by Mia Marlowe
The new fellow sauntered toward her, a tuft of dark hairs peeping from the deep vee in his robe, hands in his pockets as if he were in his own dressing room. Unlike her previous models, he seemed totally at ease.
“Let’s just try a pose or two before you disrobe, shall we?” she said, determined to ease him gently into the work. “Most of my models find it more comfortable to get into character prior to—”
“I have my share of faults, Your Grace, but my old gaffer always told me it don’t pay for shyness to be one of ’em,” he said as he shrugged out of the plush velvet dressing gown she’d provided for him. He let the garment drop to the parquet floor.
He cocked his head at her. “How do you want me?”
Chapter 2
How did she want him?
“Yes, well, let me think about that for a moment,” she all but stammered as she averted her gaze. A quick glimpse of him was enough to quicken her breath. His boldness unnerved her. “Have you done this sort of work before?”
“No, Your Grace, but there’s a first time for everything they do say. Do I still disappoint?”
Heavens, no, almost escaped her lips. She’d rarely seen such a specimen of male beauty. Like most of her models drawn from the working classes, this man was well-muscled, vigorous labor having sculpted his limbs and torso. Yet his skin was smooth and his hands and feet beautifully shaped. His nails were clean and neatly trimmed, enough of a rarity to be remarkable among those worked to earn their daily bread.
While it never quite made sense to Artemisia, popular notions of male attractiveness currently required small hands and feet. She was pleased to see this man’s were not. His fingers were long and powerful, but with a certain aristocratic grace. His feet had high arches and the bones of his ankles formed a strong curve into his thickly muscled calves. He stood proudly, his weight evenly distributed on both feet, his arms relaxed at his side.
He made no reflexive ‘fig-leaf’ gesture, so Artemisia’s gaze followed the thin strip of dark hair that started at the indentation of his navel and led to his groin.
There’s one willy I won’t whack off, no matter what the critics might say. As she looked at him, his member rose, the smooth skin darkened with engorged blood.
“Please don’t be embarrassed,” she said quickly. “This sometimes happens.”
“Indeed, Your Grace, it happens with regularity,” he said with a wicked smile. His teeth were very white.
Artemisia clamped her lips together. With other models, the first session was always awkward. This man, however, seemed totally at ease in his own skin, as if he often paraded nude before strange women.
“From what part of London do you hail?” she asked, wondering if Mr. Phelps had hired a male prostitute for her instead of a model. This man was a bit older than her usual subjects. Based on the sharp delineation of his features, she judged him nearing thirty, though his muscle tone rivaled the younger workmen she’d used on previous canvases. “Where did you say Mr. Phelps found you?”
“I didn’t say.” The infuriating smile hadn’t faded. “How did you imagine your Mars?”
“Right then,” she said, grateful to get down to business. “Mars needs to be contemplating a battle. Turn your head and gaze into the distance. Kindly refrain from smiling, if you please. I seriously doubt the god of war has a sense of humor.”
When he complied, she was immediately relieved to be able to look at him without his dark eyes focused on her, hot and knowing. His member was still swollen and potent.
“You want me to just stand here?” he asked, his brown- eyed gaze flicking back to her for a moment.
“Perhaps you should point toward an imagined goal—with your hand, I mean.”
Heat crept up her neck and spread over her cheeks. The man had her blushing, for pity’s sake. She’d been a married woman. She’d painted any number of men in the nude. An erect willy shouldn’t be enough to reduce her to stammering. With her other models, she’d always been in complete control. This man’s lack of self-consciousness made her uneasy.
He made a noise in the back of his throat, suspiciously like a stifled chuckle, as he lifted his arm in compliance. “Perhaps Mars should have a weapon of some kind,” he suggested.
He already had a formidable one between his legs, but Artemisia took the opportunity to escape to the table at the far end of the room where she kept an assortment of props in a disordered heap. “Yes, quite right. Good idea.”
She hurried back to him with a Greco-Roman helmet, a round shield and a short sword called a gladius. He bent his head so she could crown him with the helmet. She was forced to step near him as she adjusted the strap beneath his chin. His lips curved into an inviting smile. Standing this close to him, she noticed the faint shadow of his beard and had to restrain herself from running a fingertip along his jaw to feel the tiny bristles. His heat radiated toward her, and his scent flooded her nostrils. Her mouth went suddenly dry.
“Here.” She held out the shield and gladius, while stepping back to a safer distance. “Try a few poses and I’ll tell you to stop if I see something I like.”
“You don’t see anything you like yet?”
Artemisia’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He was enjoying her discomfort! She should sack the impudent wretch now and be done with him. But he did have the most amazing eyes, and for a dazzling moment she’d glimpsed an image of what a marvelous god of war he’d make. She was loath to give up a perfectly good subject just because he made her squirm in her pantaloons.
She turned from him and settled on the straight-backed chair, her sketch pad balanced on her knees. Work, that’s what she needed. Once she was firmly ensconced in her art, he’d become merely a pleasing arrangement of light and dark, lines and angles, not a disturbingly well-made, flesh-and-blood man.
She’d been a widow for nearly two years now, and she had no intention of marrying again. The legal status of a married woman was on par with a child or an imbecile and she refused to be treated like either. Still, two years was past time when other women might be tempted to take a discreet lover.
Artemisia had no time for such things. So much of her life was taken up with her art and what man, however liberal-minded he might be, would want a mistress who spent copious amounts of time with other nude men? She’d made it a firm rule never to become unprofessionally attached to any of her models, so that left her with nothing.
Nothing but squirming in her pantaloons.
Her new Mars was making practice cuts with the sword, holding the hilt of the blade in an authoritative manner. He tossed the gladius up in a rotating flash and caught it cleanly, testing the sword for balance, his movement a study in masculine grace.
“An intimate acquaintance with weaponry, I see. You have served in the military,” she observed as she deftly captured the raw-boned angles of his face.
“I’ve seen my share of battlefields.”
A shadow flitted across his features, but it was gone so suddenly, she decided she’d imagined it.
“I admire those who serve their Queen and country in such a manner,” she said. “Would you care to speak about your time in uniform?”
“There’s not much to tell that makes fair hearing.”
This time she was sure she didn’t imagine the brooding darkness that fell over him. Then suddenly one corner of his sensual mouth turned up.
“Why don’t you tell me about you?” he suggested. “Painting fellows in the altogether ain’t exactly the done thing, now is it? Most ladies would faint dead away right proper at the sight of a naked man. Have you been doing it long?”
“I took it up again after my husband died,” she said, refusing to rise to his bait. She had no need to explain to this forward fellow the allure the human form held for her. The exquisite lines, the depth of feeling, the divine spark of one created in the image of God—no maggoty bowl of fruit could hope to compete with that. “But I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t an artist. I started out drawing a
s a child, then tried my hand at sculpture with a certain amount of success.”
She was being modest. If he knew anything about art, he’d know a sculpture of hers was housed in a place of honor in the Queen’s own collection. It was Artemisia’s seminal work, the piece that had guaranteed her reputation as a child prodigy. A reputation she was now trying to live down by focusing on another medium altogether.
Altogether. In the altogether. Strange that he should use the same phrase The Tattler did about her work. Perhaps he’d read the scandal sheet article about her. She studied his face again.
Several of her models confessed to being illiterate, but she already knew this man was quite different from the others. His eyes held a glint of lively intelligence.
“Your accent does not mark you as a Londoner,” she said as she shaded the tendon that stretched from his neck to his shoulders. “Did you grow up in the country?”
“Yes, Your Grace, an’ it please you, I’m a Wiltshire man.”
“Ah, the Chalk-Horse country.”
“You know it?”
“Of course,” she said. The primitive horses high on the ridges, formed by ancient Britons who cut into the turf to expose the white chalk, were arguably the oldest art on the British Isle. “My father told me about the horses of Wiltshire when I was a child in India.”
“India.” His dark eyes flashed as he repeated the word. “Now there’s a place I’d love to see and no mistake. The gorgeous East, they call it. But I suppose you didn’t much care for it, then. They do say India’s not a fit place for an Englishwoman.”
“Rubbish,” Artemisia said. “I was born there. It’s wonderful. An immense land, filled with color and stunning beauty and peopled with very handsome races. While I won’t minimize its troubles—poverty, disease and ignorance being chief among them—they are the very same failings we suffer here. For every beggar on the streets of Calcutta, there is one haunting the crowded alleys in London.”
He cast her a look of surprise. Then his eyes narrowed in frank appraisal. “That’s an unusual view, you being a lady of quality and all.”
She chuckled. “For my opinions, I suppose you must blame my father. He always encouraged me to speak my mind. Not terribly ladylike I’m afraid, but the pot is already thrown and fired. Not much help for it now.”
“Who was your father that he should bring you up in such an unusual way?”
“No one you’d know. Angus Dalrymple, lately of the East India Company. My father’s no titled lord, but he was a great man, nonetheless.”
“Was? He’s not dead, is he?”
Her Mars seemed truly disturbed by the thought, his dark brow furrowed with concern. Artemisia smiled at him before returning her gaze to her sketchpad. “No, my father is very much alive.”
“Just no longer great?” he asked before thrusting his sword through an imaginary foe.
The insolence in his question snapped her head up. In the intimacy of her studio, she encouraged her models to speak their minds, but this was over the line.
The play of light shafting through the tall windows cast delineating shadows on his muscular arms. When he turned away from her, the broad expanse of his back, the ridge of his spine and the two slight indentations above his tight buttocks made her breath catch in her throat at his sheer male beauty.
There was no denying it. Insolent devil or not, the man was magnificent.
She cleared her throat before speaking. “My father suffers from a strange malady which has disordered his mind. He may not be the man he once was, but his illness in no way lessens my regard for him.”
He stopped slicing the sword through the air and tested the cutting edge with the pad of his thumb. “My apologies, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect.” He heaved in a deep sigh. “Well, that tears it,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Something vexes you?”
“You said I wouldn’t know your father, but I have heard of him. Or more rightly, I’ve heard of a friend of his.”
“A friend of Angus Dalrymple’s?” Her chalk was flying furiously, trying to capture the look of consternation on his features. She wasn’t sure yet which of his many expressions was most suitable for her Mars, but the man’s face was so mercurial, going from light to shadow, from sly sensuality to somber reflection. He was a feast for her eyes. “And who might that friend be?”
“Mr. Beddington.”
The chalk in her fingers snapped in half. Artemisia swallowed hard as she bent to retrieve the pieces. Surely she hadn’t heard him properly. “Who?”
“Mr. Beddington,” he repeated.
“And what do you know of him?” She closed her sketchpad and folded her hands, hoping he hadn’t marked the tremor in them.
“They say he’s a canny man of business, is Mr. Beddington. Any pump the bloke puts his hand to is sure to be flowing with guineas sooner rather than later. Must be rich as Croesus by now, him or whoever he works for.”
“And who says these things?”
“Folk what keep an eye on the way of things hereabouts,” he said. “Folk in my line of work.”
“I know I said no names, but I feel the need to know yours now, if you please.”
He made a bow with a small flourish, the gesture casually graceful as if he were dressed for an audience with the Queen instead of stark naked before a duchess. “Thomas Doverspike, your servant, mum.”
“And who is your current employer, Mr. Doverspike?”
“I work for a small counting house off and on, doing odd jobs. But I don’t plan on staying there. No indeed. A Doverspike always has an eye out for the main chance, my old gaffer used to say. I figure a man of Mr. Beddington’s stripe could use a fellow with my talents. I’m a dab hand at most anything.”
Artemisia didn’t doubt it. Odd jobs for a counting house probably made him a bill collector of sorts. After seeing his darker glances, she pitied anyone in debt to Mr. Doverspike’s employer.
“So you think this Mr. Beddington is a friend of my father’s?”
“More like his particular friend. A bloke don’t hear of one’s success without the other mentioned in the same breath. Stands to reason they’re on friendly terms.”
“Nothing of the sort,” she said crisply, deciding a judicious slice of the truth might serve to deflect further questions. “Mr. Beddington just happens to be the trustee of my father’s estate during his incapacity. No more, no less.” She didn’t feel the need to add ‘and my late husband’s fortune as well.’ Wherever Mr. Doverspike was getting his information, it was much too on point for her comfort. “And what services did you intend to offer Mr. Beddington?”
“Even gentlemen like Mr. Beddington need someone with connections on the low side of respectable, if you catch my meaning.” Mr. Doverspike’s smile flattened into a grimace. “Not that being your god of war ain’t a fine position, but there’s not much future in it, is there? I plan to make something of myself one day and a bloke like Beddington’s just the one to help me do it.”
“Your ambition does you credit, I dare say. It’s quite unlikely, but if I see Mr. Beddington, I will mention you. At present, the post of Mars is all I can offer.” For a moment, Artemisia’s imagination ran amok with the idea of Mr. Doverspike’s less-than-respectable connections. He definitely had a wildness about him, a raw edge of danger.
“My thanks, Your Grace.”
Light shafted in shallow pools near the base of the tall windows that lined the south side of her studio, heralding the sun’s zenith. The morning was nearly spent and it was time to put aside her sketches. The consideration of light was only part of why she insisted her models arrive early and on time. The last thing she needed was her mother or younger sisters having a run in with one of her young gods. Artemisia might be a duchess, but that wouldn’t stop Constance Dalrymple from pitching a fit over what she perceived as Artemisia’s lack of decorum and downright fast behavior.
Artemisia could hold her own in an argument, but she preferred to avoid on
e if she could. What her mother didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
“That’s all for today,” she said, waving him away. “Pray, be more punctual on the morrow. See Cuthbert on the way out for your pay.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
There it was again, the bow that spoke more of courtly dancing than seedy companions. The contradiction between his country speech and his occasional cultivated gesture troubled her. She doubted anyone else would have marked the inconsistency, but art had honed her skills of observation to a fine point.
His interest in Beddington wasn’t something to be easily dismissed either. If Mr. Doverspike wasn’t such an appealing subject, his curiosity alone would be enough to let him go. The pointed questions about Beddington were dangerous enough on their face, but when voiced by a decidedly rough-edged fellow, they were even more troubling.
Artemisia couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something not quite right about Thomas Doverspike.
Chapter 3
“There you are, Artemisia dear. Finally.” Constance Dalrymple lifted the cup of chocolate to her exquisitely rouged lips. “We were just going over the final preparations for the ball. I need assurance that your Mr. Beddington has the arrangements well in hand.”
Artemisia smiled a greeting to her younger sisters, Delia and Florinda, who were yawning over their breakfasts. Their mother kept the girls trotting at a breakneck pace late into each evening, trying to make certain the Misses Dalrymple were seen in the most flattering light at all the fashionable milieus. The London Season was in full blossom. In the quest for husbands for both her sisters, Artemisia was playing reluctant hostess to a masked ball a fortnight hence, a frivolity for which she had little patience and even less interest. But it had to be born for the sake of domestic peace.
“Mr. Beddington’s assistant is bringing over the bills for approval later today.” Artemisia sat at the head of the long mahogany table. Maintaining her position as mistress of the household was a constant battle while her mother was in residence. She nodded her thanks to Cuthbert as he set a pot of chocolate at her elbow and poured the frothy delight into an eggshell-thin china cup. “Have no fear, Mother. Your credit at the milliner’s is still good.”
