The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  “And you’re looking as lovely as ever,” Miles Whitman added as he moved to her side and handed her a glass of champagne. “I daresay you’re the most talented among us as well. I had no idea you’d be with us for this event.”

  She smiled and took a much-needed swallow from her glass.

  Whitman, curator of London’s modern art museum, would marry her next week, for the prestige alone, if she showed just the slightest measure of interest. She hadn’t seen either man since Isabella’s party, and although Fairbourne appeared only slightly amused by her presence, Whitman once again stared at her with a growing grin of excitement on his round, middle-aged face, patting down his oiled, thinning hair and licking his lips as if he couldn’t wait to take a bite out of her neck.

  Ian took a step closer to her so that she could now feel his warmth at her back, his shoulder behind hers, his legs pressing fully into the folds of her wide skirts.

  “Lady Cheshire is in the process of painting my formal portrait,” he maintained pleasantly, “and in that capacity, she is my special guest this evening.”

  Miles looked from her to Ian, and then back again, his countenance falling as he slowly came to the conclusion they were indeed a couple, probably as the insufferable man had planned. Suddenly she felt smothered, felt her cheeks growing hot, and had it not been for the piercing laughter of Lady Diana Freemont from the buffet line, reminding Viola that she was in the safety of other ladies of the peerage, she might have shriveled up into a ball in the corner, hoping not to be noticed until she could make an escape.

  “So, what have you got planned for us tonight, then?” Whitman asked after clearing his throat, abruptly bemused.

  “Heard it’s a Bartlett-James original,” a voice from behind them cut in. “So, Chatwin, when are we going to see what’s behind the velvet?”

  Viola turned to see Bartholomew St. Giles, Baron Brisbane, walking toward them, his small china plate piled high with edibles, his portly stature stuffed snugly into his waistcoat and dinner jacket. She knew Brisbane because she had painted his wife’s portrait last summer. He’d also, years earlier, been one of the first to purchase several of her Victor Bartlett-James original sketches as a collector highly interested in erotic art. Of course he didn’t know she was the artist of such risqué work, just as all these men and women now in the Duke of Chatwin’s drawing room had heard of Bartlett-James or collected various erotic pieces but remained ignorant—at least until tonight.

  “You’ve heard correctly, Brisbane,” Ian replied.

  The baron chuckled with delight as Whitman looked at Ian, aghast. “There are ladies present, Chatwin. It—it must be especially . . . artistic?”

  Viola bit down to keep from laughing. Miles looked as if it had just been announced that nude dancers would be the evening’s entertainment.

  “They’re all married ladies, Whitman,” Ian countered, “and they’ve all seen questionable artwork before.”

  Miles nodded sheepishly. “Yes, I . . . suppose. It is art, after all.”

  “Have you heard of the erotic artist Victor Bartlett-James, Lady Cheshire?”

  That from Fairbourne, who continued to look amused by the entire event.

  She took another sip of champagne. “I’m sure everybody has heard of him, sir. At least everybody in the London art world.”

  Seconds later, he asked, “Where do you suppose one would hang his kind of art? Certainly not the parlor.”

  Brisbane chuckled, then coughed and waved himself away from the small group as he seemed to choke on a pastry. Whitman’s eyes widened and he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, his round face reddening. And although she’d never felt more ill at ease at any other time in her life, Viola managed to keep herself from cowering by maintaining a false air of dignity.

  After clearing her throat, she suggested, “I would think if a person could actually afford to purchase a Bartlett-James original, he could hang it anywhere he wanted, your grace.”

  Fairbourne almost smiled. Then he nodded to her once and replied, “I hadn’t thought of that, but I do suppose you’re right, madam.”

  She tried to ignore the flush in her face as she took another sip from her glass. Thankfully, Whitman turned away to speak to Mrs. Quicken, and Fairbourne excused himself to attend the buffet. For a second, she almost relaxed—until Ian reminded her he still stood at her back.

  Leaning over, he whispered in her ear, “I think the best place to hang erotic art might be the bedchamber. What do you think, Lady Cheshire?”

  She wanted to scream. Instead, she turned to look at him, her features flat. “If you’re trying to startle me, your grace, it won’t work,” she said mildly.

  “Startle you?”

  She inhaled a deep breath, then let it out heavily. “You know I’m a widow and artist and therefore not at all shocked by erotic work, or viewing it in public.”

  His eyes bore into hers. “What about viewing it in private?”

  Nervously, she glanced around, noting with some assuagement that nobody appeared close enough to hear them.

  “Viola?”

  She glared at him again. “I believe viewing it in private is what gentlemen do, your grace.”

  “Ah.” He glanced down her bodice again. “So the piece I purchased never hung in your bedchamber for you and your husband’s viewing pleasure?”

  She gaped at him, then whispered, “That’s none of your business.”

  He gave her a genuine smile, the first she’d seen from him, and the look of cunning delight on his handsome face made her suddenly falter.

  “I’m hungry,” she lied, turning away from him.

  Quickly, he reached out and took her hand in his, pulling her gently back. Leaning over, he whispered, “I’m hungry, too, Viola, and your sketch, which I’m going to hang in my bedroom after tonight’s showing, has whet my appetite.”

  She couldn’t look at him, though she did notice one or two people watching them curiously. Fighting the urge to toss her remaining champagne in his face, she instead gently pulled her hand free and murmured, “Hang it any damn place you like. Now leave me alone. People are staring.”

  That said, she lifted her skirts and walked around him toward the foodstuff, listening to his chuckle with prickly nerves and heated flesh she tried very hard to ignore.

  For three-quarters of an hour, she mingled restlessly, unable to do anything but pick at the roast beef, cucumber sandwich, and ginger cake she’d placed on her plate, listening to Lady Freemont and Lady Brisbane discuss charity work and social news while staying removed from the men. Finally the ladies turned to the subject of art, and the conversation became far more intimate.

  Lady Freemont, a woman of nearly sixty, with broad hips and shoulders, thick silver hair piled high on her head, and now more than a little tipsy from drink, leaned closer to say conspiratorially, “Have you ever created one of those, Lady Cheshire?”

  Viola blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Lady Freemont laughed, then clarified in whispered excitement, “A naughty painting!”

  Lady Brisbane giggled like a woman half her age, and Mrs. Quicken walked toward them, leaving her husband’s side to discover what might be so entertaining in their discussion.

  “Yes, do tell,” Lady Brisbane insisted, huddling closer. “I wish I had the skill, myself. Just think of the fun Bartholomew and I could have watching it come to life at my fingertips!”

  They all laughed again. Viola forced a chuckle, feeling more annoyed than amused. Mrs. Quicken, younger than the others by a decade or so, took a rather large gulp from her champagne glass, then said, “There are quite a lot of good artists who can emulate his style, but I daresay there’s not one who captures the mood of love like Victor Bartlett-James does.”

  “The mood of love?” Lady Freemont leaned b
ack with another laugh, sloshing a bit of her drink on her skirts without notice. “Oh, goodness, what a thought!” With bright eyes, she glanced back at Viola. “Come, Lady Cheshire, you can tell us. Have you ever thought of creating your own brand of risqué art?”

  Grinning, she shrugged lightly. “I’m sure if I did I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

  “Which means,” Ian said from behind her, “that perhaps she already has?”

  Someone gasped, then everyone giggled as if they’d been caught in a bawdy tête-à-tête. Except her. Forcing a smile, she glanced over her rigid shoulders to find him standing perhaps a foot away, champagne in hand, looking at her with mild speculation on his handsome face.

  “Your grace,” she replied, “I think if I attempted to re-create the Victor Bartlett-James mood of love, you would be the last to know.”

  He nodded once at her coyness, taking a step toward the small group. “Duly noted, madam, though after seeing your work on portraits, I suspect your . . . talent would shine in any form.”

  She had trouble deciding if she should take that as an actual compliment, though the ladies no doubt did. Smiling, she carefully replied, “Such praise, coming from you, sir, is beyond gracious.”

  He raised a brow at her quick, ambiguous retort and she grinned in triumph before turning away from him and looking back at the ladies. Suddenly she felt his palm against her lower back and she instinctively stiffened, startled that he would display such a manner of intimate possession in front of the others. She didn’t move an inch, praying nobody in the vicinity would notice.

  “I think it’s time to for the unveiling, don’t you?” he maintained softly across her shoulder.

  “Oh, goodness, yes,” Lady Freemont said, fanning herself with her hand. “I don’t think I need any more champagne.”

  Lady Brisbane laughed jovially, as if finding some outrageous joke in Lady Freemont’s consumption of drink. Mrs. Quicken’s eyes lit up as she glanced across the drawing room. “My husband always seems to disappear the moment he is needed.”

  Viola opened her mouth to offer a comment, and at precisely that moment, she felt Ian’s palm move smoothly down her gown and rest momentarily on her bottom.

  Her breath caught and her face flushed hotly as he caressed the lower half of one cheek with his fingertips. She didn’t move, couldn’t register anything except the racing of her pulse.

  “Actually, your husband and Lord Fairbourne went to the balcony to enjoy their pipes in open air,” Ian offered, his voice low and formal. “I just sent a footman after them.”

  “Oh, good,” she replied, pulling at a stray brown curl at her cheek and bending it behind her ear. “Perhaps I’ll take a moment then to freshen my beverage. Excuse me, your grace?”

  “Of course, please,” he replied at once, gesturing with a nod toward the table of unopened bottles.

  “I think I’ll do the same,” Lady Freemont said, clearly changing her mind about having more champagne after taking the final swallow from her glass. “Margaret? Lady Cheshire?”

  She couldn’t speak. He continued to subtly caress her bottom, and although his palm and fingers remained atop layers of satin and petticoats, she felt the touch as a scorch to nude skin.

  “I think I’d like to have a private word with Lady Cheshire,” Ian said seconds later. “If you don’t mind?”

  Both ladies looked at her with wide eyes, then back at him.

  “No, no, of course not,” Lady Brisbane sputtered. “If you’ll excuse us, then?”

  They curtseyed in unison and stepped away, their heads huddled together in whispered words until Margaret giggled again as they neared the sidebar.

  “If you move away from me, Viola,” he warned softly, “I’ll grab you and kiss you in front of everyone.”

  She swallowed, seething, then managed to whisper furiously, “What do you want?”

  He leaned over and put his lips next to her ear. “I have nothing more to say. I just wanted to feel your softness and imagine you naked and moaning for a few seconds longer.”

  She clenched her fists at her sides to keep from striking him. “I rather think you enjoy embarrassing me, sir,” she murmured tightly. “You’ve made everyone here tonight think we’re intimate.”

  His warm breath teased the back of her neck. “Not necessarily. Nobody can see my hand on you, Viola. Everyone is in front of us.”

  Drawing a shaky breath, she pivoted slightly to look at him, and the stark lust she beheld in his eyes took her aback. Suddenly he dropped his hand from her and she took a step away, turning to face him fully.

  He held her gaze for a moment, his features hard, his lips thinned grimly, his skin as flushed as hers.

  She couldn’t believe that his touching her over her gown for a few seconds could arouse him. But in silence, she glanced down to note the rigid erection beneath his trousers, and her mouth opened slightly in shock.

  “I haven’t been with a woman in a long time,” he murmured, his tone thick and low. “It doesn’t take much to make me respond.”

  She blinked, gazing back into his eyes, uncertain what to say, the urge to run overwhelming her more than at any other time since he’d come back into her life. Yet she also felt the sharp pull between them, luring the memory of his beautiful nude body to the surface of her thoughts, reminding her of just how much she had desired him then—and how difficult it would be to resist him now.

  “How can you want me physically and yet hate me enough to humiliate me at the same time?” she whispered as cold confusion swept over her.

  He shoved his hands in the pockets of his dinner jacket. “I don’t know.”

  She shook her head in disbelief, noting with a sinking heart how he didn’t at all deny his need to shame her.

  Drawing a long breath, he admitted solemnly, “But I do know that only you will do, and I intend to have you, in spite of your class, your own desires, and your future. In spite of everything.”

  That appalling certainty, coupled with the obvious contempt he showed for her in everything he did and said, acted like an abrupt icing of her veins.

  “I detest you, Lord Chatwin,” she breathed, her words coated with loathing. “And I’ve never, in my life, felt sorrier for such a lost soul.”

  Before he could respond, she turned and walked away, shaking inside, moving as quickly as she could to the sideboard for a long, full glass of his excellent champagne, vowing that by this time tomorrow she would be gone from his life forever, regardless of the price to be paid. Nothing mattered more now than escaping his clutches with her son in her protection and her pride intact.

  Nothing.

  They gathered around the covered easel in front of the mantel, Ian on one side, Mr. Quicken on the other. Several others had joined the party in the last half hour, drinking and eating and awaiting the showing of great, erotic art. Viola stood back a little, between Fairbourne and Lady Freemont, refusing to look at Chatwin even once since she’d left him in rage nearly an hour ago. But she could feel his gaze on her face as intensely as she noticed the expectancy in the air.

  Chin held high, she waited as Chatwin began a short monologue of his ambition to buy fine, excellent art in various forms, from sculpture to paintings, and how he’d never purchased erotic art before but had heard of Victor Bartlett-James and had taken this opportunity to expand his collection. Finally, he raised his hand and pulled the black velvet from the frame.

  An audible gasp could be heard among the group—then whispered comments of praise and a nuance of graphic language to describe the sketch in detail as they all started talking at once.

  Viola sipped her champagne, nodding when Lady Freemont offered her thoughts, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible. At last Mr. Quicken moved in to study the artwork with the precision of an authenticator, scanning each inch of the piece and spe
aking in hushed tones to Chatwin. She paid little attention to her surroundings, waiting for the perfect moment to slip away and head quickly home, when she heard him say her name.

  Mr. Quicken turned abruptly and looked at her. “Lady Cheshire?” he repeated, his thick brows furrowed deeply.

  Suddenly all eyes were on her as silence fell across the drawing room.

  Her mouth went dry. “I beg your pardon?”

  Ian cleared his throat. “I had to tell him where I purchased the sketch, madam,” he said very smoothly. “I’m sorry.”

  She had no idea what was happening. Momentarily stunned, she finally looked at her nemesis.

  He watched her with cool, calculated eyes and a coldly satisfied demeanor. And the look he gave her caused a shiver of fear to run through her. “I—Forgive me for being confused, but—”

  “Did this sketch belong to your husband, Lady Cheshire?” Quicken asked, his tone one of concern.

  Her mouth dropped open; she felt the blood drain from her face as the shock of that question sank in. He had exposed her secret, at least partially, and she couldn’t deny it now. Not in front of everyone in attendance here tonight.

  With firm resolve, she replied, “Yes, it’s true. My late husband purchased it years ago, and I only just discovered it during a cleaning of my attic. My solicitor sold it on my behalf to Lord Chatwin.”

  It was the best she could do under the circumstances, but at least the explanation sounded reasonable. She would deal with the little gossip her revelation might create tomorrow.

  Stanford Quicken rubbed his jowls with his plump fingers, his frown deepening. “I’m so very sorry, madam.”

  “Sorry?”

  The man’s cheeks grew pink as he shifted from one foot to the other, casting a fast glance at Ian before looking at her once more. “I know this is quite . . . I realize how shocking this must be.”

  An uncomfortable stillness filled the room. Viola glanced around her as the sliver of fear Ian’s calculated gaze had evoked moments earlier turned to alarm. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.