by Mia Marlowe
He started with her feet. Lifting her foot high, he unhooked her boots and drew her stockings off. He rubbed the ball of her foot and ran a finger along her delicate arch. She shuddered, trying to control her giggle. She suspected Trevelyn might be the sort who enjoyed tickling, so she was determine not to let him see how his touch set her stomach jiggling.
He set her heel on his shoulder as his gaze traveled up her calf, past her knee and to her inner thigh. She was totally exposed to him and the heat in his eyes was answered in the warm moistness of her flesh. When they’d nearly made love during the masked ball, her studio had been lit by kindly moonlight. Now she was bared to him in the stark light of day. He ran a hand along her leg, his touch setting her skin dancing.
“No, you don’t,” he said when she would have brought her knees together. “I promised to have all of you and I am a man of my word.”
“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.”
Chapter 21
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. Be
ddington’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.
Chapter 22
“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.
Exquisitely appointed without being fussy, the second-floor parlor was obviously the ambassador’s private retreat. Bookshelves lined one wall and the room was awash in the comfortable mustiness of leather-bound volumes with a faint after-note of Fribourg and Treyer pipe tobacco.
Artemisia perched on one of the matching settees arranged facing each other before the cold fireplace while the ambassador rang for tea. She would have welcomed a small blaze, but reminded herself that Russians were used to a much colder climate. The ambassador probably found soggy English days balmy by comparison.
A silent servant appeared almost instantly, bearing a tray of pumpernickel and pickled cucumber sandwiches along with a bone china tea service. Even though the ambassador claimed not to be expecting company, his staff had obviously been ready. Kharitonov poured shots of the clear liquid for himself and Trevelyn.
The size of the drinking glasses was reassuring to Artemisia, but the sly look in the ambassador’s eye was not.
“Na Zdorovie!” Vasiliy Kharitonov clinked his glass against the lip of Trevelyn’s. “To health,” he translated for them.
“Vasha Zdorovie!” Trevelyn countered. “Your health.”
“You speak Ruske,” the ambassador said with a raised brow. “Your Grace, where you find such learned models. Most servants we must bring if wish to have conversation in tongue of Mother Russia.”
Trevelyn winked at her and shrugged. “My father might have been a plain Doverspike from Wiltshire, but my mother’s mother was from Odessa.”
Artemisia smiled weakly at this. It only served to remind her that the man she’d taken to her bed was an accomplished liar. Thank goodness, she had sense enough not to take him to her heart.
Didn’t she? Her chest constricted strangely.
“Nu.” The ambassador inhaled deeply. Then he knocked back the contents of his glass in one swig. He nodded to Trevelyn to follow suit as he cleared his throat with a loud “harrumph” and sent a pumpernickel and pickle chaser into his belly.
“No sipping. S
ipping is for tea,” the ambassador admonished. “Vodka is drink for man. Is meant to be drunk like one, da.”
Trevelyn gamely tipped his glass and downed his entire portion in one long swallow. His chest convulsed with a suppressed cough and his eyes watered, but he managed not to disgrace the whole of English manhood with his performance. The ambassador seemed pleased and was quick to refill Trev’s jigger to the rim.
“Your mother’s mother from Odessa would be proud. Again, da?” Kharitonov gestured for Trev to toss back another round.
He did so and, after only a few sputters, stood there grinning from ear to ear. To Artemisia’s horror, he held out his glass for more.
Artemisia rose and walked toward the nearest horse statuette, displayed on the butterfly grand piano in the corner. Someone had to remember why they were there. It would do Mr. Shipwash no good if Trev became thoroughly foxed before they located the Beddington statue and devised a way to retrieve it.
“This is an interesting piece,” she said. The carving was done in aged ivory, mellow with time. “It has an Asiatic quality about it. Fluid lines and sparse ornamentation. Where did you acquire it, Your Excellency?”
“Island of Japans.” Distracted from his role as barkeep, the ambassador waddled over to join her in perusing his collection. He showed her statues of horses from Persia and Egypt, the Ukraine and Prussia, from distant Brazil and the Americas. The works were carved in jade and exotic woods. Some were ceramic, some in marble or granite, and one slightly tarnished equine was of beaten silver.
“Where are the statues you made, Your Grace?” Trevelyn finally asked when Artemisia stopped him from reaching for a rare primitive from the South Seas with a quick shake of her head. “I’ve heard a good deal about the one Her Majesty used to own, but I’ve never seen it.”
Artemisia hadn’t found either Mr. Beddington or Miss Bogglesworth among the ambassador’s diverse collection. She fretted that he’d already discovered the hollow base and the key.
