The Seduction of His Wife

by Tiffany Clare

  Pulling his cock from her body, he rolled to his side and gathered her close. She felt like she belonged in his arms. This felt right having him here, in her bed, beside her, holding her.

  She had to bite her cheeks so she didn’t utter any words she’d regret come morning. It was still too soon to tell him how she really felt. To tell him that she loved him. Had always loved him.

  Her head rested on his arm, and she closed her eyes.

  Richard tucked her hair behind her ear, kissed her temple, and said, “Good night, love.”

  She held that endearment close in her heart as she snuggled her rear closer to him. He had a tendency to use endearments with her. Whether he meant them or not, she couldn’t be sure. But she’d cherish every one as if it were the most precious word uttered to her.

  Chapter 23

  How long is one expected to remain true to another person? How long is one expected to live a lonely existence?

  Emma had squirreled herself away in her study the moment Grace left to visit with a friend. Her husband had gone out with Dante a couple of hours ago to finalize some business arrangements, or so he had told her. She had a sneaking suspicion he headed over to the duke’s house for a talk about the paintings.

  It was imperative that Richard never find out about the two nudes she’d done of herself. Uncovering that lie would put a wall between her and Richard. She didn’t know why she thought that, she just did. She’d have to send a note to Nathan, beg him to hide those paintings and ensure they were never leaked out into society.

  Rubbing away a crumbling of charcoal on her newest sketch, she smoothed out some of the shadows on the paper. The picture she worked on was like a headless statue, the rendering similar to Richard’s physique. She’d have to alter it when she was done so he wouldn’t recognize it outright. Though she couldn’t wait to see his expression when he realized it was him.

  She smiled. What other man did she have at her disposal for such a thing? None. He’d grumble and posture with her when he discovered this. She wouldn’t hide it from him.

  The door creaked open behind her. Blowing the loose black from the picture’s surface away, she cleared her throat. “Luncheon already, Brown?”

  She turned around in the wide leather chair she’d pulled up to the worktable. Her skirts tangled around her legs as she tried to get out of the seat and put herself at a safe distance from Waverly. How had he gotten into her home? There had been guards stationed inside the front entrance since their arrival a couple of days ago.

  “Where is Brown?”

  Waverly shrugged and came farther into the room. “What have we here?” He slid the paper across the desk so he could study it. “How does your husband feel about you drawing naked men now?”

  Emma squared her shoulders and stood as tall as she could. She had to put her nervous, trembling hands behind her back. Show no weaknesses, she reminded herself.

  “How did you get in?” she asked, edging out of his reach and closer to the door.

  “I have my ways.”

  Waverly balled up the picture she’d been working on and threw it to the floor.

  His gaze met hers.

  “If you need to speak with Richard, he will be home shortly.”

  She had no idea if that was the truth or not. What she did know was that she needed to put a safe distance between her and the intruder standing across from her.

  He stood by the chair she’d vacated moments ago, his hand squeezing around the top edge.

  “You know, Richard never said you were a pretty creature, not in all our years together. I was surprised to see him act so protective of you. He must not know your dirty secrets.”

  “He knows everything. You are not a threat.”

  “You are a means to an end, dear Emma. Nothing more than a means to an end.”

  Emma’s skirts hit a table near the chaise longue. She nearly toppled over the table beside it to escape Waverly’s reach. A chair crashed to the floor when she tried to grab it. The crystal ware she swept off the table next to the chair fell to the ground and bounced away with only a slight ringing noise. She scanned her periphery, afraid to take her eyes off Waverly. She needed something to throw, something breakable. She needed to make noise for anyone to come to her aid.

  “Stop this,” she shouted.

  He rushed toward her and yanked at her arm painfully as he pulled her nearer. She tried to squirm from his grip, but Waverly’s arms were wrapped solidly around her. She tried again to pull away from him. She could not loosen the man’s forceful clutch as he turned her about so her back was to his chest. He pressed a cloth firmly over her mouth and nose.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She bit down on his hand, tasting the man’s blood before she fell heavy as stone in his hold with a sharp smell stinging her nostrils. Her last thought was of Richard.

  * * *

  Richard’s old business was now completely in the hands of Heyworth: the fleet of ships, the deeds for the shipping docks, the plantation in India. All of it was finally gone. The money had been split amongst him and his two business partners, which included Waverly.

  Though Waverly hadn’t been present for the final sign-off, he’d sent his man of business to take care of loose ends.

  Richard had had his solicitor invest his funds into the rail. He wasn’t surprised when Dante followed suit. The man had a reason to visit England often with his bride-to-be.

  All said and done, they mounted their horses and wound their way through the city streets.

  “I need a favor,” Richard said.

  He could trust Dante with his wife’s secret. The man was steadfast and reliable. Had been for all the years Richard had worked with him.

  “Something with Waverly?”

  Richard shook his head. “I need to visit the Duke of Vane. He has something that belongs to me.”

  “And what is this thing that should belong to you?”

  The cautious tone of voice Dante used made Richard wonder if his friend thought that object might be his wife. Definitely not the case after all that had happened between them. All they’d shared with each other. The last few nights in bed had been different. More tender. More about sharing each other than using each other for pleasure.

  “My wife likes to create ribald paintings. The duke has been selling them for her. I plan to retrieve the ones still in his possession.”

  “Your wife asked this of you?”

  No, it wasn’t something Emma had asked for, but she’d thank him sometime in the future for the lengths he planned to go to retrieve the art. To make sure her secret remained just that … a secret. Dante chuckled when Richard made no response other than to scowl.

  “My guess is that your wife does not want them back.”

  “I’m so easy to read?”

  “Only where Lady Emma is concerned.”

  That was because he was besotted with his wife.

  On arriving at the duke’s residence, they were situated in a room better suited for a brothel. Large gilt mirrors hung on three of the gold-papered walls. A massive crystal chandelier hung down in the center of the room. Two rose-colored chaises and two deep red settees made up the sitting area. It was gaudy and overdone. What made the room, though, were the handfuls or so of paintings of the duke’s mistress. All were nude, all in various erotic poses.

  Dante walked around the periphery of the room and looked thoughtfully at each piece, thumb and forefinger rubbing at his jaw. Richard didn’t care to study any of the art. But the longer he was made to wait, the more he’d come to the realization that the duke was rubbing in the fact that he was in possession of some of his wife’s paintings.

  Did Vane flaunt these paintings to everyone who came through the house? He doubted it. Despite the duke’s long relationship with his mistress, it seemed she was nothing more than a pretty ornament.

  When the door opened to the parlor, Vane came in with his mistress on his arm. She wore a navy dress so low-cut
that he could see the pink of her areolas. Her blonde hair tumbled down her back in a riotous flow of curls. No embarrassment tainted her cheeks. No smile lifted her lips as she held her head high and licked her lips in sensual invitation.

  Had she been trained to play the role of Venus? Was this inappropriately beautiful woman on the duke’s arm part of the man’s image? Richard almost pitied the woman.

  Almost.

  The duke twirled her away from him, so she lay reposed on one of the chaise longues, like a Greek goddess, they as supplicants to her every bidding.

  Richard broke eye contact with the woman, and narrowed his gaze on the duke. Richard understood why the man’s mistress was present. She provided a distraction to probably many a man. That tactic might have worked on him before he’d come home to his wife. Not now.

  Richard sneered at the duke. “You know why I’ve come.”

  Vane raised his hand and motioned to the room around them. “You desire my mistress so much that you’re willing to purchase all these paintings?”

  The duke’s expression remained aloof as he stood beside his mistress, his hand folded over her raised one.

  Richard wasn’t sure who was master and who was the slave in their relationship. Richard couldn’t help but make the comparison to the ladybird being worshipped like Cleopatra on her sensual throne ready to order her disciple—the duke—to kiss an asp.

  “My only desire,” Richard replied, “is to protect my wife’s reputation.”

  “Ah. Admirable as that is, her reputation is safe with me.”

  “When Emma’s fate is not in my hands, but rests upon your word, you will understand why I hesitate to agree.”

  “A shame for you, then.”

  The duke’s hand massaged his mistress’s arm, then over to her bare shoulder. He fingered possessively at the deep sapphires strung about her neck like a collar.

  Dante remained a silent presence. His expression unreadable as he walked around the room.

  “You may not part with the pictures displayed here, but what of the pieces not in your possession?”

  “You won’t leave this alone if I don’t throw you a scrap of control, will you?”

  “I doubt I’ll ever stop.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you, Asbury.”

  Vane leaned over his mistress, his hand slipping into the front of her gown and over the woman’s breast as he whispered something in her ear.

  She stood fluidly, without glancing at the other men in the room. The kiss she placed on Vane’s lips was anything but chaste. Not with Vane’s hand grasping her buttocks and pulling her close so their tongues could tangle. She left the duke standing in the middle of the room like a prince blessed before a medieval game of jousting.

  “I will make inquiries,” the duke said finally. “It’s the best I can offer.”

  Exactly what Richard wanted to hear.

  “No price is too steep, Vane. I’ll not play games with the future of my wife’s reputation.”

  “It will take me a few months. The paintings have been spread far and wide.”

  “Fine.” Richard stuck his hand out to shake on the deal. When Vane took his hand, Richard asked, “How many do you own?”

  The duke grinned. “Sixteen are in my possession and will remain so. I’m in the process of acquiring one more for my collection.”

  Richard wondered why he’d sold one of his mistress’s portraits to begin with. Unless it wasn’t of the ladybird’s likeness.

  He released the duke’s hand. Feeling uneasy about the deal he’d just made. Felt like a deal with the devil.

  “Does anyone know or suspect who the artist might be?”

  “No. They believe it to be Anna’s work, which works for our purpose of keeping Emma’s identity a secret.”

  That was fine with Richard.

  Richard inclined his head before he left. “I’m staying in London. Let me know when you start to locate the pieces.”

  There was no reason to delay his trip home.

  “Of course,” the duke called out after him.

  When he arrived home, he ran up the steps, eager to see his wife. But when he opened the door, it was to a living nightmare. The hired mercenary was sitting in a chair by the front door, a maid holding a cloth to the gash across his head, trying to staunch the blood oozing out.

  Richard took the stairs three at a time. “Emma!” He needed to find her, make sure she was all right.

  Throwing open his bedchamber door, he yelled again, “Emma!”

  Did he really expect her to answer? He barged through the dressing room door next, then the guest rooms and the nursery. None held any sign of his wife. Charging back down the stairs, he threw open every door on the main floor. There was a small room of the back of the house where Emma had set up her paintings. He should have checked there first.

  Slamming the door open so hard the handle jammed into the plaster when it met the wall, Richard rushed into the room. Chairs were toppled over. A crystal dish lay forgotten on the floor, a ball of paper crumpled up next to it. Emma’s charcoals were scattered on the surface of a small worktable; a few lay broken on the hardwood floor.

  The rage he felt in that moment knew no bounds. Waverly would hurt for this.

  A plain figurine of the female form was close at hand. He picked it up, and then it lay splintered and shattered in the fireplace. His gaze locked upon the painting resting upon the marble mantel.

  Emma’s beautiful golden curls were pulled back from her face, making the silky locks appear short. Her half-lidded green eyes looked on the observer in sensual bliss. One of her arms stretched behind her on a wall. In her fist she held a sheer white length of material, which fell softly against her porcelain skin as it wrapped around her arm like a lover’s skin. It covered one ear, her flushed pink lips, and one breast. Her other hand fisted the sheer material over her mons, covering her feminine core.

  Where had the painting come from? Had it been in Emma’s keeping? Had someone brought it to her? Was it possible that this painting had been in Waverly’s possession?

  There was no note to answer his questions. No clues as to why it was here and Emma was not. There was nothing to help him find his wife.

  Without a doubt in his mind, Richard knew Waverly had abducted Emma. Maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to accuse the other man, but who else would take her? The room lay in shambles, evidence enough that she’d struggled against her captor.

  Richard hadn’t really known Waverly in the sense one would know a friend. Not now. So where would he take her?

  A gasp sounded behind him. Grace stepped farther into the room, her eyes caught on the painting. Just as his had. He stood there frozen, like a great buffoon, unable to say or do anything to make this situation any better.

  “That bastard,” Grace cried. “What has he done with my sister?”

  She pulled the painting down and held it to her breast so the exposed image of his wife was hidden.

  Richard picked the balled paper up from the floor and unraveled it slowly so it didn’t tear. Most of the black had smeared together, but he could make out the male form she’d been drawing. He crumpled the paper back up and closed his eyes.

  He needed to remain calm if he were to find his wife. He needed to think rationally.

  “Where does he stay when he’s in Town, Grace?”

  Richard opened his eyes and looked at her, surprised to see her glaring angrily about the room instead of crying in fear for Emma.

  “There is his house in Grosvenor Square, but I don’t think he’s opened it up in all the years he’s been in Town.”

  Grace looked back at Richard, her gaze so like her sister’s, his breath caught.

  It was a starting point. That was all that mattered.

  * * *

  When she awoke next her vision was swimming. Her limbs felt tingly and heavy; too heavy to lift. She had to find a way to get out of her captor’s hands.

  “Awake, are you? Can’t deceive m
e.”

  His voice made gooseflesh rise on her skin. She opened her eyes to a dark room. Blotches of color spotted her vision so she closed her lids again. She was lying on a makeshift pallet on the floor. She could see the legs of chairs and couches level with her eyes. Why hadn’t he tossed her on the furniture instead of pulling all the linens on the floor?

  She couldn’t smell anything since her nose tingled. Waverly was off to her left, not that she could be sure. Wouldn’t be sure of anything until the fog dissipated from her head and the low buzzing in her ears cleared. She was nauseous, dizzy.

  “Where have you brought me?” Her voice cracked; her tongue felt like a heavy, dry weight in her mouth.

  The shuffling of feet rang like abbey bells in her ears. She wanted to be rid of the sound and went to cover her ears, but when she tried to lift her hands they were like a deadweight behind her back.

  It took her some minutes to figure out that rope bound her wrists together.

  “Now, now. Don’t you be moving around too much. I don’t want you throwing up on me.” The high-pitched squeak of something being unscrewed rang in her head. “Take a sip, here.”

  A flask was tipped against her lips. The burning liquid was poured down her throat before she could protest. Half of it sputtered out when she started coughing against the fiery taste of gin. She turned her head away. Not wanting the spirits. She’d not stay lucid if he continued pouring that down her mouth.

  “Not much longer. He’ll come, you see—he’s reliable in that sense. Whether he comes in time is another matter, isn’t it?”

  She wondered what he planned to do with her. Was he going to torture her? Kill her?

  “Where are we?” she asked the dark figure hovering a foot away from her.

  “My private residence. Don’t you worry, no rats to come and nibble at your toes. Not a pleasant feeling, that.”

  She closed her eyes against the nausea the image of rats invoked. Colors danced behind her lids, causing a fresh wave of sickness to turn over in her belly. Her eyelids were heavy. So hard to open. She squinted, unable to focus on anything.

  What had he done to her?

  She must have groaned that aloud, because he said, “Chloroform is wearing off. You’ll feel a bit fuzzy for a while.”