“Larla, me heart. Give the auld man a kiss, then.” His Scottish accent always deepened when he was feeling sentimental.
She gave him a dutiful peck on the cheek and continued to glare at Mr. Doverspike.
“So ye already know Tommy-boy, here, do ye? Weel, that’s grand, then, isn’t it?” Angus said genially, then turned back to Doverspike. “How did ye happen to meet me Larla?”
‘Tommy-boy’ dipped in that infuriatingly smooth bow of his, one brow arched in amusement. Artemisia’s face felt so hot, she wondered why steam wasn’t leaking from her ears.
“Larla?” Mr. Doverspike said quizzically. “That name is a right puzzlement, guv. I only know the lady as Her Grace, the Duchess of Southwycke.”
“Weel, we can fix that right now. Doverspike, this is me firstborn and the apple of me eye, Larla Dalrymple. Her mother gave her the name Artemisia-after her father Artie Campbell, ye ken—and old Theodore Pelham-Smythe pitched in the duchess part . . . haven’t seen him around much of late, have I?” Angus paused and worried his bottom lip for a moment. Then he shrugged off the mystery. “But to me she’ll always be me Larla. Won’t ye, sweeting?”
Her father slipped his arm around her waist and tugged her close to plant a dry kiss on her temple. Gently, she disengaged herself. Her family relationships were not fodder for the likes of Thomas Doverspike. Especially since now she was convinced he must be a reporter of some ilk trying to learn more of the family’s intimate secrets. To trade on her father’s misfortune—truly, members of the press had no shame.
“Father, Naresh will be back to help you momentarily. Mr. Doverspike and I have some business to discuss,” she said with a pointed glance that dared him to dispute her word. “We haven’t time for pleasantries just now.”
“Och, and more’s the pity.” Angus shook his balding head. “If ye haven’t time, ye haven’t anything.”
“Very wise,” Mr. Doverspike said with a mischievous glance at Artemisia. Did the man just wink at her? “I suspect you are a philosopher of sorts, Mr. Dalrymple.”
“Angus, son. I’m too old to stand on ceremony. Call me Angus.” He waved them off. “Hurry on with yourselves then. Only mind the python on the path as ye go.”
Python, indeed. Artemisia shook her head. The only snake in this garden was the unconscious Felix.
And possibly the mysterious Mr. Doverspike.
Artemisia was relieved to see that Naresh had collected her stepson and bundled him off to his bed before Mr. Doverspike had the pleasure of seeing a future peer foxed out of his mind.
Doverspike followed closely behind her, humming a tune she didn’t recognize. Probably a shockingly ribald drinking song, but at least it allowed her to know he was there.
Once on a tiger hunt, Naresh told her that wild creatures had a sixth sense that allowed them to feel when eyes were upon them. Was Thomas Doverspike’s dark gaze focused on her right now, probing her secrets, looking for a point of weakness? A delicious shiver tickled down her spine and settled at its base.
This will never do.
She stopped, turned back suddenly and bumped right into him. He reached out to catch her as she tottered. Her whole body was pressed tight against him. Dressed en dishabille as she was, without stays and whalebone to buttress her form, she could feel every solid plane of him. The broad expanse of his chest, his tight, flat abdomen, even his muscular thighs, and his . . .
Artemisia gulped as she realized what other part of Mr. Doverspike became suddenly rock hard.
“He’s right, you know.” His voice was a low rumble, like the purr of a full-grown tiger. He smelled of the wild, too—all wood smoke and fresh clippings and green growing things. “He’s absolutely right.”
Who is? Artemisia wanted to ask, but the words got hung up in her throat. She didn’t trust herself to speak for fear an unruly shiver would slip out with her words.
“‘If we haven’t time, we haven’t anything.’” He studied her face with unhurried absorption, making no move to release her as he ought.
It was one thing to reach out to catch her when she was in danger of losing her balance, but it really was positively indecent the way he was holding her now—so close she could feel his heartbeat, feel her own quickening into the same racing rhythm.
A woman could sink into those dark eyes and never be heard from again. Artemisia felt herself begin to tumble into them. If she tilted her head, he might very well kiss her.
This will most certainly never do.
Artemisia shoved against his chest, and he released her immediately. She stomped away from him toward the house.
“You’re wrong, Mr. Doverspike,” she called over her shoulder. “For some things, there is not enough time in the world.”
Chapter 5
At first Trev thought he’d overplayed his hand and scared her shy of him. Still, he thought he sensed a moment when her body melted into his before she shoved him away. He really shouldn’t have held her so closely, but damnation, she felt good in his arms.
He feared he’d been sacked as well as rebuffed, but clearly the duchess meant for him to follow. Else she wouldn’t continue to glance back at him.
“Come along, Mr. Doverspike, don’t dawdle.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he drawled. “The sun waits for no one.”
“Precisely.” She sailed through the halls to her sun-lit studio, claiming the space by right and sweeping all lesser mortals out of her way.
Without further instruction, Trev slipped into the changing room, peeled out of his clothes and donned the comfortable robe. He took several deep breaths before he rejoined Her Grace, willing his lust into quiescence.
The duchess may have once been a married woman, and from the number of covered canvases in her studio, he was sure she’d painted a veritable pantheon of nak*d men. Yet the way her green eyes flared with alarm when he held her close was more reminiscent of a virgin.
She was seated with her drawing accoutrements at the ready when he emerged in his robe. Light from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her bathed her in luminescence, gilding her dark hair with the luster of polished jet. Fashion favored blond curls, but they seemed insipid to Trevelyn compared to Lady Southwycke’s dusky beauty. Her head was bent over her sketchbook, completely absorbed in her work. She was so lovely, his member rose of its own volition despite his determination against just such a reaction.
Then she looked up, the disdain on her pouty lips reminding him how little she thought of him and his erection shriveled.
That’s for the best, he thought as he went to collect his helmet and gladius.
“No, no props today.” She stood to adjust her easel. “I only want to capture your basic lines without any distractions.”
No distractions? The woman herself was a walking distraction. He’d bet any amount of guineas she didn’t know how the light behind her diffused through her thin morning gown, rendering it nearly transparent. He could see the outline of her shapely legs quite clearly. For one who prided herself on keen observation, she didn’t look to herself very often.
Or maybe she did. Maybe she was completely aware of the allure of the unobtainable and used that knowledge against her models with sadistic ruthlessness. Was she certain none of the base-born fellows she employed would dare raise so much as their eyes toward her, even though their rampant cocks showed no such reticence?
“Mr. Doverspike, whenever you’re ready, we can begin,” she said evenly. “I seem to recall your claim that you were not shy, so if you please . . .”
She let the command dangle unspoken in the air. Trev began to mentally count backward from one hundred in an effort to maintain control over his body. He drew off the robe and let it fall to the floor.
Her green gaze slid over him, critical and unflinching. He forced himself to breath normally, counting backward from one hundred to master his responses. 99, 98 . . .
Did she feel anything at all when she looked at him? Even the slightest flicker of desire? Or was he just a sentient bowl of fruit as far as she was concerned, an interesting problem for her to resolve in lights and darks?
“If you find the studio too chilly, I can ring for Cuthbert to stir up the fire,” she offered.
“No, I’m fine, thank you.” The idea of another person, even a servant, witnessing his struggle to master himself was too distressing to contemplate. He welcomed the slight chill in the room at this point.
89, 88, 87, . . . Her gaze dipped to his groin, and he ground his teeth. 83, 82, . . .
Her brows drew together in a frown as she bent to her work. The scooped neckline of her morning dress fell forward, giving him a clear view of the hollow between her br**sts. He flexed his fingers, trying to banish the thought of plunging them into her bodice to explore the luscious peaks and tender valley.
76, 75, . . . Despite his best efforts, his body roused to her.
“I’m most pleased to see that you’ve become accustomed to my presence,” she said without looking up from her renderings. Then she turned her penetrating gaze on him. “Oh!” The hint of a satisfied smile twitched her lips as she flicked his erection with a fleeting glance before returning her attention to her sketchpad. “Well, give it a bit more time and this will all seem quite normal to you.”
“Care to wager on that?” he murmured between clenched teeth.
She appeared not to have heard him for she continued scratching her chalk over the paper with deft, sure strokes.
“For someone who hasn’t much to say now, you certainly were quite talkative in the garden.” Her eyes flashed back at him, this time with repressed irritation. “Since my father fell ill, we’ve tried to speak to him in sensible ways, even when he made little sense in return. Perhaps you thought you were being kind by indulging in fanciful word play with someone whose mind wouldn’t know the difference—“
So she’d overheard the exchange of code between him and Angus Dalrymple. Whatever else may have slipped her father’s mind, he still responded to the set phrases of the Corps properly. Trev didn’t want to endanger her by revealing the true nature of his conversation with her father, so it was best to let her imagine what she would of him.
Even if it was the worst.
“Let me advise you, Mr. Doverspike, I don’t appreciate you making sport of the afflicted.”
“That was never my intention, I assure you,” he said.
“Then what is your intention?” she demanded, her cheeks dashed with crimson. “Asking unnecessary questions, accosting an old man in his garden—just what is your game? Are you gathering a few more tidbits for those gossipmongers you write for? If you make my father a laughingstock, I promise I’ll instruct my solicitor to sue you and your miserable employers for every pot of ink they possess.”
“What?”
“You may drop the pretense, Mr. Doverspike. I know Mr. Phelps did not send you to me. The real model came later yesterday, too far gone with drink to be of any use.” She narrowed her eyes at him, daring him to deny his subterfuge. “All those questions about my father and our trustee. You aren’t employed by any counting house. You write for The Tattler, don’t you?”