How To Distract a Duchess (19 page)

“But . . .” How could she put into words what she felt? All her life, she’d been taught that part of her was unclean somehow, not to be touched more than absolutely necessary and then only with strong soap. She feared he might not like what he found as he explored her.

“You are altogether lovely, Larla,” he assured her, as if he heard her secret fears. She relaxed in the warmth of his approval and closed her eyes. He circled her triangle of curls with his thumb, seeking her deepest secrets. He touched. He teased. He lavished her with gentle insistence and the pressure inside built steadily till she could only whimper his name.

Her aching womb contracted once, and he withdrew his blessed hand.

“No, please,” she said, afraid he was stopping, but she stilled when he covered her body with his, his hips between her spread legs. “Oh, yes.”

He kissed her then. His tongue slipped into her mouth and his cock invaded her slowly at the same time. She hooked her legs around his, urging him deeper, but he was taking his maddening time about it.

Then suddenly, he plunged into her, burying himself in her flesh. He raised his upper body on his elbows and looked down at her.

Neither of them was capable of speech, but their gazes locked, and Artemisia couldn’t have looked away if her hope of Heaven depended upon it. The wonder of holding him inside her was joy beyond speaking. It was a tight fit, but she barely managed to accept his full length.

He started to move, and she responded by raising her hips to meet his thrusts. Artemisia’s world wound down to disjointed elements. Heat. Friction. Ache.

His warm male smell filled her nostrils, and she ground herself against him, ready to receive all of him. Hungry to receive him. Her heart throbbed between her legs.

“Harder,” she urged.

A ragged cry tore loose from his throat, and he pounded into her. From deep inside, a pulse began, a convulsion that caused her to lose control of her limbs. Joy flooded her entire being.

His release followed swiftly, in strong pulses as his seed flowed into her, hot and steady. For a blink, she realized they had taken no precautions against conception. Then lethargy stole over her and she found it difficult to care about anything but the sweetness of his sweat-dampened temple against her cheek.

Their hearts fell into a somnolent rhythm as she stroked the length of his spine.

He raised himself on his elbows so he could look down at her without disturbing their conjoined state. “Madam, you are magnificent.”

“Thank you, Mars,” she whispered. “I think you’ve just concluded your first successful campaign. And we both won.”

Artemisia drew lazy circles across his pectorals with her fingertip, just for the joy of watching his brown nipples pucker. After they’d both settled to earth, the afterglow of their lovemaking ignited a fresh fire and they took each other again, this time with deliberate slowness. Their climb was exquisite agony and their release all the more shattering for its delay. Artemisia’s heart rate was finally fluttering back into normal range.

She still couldn’t bring herself to care about much beyond Trevelyn’s next kiss, but her conscience wouldn’t let her completely block out thoughts of Mr. Shipwash and his plight. All the lovemaking in the world wouldn’t change the fact that her assistant was still in danger and she was utterly lost about what to do.

“You said my father sent you word about Beddington and the key.” She snuggled close and laid her head on his shoulder. “What exactly did the message say?”

“It wasn’t sent to me personally, you understand.” Trevelyn ran a hand over her head and through the length of her hair tumbling down her back. “It came to the central office in the usual fashion. All your father said was ‘Beddington holds the key.’ The posts that came in after that one were frankly . . . incoherent. I’m sorry, Larla.”

She sighed. “By then, the illness had taken his mind.”

“Why did you choose the name Beddington?” Trevelyn asked.

She snorted. “You’ll laugh.”

“Maybe, but tell me anyway,” he said.

“Mr. Beddington was the name of my first pony,” she admitted. “A Shetland with all the attributes of the breed in spades. He was a round, stubborn little thing, but I loved him dearly.”

He chuckled, and she swatted at his chest. “I didn’t promise not to laugh.” He snatched up her hand and placed a lover’s kiss on her palm. “A round, stubborn little thing, eh? Looks like you chose your
nom de guerre
well. You’ve more grit than most men I know and as for the round . . .” His hand drifted up to fondle her breast. “Your round parts are exquisite, madam.”

But could you love me dearly?
Artemisia wondered as he kissed her once more. Then a thought struck her like a lightning bolt from heaven.

“Oh, what a dunderhead I am! Beddington! Of course!” She sat bolt upright. “Why didn’t I think of this sooner?”

“What is it?”

“Beddington
holds
the key, you said. Not
has
the key. Mr. Beddington was my first artistic subject. I sculpted a little figurine of him when I was only twelve. It won all sorts of accolades and serious attention from art aficionados, but of course, I’d never part with it.” Her mind raced ahead, trying to poke holes in her theory.

“Is it possible your father hid the key inside the piece?”

“Not inside it. Beddington isn’t hollow,” she explained. “But about a month before he fell ill, he had a new base made for both Mr. Beddington and Miss Bogglesworth. The bases might be hollow.”

“Dare I ask? Who is Miss Bogglesworth?”

“She was Delia’s pony. Florinda was always afraid to ride. But back on point, I sculpted Miss Bogglesworth as a companion piece to the Mr. Beddington figurine. I always thought he seemed lonely by himself.” One corner of her mouth turned up. “Then Father told me he’d received a request from her Majesty. She’d heard of my artistic abilities and she’d be pleased to house one of my works in her own collection. Father reasoned that I could keep Miss Bogglesworth, but the Queen must have the best, the piece that won so many awards. So when he put it to me like that, I gave him permission to send Mr. Beddington. Oh!” Artemisia stopped short.

If her supposition was right, the Queen’s request was a ruse designed by Angus Dalrymple to spirit the precious key out of India. Her artwork was never in royal demand. The key was the only item worthy of her Majesty’s note. Mr. Beddington was merely the pack mule. Something inside Artemisia wilted.

“The Queen probably made no such request, did she?”

“I have no way to know.” Trevelyn shrugged and swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. He stooped to retrieve his clothing and began to dress. “But if your father sent the key before his illness, he must have suspected he’d been compromised. Since someone else is also looking for Mr. Beddington, it seems he was right.”

“But we’ve been Home for almost three years now,” she protested. “Surely Britain’s enemies would have abandoned the search in that length of time.”

“The Great Game never ends,” Trev said. “Only the players change. With Mr. Beddington’s business prowess recently becoming so well known, it probably set the search off again. If only you weren’t so good at turning a coin, you might have masqueraded as Mr. Beddington forever.” Her face must have betrayed horror for he quickly went on, “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. You might want to lose a bit on the next boatload of goods, though, just to deflect interest in your alter-ego.”

He really knew nothing of her, she reflected, if he thought she’d lose at anything on purpose.

Trevelyn pulled on his boots. “At least we can find out if your equine Mr. Beddington is the right one. If the statue is in the Queen’s collection, I can get us past the guards to test your theory. It’s worth a look.”

Artemisia dragged herself from the bed. The determined look on Trev’s face was all business. Their shared intimacy seemed to fade like a vapor, leaving her feeling strangely bereft.

Idiot!
she chided herself as she pulled her chemise over her head to shield her nakedness from his casual gaze.
He’s right to keep things simple. A light, uncomplicated relationship. No promises, no shackles on either side. Isn’t that what you wanted?

She mentally shook herself. “Oh, but the Queen may not have Mr. Beddington!”

“But I thought you said—”

“She did have him, but at the masked ball, the Russian ambassador admired the Miss Bogglesworth statue and I made a present of it. Her Majesty said she couldn’t be outdone by one of her subjects and offered to send round the companion piece.” Artemisia put a hand to her lips. “Mr. Beddington may very well be in the collection of Vasiliy Kharitonov as we speak.”

Trevelyn blanched at this news. “Then there’s no time to lose. I’ll break into the ambassador’s lodgings and get Mr. Beddington tonight.”

“There’s no point in taking chances if the statue isn’t there.” Artemisia lifted her corset into place and invited him to assist her. “Seems Mr. Kharitonov has a number of interesting pieces. As it happens, I have a standing invitation to view the ambassador’s collection. If we hurry, there is time enough to pay him a call before night falls.”

* * *

In less than a quarter hour, Artemisia and Trevelyn made their way down the squeaky stairs and through the Golden Cockerel’s common room.

“Will you and your cousin be taking supper with us this evening?” Mrs. Farthingale asked.

“I don’t think so,” Trev said. “Cousin Hortense so rarely makes it all the way to London, I promised to treat her to a night on the town—coffee house, theatre and all.”

“Mind how you go, then,” the good woman said. Once they cleared the heavy oak door, Mrs. Farthingale grunted in derision. “If that little chit is his cousin, I’m the bloomin’ Virgin Mary. I’d bet any amount of guineas on it.”

“No takers on that one, Mrs. F.,” the man seated on the tall stool said. He’d watched the couple go by behind him in the long mirror above the bar, shoulders hunched in an effort to make himself unremarkable. He turned now that it was safe to do so.

Clarence Wigglesworth, one-time writer for
The Tattler,
plunked down tuppence to pay for the drink he’d nursed for the last two hours. He stood, hitching his breeches back up to his waist. This was too good an opportunity to pass, despite the Honorable Mr. Deveridge’s threats.

Someone should probably warn Deveridge that his bed squeaks loud enough to be heard through the floorboards,
Clarence thought as he prepared to follow the duchess and her escort.
Someone really should.

But it damn well wouldn’t be him.
 

“Is lovely for you to visit my humble home, Your Grace,” Vasiliy Kharitonov said as he bent to buss his lips on her gloved fingertips. “Almost I don’t recognize you in dress as Englishwoman. Your beauty is—what is word?—most becoming to costume of Indian princess.”

Artemisia couldn’t be sure, but she almost thought she heard Trevelyn growl low in his throat.

“Thank you, Your Excellency. Allow me to introduce my companion. This is Mr. Thomas Doverspike, one of my life models,” she said with sweetness. She and Trev agreed ahead of time that it was best if she were not known to be cavorting about London with the man the
ton
believed was recently engaged to her sister. “In my Olympic series of paintings, Mr. Doverspike is destined to become my god of war.”

“Oh,
da
? If paintings are fine as sculpture, them I would like to see.” The ambassador raised a monocle to one eye and swept Trev’s form. From his intent perusal, Artemisia wasn’t wholly sure the Russian’s tastes didn’t lean more toward strapping young men than Indian princesses. “To what do I owe pleasure of company unexpected?”

“Why, Your Excellency, we were hoping to take you up on your invitation to view your collection of statuary.”

“Of course,” he said. “Them we see right away, but first give to allow me to refresh you. Is tea time here in England, but we Russians have different time. Vodka time.” He pronounced it ‘wodka.’ “This way. You try perhaps, Your Grace?”

“Oh, no. Just tea for me, if you have it,” Artemisia said as he led them up a broad staircase to the parlor. “I’ve heard vodka will permanently cross one’s eyes, if one isn’t careful.”

The ambassador’s belly jiggled with mirth. “
Da
, will also be good for--how you say?—‘putting hair on chest’? Mr. Doverspike, how if I offer you some?”

“I’d accept, sir. Thank you,” Trevelyn said. “Her Grace might appreciate the challenge of painting more hairs on my chest.”

Kharitonov’s laughter reverberated through the stairwell as they continued to climb. Artemisia was disappointed that the room where the ambassador’s collection was housed wasn’t on the easily accessible ground floor.

The state of relations between England and Russia wasn’t cordial enough to warrant a full-blown embassy, but the ambassador’s sumptuous townhouse filled the role admirably. It was a tall, narrow structure with rooms jutting off the central staircase like ribs from a spine.