by Mia Marlowe
“I am a real journalist,” Clarence said. “You just don’t like my brand of news. Don’t you understand we have to give the public what they want?”
“Perhaps it’s time someone gave them what they need,” Deveridge said softly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robe. “Good day, Mr. Wigglesworth. I’m sure you know the way out.” He strolled away as if he’d only been taking the air in the duchess’s wild garden. Then he stopped and looked back at Clarence with a wintry glare. “Remember my promise.”
Clarence swallowed hard and nodded. If he wrote another scurrilous word about Her Grace, he had no doubt Deveridge would make his promise good.
* * *
Artemisia swiped away the last of her tears just in time. Mr. Doverspike was climbing back through the window. She sniffed loudly and hoped to heaven her nose wasn’t red.
“How can one hope to have a civilized discussion with you if you insist on escaping out windows?” she blustered in an attempt to hide that she’d been crying. “Well? What have you to say for yourself?”
“You said you wanted me gone.” He shrugged and spread his hands in a self-deprecating gesture. “The truth is you had a reporter from The Tattler at your window just now. He and I had a little chat in your garden.”
“Is that what—” Artemisia’s breath hissed over her teeth. Her day was going from bad to worse. “Then he was at the window when we—”
“Yes, but don’t fret, madam. I am in possession of some coppers that will never see the light of day.” He pulled the fading daguerreotype plates from the pocket of his robe. The images were shadowy, but she could definitely make out two forms in a shocking embrace. The reclining nude was rampantly aroused and though the image was blurred, his hand was definitely reaching for her breast.
Mr. Doverspike was right. He wasn’t nude. He was naked. Blatantly, unabashedly as bare as Adam and the answering warmth between her own legs reminded her she’d been playing with Eden’s fire.
“This is dreadful.” Her mother would be furious. The publication of a damning article in The Tattler would probably coincide with Constance Dalrymple’s masked fete. “Even without a picture, there’ll be a piece about it and my reputation will be thoroughly ruined. Not that I care so much for myself, but my sisters will suffer horribly for my indiscretion.”
“I doubt it,” he said smugly. “There will be no article. We came to a not-so-gentlemanly agreement. The reporter in question will refrain from writing about you.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He agreed not to report it and I agreed to allow him to continue breathing.”
She looked askance at this astounding statement. She’d sensed danger seething about him, but would he truly do murder for her?
He cocked his head. “I told you I have contacts on the low side of respectable, Your Grace.”
She took a deep breath, trying to quell her rioting insides. “Very well. I thank you, Mr. Doverspike, for your help in preserving my honor. Now, if you will kindly get dressed and see yourself out. Please leave an address with Cuthbert where I can send the rest of your pay. I release you from my service.”
“What? You haven’t finished the painting.”
“No, and I never shall.” Tears pricked at her eyes again, but she blinked them back. “Please just go.”
“Why?”
“I think that’s painfully obvious. A line has been crossed, one that is inviolate between an artist and her subject.”
“Just because I kissed you?”
“Because I allowed you to kiss me. The fault is mine and you have my profoundest apologies, but I cannot continue to work with you.”
“Rubbish,” he said. “You hold yourself to an impossible standard. Do you think for a moment the old masters of the canvas didn’t have more than a passing acquaintance with their subjects?”
Her cheeks burned. She’d always suspected that was the case. How else did artists capture the expressions of longing and the knowing looks if there hadn’t truly been some ‘knowing’ going on?
“Nevertheless, I must ask you to leave.”
Mr. Doverspike’s mouth hardened into a tight line. “You’ll at least give me a good character, I hope.”
“Certainly, I’ll be happy to write a general letter of reference and send it round with your pay.”
“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind. I was hoping you’d introduce me to Mr. Beddington and recommend my services to him.”
Beddington. Not again. She thought she’d deflected his interest in Mr. Beddington. “That is not something I’m at liberty to do.”
“Seems to me you’re at liberty to do whatever you jolly well please, Your Grace.”
“What could I possibly say to Mr. Beddington about your services? Here stands Thomas Doverspike. He takes off his clothes well and frightens members of the press witless.”
“Hopefully not at the same time.”
A laugh erupted from her lips. “No, I daresay. Not at the same time.”
“And yet, I’ve taken my clothes off and frightened you witless, haven’t I?” He took a step to close the distance between them.
Fright wasn’t exactly the right word. Her insides jumped at his nearness, every pore in her body alive and tingling. She could still taste his kiss. She turned from him lest he see how difficult drawing a breath had become for her. “Please leave, Mr. Doverspike. I beg you.”
She heard the soft pad of his bare feet on the hardwood and drew a sigh of relief. He was going. Then the sound of rustling pages made her turn around. The man was leafing through her sketchpad.
“What are you doing?”
“Just seeing what we’ve accomplished together here.” He turned the paper sideways and screwed his face into a frown. “Do I really look that ridiculous?”
He pointed to one of the studies depicting him with the helmet and sword, chest puffed out, military bearing severely at odds with his nudity. It did seem a tad overdone to her now that she considered it afresh.
He flipped the page. “Oh,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “This is what you were trying to do this morning.”
“Yes.” It was her preliminary sketch of his reclined figure. There was tension in his shoulder muscles as her Mars leaned despairingly toward an unobtainable prize. “Mars is always depicted in military splendor, victorious and virile. I thought I’d take an entirely different tack on the subject. When two forces meet on a field of battle, one side is always declared the loser. This is the god of war in defeat.”
“More often than not, both sides lose,” he said softly. “Of course, there are some battles that can’t be avoided. I’ve fought in a few. But most wars are just mud and blood for the blokes who must fight them. In this sketch, you’ve hit upon what war truly is—failure and loss and utter stupidity. Whatever you do, Your Grace, you must finish this work.”
“I can’t,” she said. “You inspired it.”
“I inspired failure and loss and utter stupidity?”
Against her will, he drew another laugh from her.
“There, you see,” he said. “If we can laugh together, we can work together.” He held the sketch up for her to see. “This is important, madam, more important than how little esteem you have for me. This says something about war that no one else has had the courage to say. If you fail to see it through, this vision will haunt you for the rest of your artistic life.” He handed the sketchpad to her. “Isn’t that worth putting up with me for a little while longer?”
The problem wasn’t that she had too little esteem for him, but rather too much. She’d have to learn to control her response to him if she was to make this work. Still, he was right about the sketch.
“Very well, Mr. Doverspike. Kindly remove your robe and assume the position. The sun will not wait.”
Chapter 8
Her Mars groaned and shifted slightly.
“Don’t move,” Artemisia ordered. “You’ll change the way the light strikes your upraised arm.”
“If I don’t move, my upraised arm is like to fall off,” he complained.
She glanced at the mantel clock. “We have been at this for better than an hour,” she conceded. “Very well. Let’s take a break. The tea should still be hot and I asked Cuthbert to bring round some extra scones. You’ll find them under the silver tray.”
Thomas Doverspike rose to his feet and donned his robe before helping himself to the offered pastries. Artemisia draped the canvas to keep dust from settling on the fresh paint. With countless coal fires burning, London was ever so much dirtier than Bombay. She poured out two cups of tea, laced his with an extra lump of sugar just as she’d learned he liked it and poured a smidgeon of cream into hers.
“How’s it coming?” he asked between cramming bites of the flaky scones into his mouth.
“It’s taking shape.” Artemisia blew on her tea to cool it before she sipped. She slipped a hand around to massage her lower back. Life models weren’t the only ones who suffered muscle cramps.
“Can I see it?”
“Not until it’s finished.”
She’d made amazing progress on the painting in a few short days. This was going to be an important work. She could feel it in every stroke.
Her paintbrush fairly flew, but she was a stickler for detail and while parts of the figure leaped off the canvas, other portions were still flat and two dimensional. Thomas Doverspike’s lean musculature was a delight to duplicate and his skin glowed with buoyant health, but she’d left his groin area fuzzy and indistinct. She considered draping him there. A judicious sash or fig leaf would solve the problem, but her artist’s heart damned her for a coward. He was beautiful in all his parts. Even in defeat, Mars was still a virile male. It would be less than courageous if she covered him just because the sight of his willy tied her knickers in a knot.
He still experienced rampant erections, but she refrained from direct comment on them. She never tired of looking at him though, the skin over his enraged phallus tight and straining, dark with engorged blood, his ballocks drawn up in a snug mound. She found herself wondering what his shaft would feel like. Would it be smooth in her hand? Warm? The thought made her cheeks burn and something primitive flared to life in her belly.
She had to think of something else. “Now that you’ve had a bit of time to get used to it, are you finding your job easier?”
“Why do you ask?”
“A while back it sounded as though you found serving as my model demeaning,” she said. “I hope you’ve changed your thoughts on that.”
He shrugged. “Until you’ve shucked out of your skivvies and stood there, you wouldn’t understand. I guess you’d have to try the job yourself to know what it’s like.”
“I beg your pardon?” She’d surely misheard him.
“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” he said, dusting the crumbs off his hands. “It would be a nice rest for both of us. We could trade places and I could draw you for a while.”
She almost choked on her tea. “Very funny. For a moment, I thought you were serious.”
“I am.”
She set down her teacup. “Ludicrous. You’re no artist.”
“Well, you have me dead to rights there,” he said. “I’ve no eye for composition like you, but I’m not such a bad draftsman. Here. I’ll show you.”
He fetched her sketchpad and chalk and with a few deft strokes captured Pollux napping in the window, his furry feet tucked beneath his body in a manner that Artemisia thought made him look like a ‘kitty-loaf.’
“Not bad,” she admitted. His lines were clean and sure, the figure of her cat in near perfect proportions.
“I did a bit of map-making in the service,” he explained. “Well, how about it, Your Grace? Shall we turn and turn about? I promise not to give you three . . . eyes.”
“Mr. Doverspike, this is entirely irregular. It just wouldn’t be proper for someone in my position,” she protested. “It would be . . .”
“Demeaning?”
“Not at all,” she said, irritated to have been caught by her own argument.
“Then what’s stopping you? Are you afraid?”
“Certainly not,” she lied. Then because she believed whatever else art was about, it was about truth first of all, she swallowed hard and nodded.
“I must admit I was a bit afraid myself at first,” he said.
She scoffed. “You? Whatever happened to ‘Shyness-is-not-one-of-my-faults’?”
“Sometimes the only way to face your fears is to ignore them and push through,” he said. “Being naked—your pardon, I mean nude—before someone you barely know is daunting. But in this case, you know me.”
Did she? She still wondered about Mr. Doverspike. She liked him well enough, but he was too self-possessed for a common worker, too subtly dangerous for a member of the gentry. Even though he’d spent time nude in her presence for more than a week, he was still a puzzlement to her. Her observation skills were higher than most, but she still couldn’t discern the secrets of another human heart.
She tried to dismiss memories of his kiss from her mind, but sometimes it rose unbidden. It was like recalling a whirlwind, one that swept reason before it and left devastation in its wake. No doubt looking at his sensual mouth was clouding her judgment now since she was actually entertaining his outrageous suggestion.
“I’ll never be able to explain to you what it’s like,” he said. “If you truly want to know what it is you’re asking of your models, you have to experience it for yourself.” He raised a brow at her. “If you dare.”
If she didn’t do as he suggested, he’d continue to accuse her of demeaning him. The infuriating man had boxed her into a moral corner where she couldn’t refuse.
“I’ll be right back.” She headed for the dressing room. By the time she closed the door behind her, her belly was writhing like net full of eels. She took a deep breath. She could do this. After all, she did expect her subjects to do this very thing without a qualm. In the interest of fairness, she should know how they felt.
Her hands shook as she removed her paint-spattered smock. The simple muslin day dress came off next. She was down to her chemise, stays and drawers and realized she couldn’t go forward. She was unable to unlace her own corset.
“Are you all right, Your Grace?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” Artemisia said, irritated that her voice tremored. Bloody French dressmakers. She’d long believed fashion made fools of everyone. How could it be that a grown woman couldn’t even undress herself? She hadn’t thought of this when she agreed to this farce. Now she’d have to admit she couldn’t go through with it.
“Do you need help with your stays?” The sound of his voice told her he was just outside the door.
“How thoughtful of you to offer.” She should have realized he’d be intimately familiar with the undressing of women. He wasn’t about to let her off on a technicality. She opened the door a crack.
“Yes, Mr. Doverspike, I would appreciate your help,” Artemisia said as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to assist her with her corset. She was committed now, and the last thing she wanted was for him to see her falter. She turned her back to him, certain he’d know what to do.
She held her breath as he tugged at the knot. When it came free, his fingers worked their way up her spine, pulling her laces loose on each set of eyes. She realized suddenly that he’d have to lace her back up when they were finished.
She removed the corset and her breasts fell free beneath her thin chemise. She was able to draw a deep breath, but didn’t feel up to turning to face him. What might she read in his dark eyes now?
“Thank you. I can manage from here,” she said quietly.
He withdrew from the small room and left her to face her fear. She lifted her chemise over her head and lowered her drawers. What would he think when he saw her? She wished she provided a mirror for her models. She longed to check for imperfections.
She looked down at
herself. Her nipples were at full alert and if she slipped a hand over her slightly rounded belly to the dark curls at the apex of her legs she suspected she’d find them damp. Her heart pounded and she felt an answering throb in her groin.
Really, this was the most outrageous thing she’d ever done, she decided. She didn’t have to go through with it. All she need do was slip back into her drawers and chemise and call for Mr. Doverspike to re-lace her stays.
But then he’d know her for a coward and a hypocrite. How could she expect her models to do something in the name of art she was unwilling to do herself?
Artemisia took down the second robe from its peg and slid her arms into the capacious sleeves. She pulled it tight around her, the feel of velvet against her bare skin a surprise. She’d worn any number of velvet gowns before, but with all the layers of undergarments—drawers, chemise, corset, petticoats, crinolines, the soft fabric barely touched her skin and certainly not in such intimate places. The texture rubbing against her naked bottom was positively decadent. She decided she liked it.
“Do you require further assistance, Your Grace?” Mr. Doverspike asked through the door.
“No, thank you,” she said, determined to brazen this out. She drew a deep breath and opened the door.
The look of surprise on his face was almost worth the back-flips her stomach was doing.
She padded to the center of the room. “Well, don’t stand there gaping. If you intend to draw me, you’ll need more than a handful of fingers. My sketchpad is yours and you’ll find fresh chalk in the top drawer of the little desk.”
He quickly retrieved the items and seated himself in her straight-backed chair, crossing one ankle over his knee to cradle the sketchbook. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, one corner of his mouth twitching with a suppressed grin.
Then suddenly all the levity drained from his features and his eyes went darker. Artemisia felt the heat of his gaze even through the thick velvet. Surely he’d scorch her when his view was unfettered by the robe. She looked down, seemingly fascinated by the swirling grain in the dark hardwood, unable to meet his eyes. She fiddled with her lapels, inching the fabric off one shoulder. Anticipation rippled through her, but now that the moment had arrived, Artemisia wasn’t sure she could go through with it. She was about to admit defeat when he cleared his throat.
