How To Distract a Duchess (21 page)

“Of course, you are right. Do what you must with the statues,” she said. “Retrieving the key to free Mr. Shipwash is the most important thing. But I do insist on accompanying you whether you will it or no. If you refuse to take me, I shall simply follow you. And who knows what trouble that could lead to?”

“I shudder to think.” He leaned toward her and took both hands in his. “Why, Larla? Why must you come?”

Because you are going into danger and I can’t bear the thought of you risking yourself for me and not being there to help.

But she knew she couldn’t say that. It would be admitting that she cared more than a little for him when he’d not spoken a word of love to her. Their relationship was complicated enough without becoming entangled in the sticky web of sentiment.

“Because Mr. Shipwash is in my employ. I’m responsible for him,” she said truthfully. “One way or another, I will see this through to its end.”

“You are stubborn as a rock.” Trevelyn gave her a grudging smile and cupped her cheek with his warm hand. “And softer than silk.” He leaned forward and kissed her, the sting of the ambassador’s vodka still flavoring his lips. “And sweeter than brandy-wine.”

“Careful,” she said when he finally drew back. “One shouldn’t mix drinks.”

“I’ll risk it.” He jerked the cab’s curtains closed, thrusting them into semi-darkness, and pulled her onto his lap.

She surprised herself by going willingly. His vodka-tinged kiss lit a fire in her belly. A fire that could only be extinguished by more of him. “Trevelyn Deveridge, you are turning me into the most brazen wanton.”

His mouth was on her neck, sending delicious shivers of pleasure over her. When he began to unbutton her bodice, she made no move to stop him. Artemisia watched in fascination as he loosed her buttons one by one.

“You’ve already proved I can’t make you anything other than what you are. But you’re no wanton,” he said. “You’re a desirable woman with needs she’s not afraid to acknowledge. When you first told me you required a lover, I said to myself, ‘There’s a rare find.’ Most women I’ve known haven’t a clue what they really want or how to go about getting it.”

“There’s where you’re wrong. Most women want marriage,” she said as his fingers slid in to toy with the hollow between her breasts. “And they have definite ideas about how to get it.”

His hand stilled beneath the hollow at the base of her throat and he met her gaze squarely. “And is this your idea of how to snare a husband? Because if it is—”

“Gracious, no! The last thing I need is a husband.” Artemisia forced a laugh. Why had she even brought up the subject? He’d think she was trying to trap him into marriage. “I enjoy my freedom. But I do still have plenty to learn about what passes between a man and a woman. The gravity of our situation could hardly be more dire and yet, your mere presence makes my toes curl, sir. Why is that?”

“Danger is a powerful aphrodisiac,” he explained. “It’s like spice for the sauce. Flirting with danger sets the body’s juices flowing.”

Even though she wore her many layers of petticoats, she felt the length of him hard beneath her skirts. The answering warmth between her own legs started a low pulse beat of longing. “So I see.”

“Gives a man a terrible cockstand.”

“Oh, dear.” She kissed his ear and nipped at the lobe. He groaned low and plunged his hand down the front of her bodice to knead her breast. “What can we do about that?”

“A resourceful pair like us, we’ll think of something,” he assured her. When he bent his head to sample the exposed tops of her breasts, she arched her back, thrusting the aching mounds up to him.

“No sensation at all in your lips, eh?”

“It’s starting to come back to me,” he said with a wicked grin. His hand crept under her voluminous skirts and found the slit in her bloomers. He separated her delicate folds and ran his finger the length of her wetness. A jolt of desire sent her blood singing through her veins. “It’s a long trip back to Tydburn Street, thank God.”

She closed her eyes and let him take her to that dark, hot place, waiting to burst into light.

“Amen,” she whispered fervently. “Amen.”

* * *

“Stop the presses,” Clarence Wigglesworth shouted as the door to
The Tattler
office banged behind him. “I’ve got your front page right here.”

Mr. Upton, the editor, looked up from his clanking press and shoved his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose. “Hold your noise, Wigglesworth. I’ve no time for your nonsense.”

“This is no nonsense and if you don’t buy this story, I’ll sell it to your competitor. Old Farsinglass over at
Bon Mots
will probably pay double, no questions asked.” Clarence waved the ink-blotched page under his employer’s nose. “In fact, I’ve half a mind to do just that.”

Upton snatched the page from him and ran his gaze over it, his lips moving wordlessly as he read.

“You’re right, for once,” the editor said. “Help me reset the page then. This will curdle the
ton’s
milk and no mistake.”

Several hours later, Clarence sat down among the stacks of the print run and read his career-making piece. No doubt about it, this story was his finest hour as a journalist.

A Troth Betrayed

The Honorable Mr. Trevelyn Deveridge only recently announced his engagement to Miss Flora Dalrymple, but seems to have forgotten that obligation this evening.

Lord Warre’s second born son and an ostensible “cousin” of the female variety enjoyed a secret “tête-à-tête” in a decidedly seedy establishment in a less than fashionable London neighborhood. This reporter can attest to the fact that there was little conversation going on during the meeting, which lasted several hours. Nothing was heard from the Honorable (and we use the term with extreme looseness) Mr. Deveridge’s room, unless one counted the complaints of his creaky bedstead.

Then Mr. Deveridge flaunted his “cousin” in a lark about London in a hired hansom. Upon their return to the aforementioned seedy establishment, when said hansom came to a halt, the cab continued to rock rhythmically for about a minute before the pair emerged, disheveled and wind-blown from their exertions.

The cabby, a Mr. Winthrop Hornby from Chelsea, was most impressed with Mr. Deveridge’s performance. He commented to this reporter that he’d have said the gentleman was incapable of carnal knowledge of a woman due to extreme intoxication. Apparently, the Earl of Warre’s second son had to be carried bodily from an undisclosed location and deposited in the hansom with his unnamed “cousin” for the return trip to their illicit love-nest. One is filled with admiration for Deveridge’s recuperative powers, if not his morals.

One hopes the hapless Miss Florinda Dalrymple will have friends kind enough to warn her of her future husband’s proclivities before it is everlastingly too late.
 

“Proclivities,” Clarence repeated. “Good word, that.” After a few more well-deserved moments of self-congratulation, he gathered his payment and shoved it in his pocket. The stack of coin was still on the low side of paltry, but markedly better than he’d done in recent days.

Deveridge will have no kick coming
, he reasoned as he stepped into the dark, empty street.
Write anything you like about me, he says. So b’Gad, I did. And I didn’t mention the duchess by name once. No, by Thunder, not once.

“Well, Larla, I think we’ve broken some kind of record.” Trevelyn laid back on his pillow, spent and gasping. Each time he thought there was nothing more in him, but at the slightest provocation—a smoldering look, her sultry voice, the smooth whiteness of her bare skin—his cock was primed and ready for another round. The woman might well be the death of him, but he’d die smiling. He laced his fingers behind his head. “But we’ve not gotten a smidge of rest.”

Larla raised up on one elbow to look down at him, her long dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. He’d never think of her as ‘Her Grace’ or even plain Artemisia ever again. She’d always be his Larla, even though he still had no idea what her secret name meant. Her rosy nipple was tantalizingly near, but he was satisfied for the moment just to look. It puckered tight and was undoubtedly aching under his scrutiny.
 

“No rest, eh? Is that a complaint?” she asked.

“Never.”

He decided seeing wasn’t quite as good as tasting after all and took her delightful berry in his mouth once more. He suckled till she made that noise again, the low growl of contentment with an edge of desire, before he released her nipple. Then he pulled her close to him, snugged up against his side.

As close as Adam and his Rib
, he thought drowsily. He peered over his cheekbones at the top of her tousled head, now resting in the crook of his shoulder.
Surely Eve was no more glorious than this woman. Though I’d wager a good deal less stubborn.

“What are you thinking?” her voice floated up to him, small and surprisingly timid after the abandon of their love-making.

He ran his hand down the length of her spine and stayed to dally with the dimple above her round bottom. “Actually, given our most recent occupation and current situation, my thoughts are surprisingly ecclesiastical.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s foolish really,” he said.

“Foolish or not, you can tell me.”

“Being here naked like this, makes me wonder how Adam and Eve felt. I mean, there Adam was, with none but the animals for company, all alone in an empty world and then suddenly he sees someone he recognizes without being introduced.”

“I suspect the Almighty provided the introductions,” she said with the practicality he’d come to admire.

“No, I’m inclined to think Adam saw Eve and knew right away who she was. Blood of my blood and bone of my bone and all that. Something in him called to her and she answered.” Trev dropped a kiss on the crown of her head. “And then, even in an empty world, suddenly he wasn’t alone anymore. I was just wondering if it felt . . . well, something like this.”

She was still for a few moments. Then she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “I think it must have felt exactly like this.”

Trevelyn breathed deeply and realized, against all odds, he was happy. It was totally illogical. After all, his father, whom he’d never been able to please, had now disowned him. He was planning a burglary with naught but a duchess for assistance. And then a ransom that even with supreme good luck, stood little chance of success, but he couldn’t stop his mouth from turning up into an idiot’s grin. He was happier than he’d ever been in his entire life.

“You know,” she said, teasing the hairs whorled around one of his nipples, “even given, as you put it, our previous occupation and current situation, I don’t think it’s at all strange that your thoughts should turn spiritual. I mean, the way we lift each other out of ourselves, the giving and receiving of pleasure is no small thing. When we’re joined, it does almost seem supernatural. What we’ve shared has something of the Divine Spark about it.”

His grin grew even wider and a definitely more wicked. “Maybe that’s why you kept saying ‘Oh, God!’”
          

She snatched her pillow and pummeled him with it. At first he could only raise his hands in self-protection, he was laughing so hard. Then he found his own pillow and made a good bout of it, whacking her delicious bottom. Finally one, or maybe both, of the pillows burst open. A flurry of white feathers fluttered around them, coming to rest on their bare bodies, tickling their skin and catching in their hair.

Trevelyn threw down the empty casing and grabbed Larla around the waist. They collapsed together on the bed in a giggling heap.

He loved her laugh. It was no girlish twitter. It was the sound of a woman completely pleased with the world. He realized, with a great sense of accomplishment, that he was responsible for it. When he first met her, he’d have been satisfied just to make her smile. Now she was laughing like a fool and he loved it.

They rolled together on the bed and, as luck and superior strength would have it, Trevelyn managed to end up on top. His hips rested between her splayed legs. He took his weight on his elbows and looked down at her.

She was flushed with pleasure and the green depths of her eyes sparkled. Her little pointed tongue flicked over her top lip and she blew a stray feather away, her belly quivering beneath him.

Trevelyn stopped laughing. He could watch this woman for the rest of his life, he realized with a start.

“What is it?” she asked, obviously sensing his change of mood.

He lowered his lips to hers and took his time about kissing her. All the while his tongue made love to her mouth, his mind churned furiously.

This cannot be good
, he told himself with sternness.
You’re needed as soon as possible on the Indian sub-continent. A whole string of operatives are waiting, looking for some direction from London. There’s no permanent place for a woman in your life just now, old son. A romp, yes. A romance, emphatically no.