“I won’t scream.”
“I promise you’ll have no regrets,” he said.
Chapter 13
Artemisia couldn’t bring herself to move. She trembled as Trevelyn continued to draw the silk drape over her shoulder. The fabric caressed her skin, but it was nothing compared to the caress of his gaze. He tugged at the long strip of cloth, easing it from the waistband of her thin petticoat. The silk gave way and she felt the sari slide around her. She stood still, hardly daring to breathe. Fire raced through her veins. Reason told her this was the path to perdition, but for the life of her, she wouldn’t stop him.
“What are we doing?” she whispered in disbelief.
“What I’ve wanted to do since the moment I first saw you,” he said with a quick brush of his lips on her temple. “When you waved your luscious bottom in my face.”
Heat seared her cheeks. The man had unsettled her from the very first as well. So much so that even though she knew what they were doing was the worst kind of foolishness, she felt compelled to plunge ahead.
As he continued to unwrap the sari, she turned to speed her disrobing.
“If you were prepared to keep me as your lover, you must have wanted this too,” he said softly.
She stopped turning, face away from him. “Only since the day you first announced you weren’t shy,” she admitted.
The last of the silk sheared away, and she stood in only the tight half-blouse and straight petticoat. He lowered his lips to her neck. A rivulet of pleasure coursed over her skin as his fingers found the lacing at the back of her bodice. With great gentleness, he spread the opening and pulled the blouse up. She lifted her arms in surrender and her breasts sprang free as the garment slid over her head.
He reached around and cupped her breasts. No teasing touches this time. He held her, his palms hot beneath them. He thrummed her nipples with his thumbs until they became stiff peaks of longing. She whimpered at the crackle of heat lightning that seared her from her breasts to her womb. She’d ached for him to hold her this way. The joy of his touch now was almost more than she could bear.
She was bereft when his blessed hands left to slide down her ribs, the surprising calluses at the base of his aristocratic fingers nicking her skin, setting off a chain of sparks in their wake. He grasped her hips and pulled her close so she could feel his hardness. Artemisia surprised him, and herself, by arching her back and pressing her derriere against him.
He groaned.
A thrill of power rushed through her and settled in her groin. She was the focus of his desire. As such, she had the power to please or thwart him, to grant him pleasure or dash his hopes. She reveled in the measure of control this gave her. Then he kissed her shoulder and worked his way up her neck to suckle her earlobe. Her control quickly slipped away.
She’d never felt more tinglingly alive. Every square inch of her skin was charged with anticipation. She waited for his touch, the deft flick of his fingertips, the moistness of his mouth, the warmth of his palms as they slid over her.
He tugged her petticoat over her hips and let
it drop to pool at her bare feet. She was glad her costume required her to go without drawers. His hands found her buttocks, teasing the crease beneath each round cheek, then cupping them and kneading the tender flesh. Artemisia’s heart pounded between her legs.
Slowly he turned her to face him. His gaze traveled from her face down to her moonlit breasts, over her ribs and narrow waist to the flare of her hips. Her breath hitched as he studied the triangle of dark curls at the apex of her legs. His mouth lifted in a satisfied smile.
“You are nothing short of magnificent,” he said with reverence. Then he bent his head and paid homage to her breasts.
His breath warmed her nipples, teasing them with the nearness of his mouth. His tongue drew circles around her areolas. When he finally took one into his mouth, her knees nearly buckled.
“This will never do,” she said, stepping back.
He gave her a confused look.
“I like you better naked.”
“Never let it be said I failed to fulfill a lady’s wish,” he said with a grin. With her help—and sometimes hindrance when she insisted on kissing him instead of tugging at his clothing—he peeled out of his costume.
Her Mr. Doverspike was no longer merely an aesthetically pleasing collection of lines and planes, a puzzle of light and shadow. He was naked, bared body and soul. She reveled in the sight of him, hard, strong and undeniably male.
“Oh, Thomas, you’re beautiful and I never told you.”
“Your eyes always did, even if the words never came. And it’s Trevelyn, Your Grace,” he said as he enfolded her in his arms. The warmth and frisson of his bare skin on hers was heaven itself. “Call me Trevelyn. Or Trev, if you like.”
“Oh, yes, Trev. I definitely like.” She was surprised at the huskiness in her tone. “I suppose given the circumstances, it is rather ridiculous for you to call me ‘Your Grace.’ Perhaps, you’d better call me Artemisia.”
“No, if you’ll allow me, I think I’ll call you Larla,” he said with tenderness. “It’s your secret name and I intend to discover all your secrets in short order.”