The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  Her work had been a sensation, partly, she supposed, because of her talent, but also because the artist’s hidden identity had created a stir of intrigue and gossip. Even ladies had discussed Bartlett-James and his drawings, though in a vague manner that had amused her when she’d had opportunity to be part of such an interesting, albeit delicate, conversation. Her husband’s solicitor had been the one to place her artwork—the less explicit at very respectable auctions, the more lustful and bold in exclusive gentlemen’s clubs—and although she’d retired long ago, she continued to pay the man well enough to remain silent about the details for the remainder of his years. The likelihood that Ian Wentworth had learned of the precise nature of her husband’s wealth seemed beyond remote, and yet why should the man wonder if Henry had encouraged her to pursue her talent as a profession when ladies did not have professions? Why would he even mention a connection between the Cheshire estate and her artwork?

  Of course it was entirely possible she was reading far too much into two or three casual sentences. She’d been careful, and successful, in staying away from him these last few years, knowing he lived a rather secluded life on his estate in Stamford after returning from an extended trip on the Continent. After she’d married and left Winter Garden five years ago, her sole ambition had been to create a new version of herself in the hope of never having to reveal any part of her former life, and in so doing, never having to see him again. Thus far she had succeeded beautifully. Nobody in her circle of friends and acquaintances knew who she was, or where she came from originally. She never spoke of the time before her marriage, aside from very general references when asked, because just the mention of a sister shipped to a penal colony and the horrors her family had forced upon a titled man would ruin her and destroy her son’s good name. Her innocence in his abduction had saved her from arrest, and until now her prevarications and avoidance of detail had been effective in hiding both her identity and her middle-class upbringing by a mother who’d valued manners and breeding above all things, allowing her to flourish in a class in which she hadn’t been born and didn’t actually belong.

  Unfortunately, she now carried two grave secrets that would disgrace her should the Duke of Chatwin, with all his wealth and influence, choose to investigate her past in detail and announce his findings to society. And if by chance he’d come back into her life to hunt her down and destroy her, she would need a plan to save herself and her son. She would remain alert and strike back deviously if she must.

  A sharp knock at the door jarred her from her thoughts, and she paused in her stride. “Come in.”

  Her butler, Needham, entered and offered a quick bow. “Madam, his grace, the Duke of Chatwin, has arrived,” he said stoically.

  She nodded once. “Send him in.”

  He turned, leaving her momentarily to fluff her skirts and run her nervous hands down her tightly corseted waist. She’d donned her most conservative, high-necked day gown in rich blue satin, and she’d instructed Phoebe, her maid, to dress her hair in braids and coil them neatly upon her head. Her look, she supposed, might be a bit severe, but then her appearance fit her mood as well as her determination to hold a proper and imposing carriage in his presence. Assuming such a thing was possible.

  Moments later she heard his footsteps on the parquet floor. Trying her best to control a renewed trembling within, Viola couldn’t help but stare in awe as he walked into her parlor.

  The man made a striking presence, his tall, chiseled form filling out his tailored suit to perfection, the olive green silk, white linen shirt, and brown-and-green-striped cravat providing an excellent contrast to his dark brown hair and the eyes she remembered so well.

  “Lady Cheshire,” he addressed her, his voice deep and formal.

  “Your grace,” she replied with a quick curtsey. Then, with a glance to her butler, she said, “Needham, we’ll have tea at once.”

  “Of course, madam,” he returned with a nod before he quit the room.

  Alone with Chatwin for the moment, she gestured, palm up, to the green leather chair beside the cold grate. “Would you care to sit, your grace?”

  He strode with ease across the carpet, his gaze roving over the parlor, taking in each floral painting in gilded frames she’d hung on nearly every available space on the walls.

  “Did you paint any of these?” he asked as he lowered his body into the chair.

  “I did,” she replied, moving to the pink velveteen sofa across from him. She sat gracefully on the edge of the cushion, spreading her gown out around her knees and ankles, stopping short of sinking into the softness by keeping her back erect, her posture stiff. Folding her hands in her lap, she added, “I painted all of them, actually.”

  His brows rose faintly as he stared at the picture of a flower garden in full bloom above the mantel. “Very impressive.”

  He didn’t elaborate, which left her wondering if he meant her talent or the sheer number of pieces she displayed in one average-sized room. Fortunately, Needham saved her from an awkward reply by knocking and entering once more, his stocky hands clutching the handles of a large silver tray.

  “Is there anything else for the moment, Lady Cheshire?” he asked, walking to the tea table in between them and placing the tray gently on the polished walnut.

  “No, we’ll serve ourselves.”

  He bowed, then turned on his heels and made his way quickly from the parlor, leaving the door ajar as propriety demanded.

  She immediately reached for the pot and began pouring a perfectly steeped Darjeeling into one of the delicate china cups, the sweet, floral aroma curling upward with the steam.

  “Sugar, your grace?”

  “Please.”

  She complied, adding a teaspoon full, then offering the cup, saucer, and serviette to him before filling her own. That done, she sat back a little to regard him, trying not to stare as she gently stirred the sugar in her own hot brew.

  He looked fairly relaxed, his elbows resting upon the arms of the chair, his tapered fingers, dusted with fine, dark hair, pinching the handle of the china as he waited for his tea to cool. She’d never seen him in full daylight before, and although it was filtered through her pale pink curtains, a ray of sun played across his face and chest from the window to his left, brightening his features for her view. He truly looked spectacular, robust and healthy. On the outside, at least, he had healed with no damage at all and remained one of the most incredible-looking men she had ever seen in her life.

  Suddenly the entire moment struck her as absurd. Not only had she just served exquisite tea in imported fine china to Ian Wentworth, the man her sisters had nearly starved to death five years ago, but he’d also accepted with graciousness her company as a high-ranking member of the nobility. Her mother, God rest her, a woman who’d struggled all her life to improve her modest social standing to no avail, would have fainted in joyful astonishment at first sight of her youngest daughter entertaining such a marvelously handsome, available duke in her fashionable home in the city.

  “You look amused,” he drawled, lifting his cup to his lips.

  She smiled faintly and shook her head. “I apologize, your grace, but I haven’t entertained a guest in my parlor in a very long time. I’ve only been out of mourning a short while.”

  “Ahh.” He took a sip from his cup, then lowered it back to the saucer. “Well, I’m certainly delighted, and honored, to be your first . . . diversion, shall we say.”

  She dropped her gaze as she slid the edge of her teaspoon across the china rim, then placed it on her saucer, assuring herself that he couldn’t possibly know how unsettled he continued to make her by using suggestive words as he focused on her person so directly. She just wished she could tell if he was trying to rattle her on purpose. Thankfully, he saved her from an embarrassing comment by getting to the point of their visit.

  “So,” he be
gan, leaning over to place his cup and saucer on the tea table, “I suppose we should get to the details of what exactly is required of me during a sitting.”

  Lowering her own cup to her lap, she replied, “Perhaps we should discuss my price first, your grace.”

  He brushed that aside with a shake of his head. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”

  Her brows pinched in skepticism. “Whatever I ask? I’m very flattered by your apparent trust in my ability, sir, but I assure you, I’m no Peter Paul Rubens.”

  The side of his mouth twitched up as he raked his gaze over her rigidly sitting form. “I am aware of that, Lady Cheshire, though after viewing what you have to offer, I’m certain your talent will be worth every penny I spend.”

  Again, the double meaning in his remark disconcerted her, and a familiar warmth crept up her neck and into her cheeks. He probably noticed it, too, which only made the matter worse. She lifted her cup and drew a sip of her tea.

  Straightening a bit, he shifted his large body in the chair. “But I do realize my request is sudden, so of course I expect to pay more. Time is of the essence where I am concerned as well.”

  “I see.” She waited, assessing him and his formality, especially considering all they’d shared in the past—a past he claimed to not recall. “So . . . if I asked for ten thousand pounds for a four-foot portrait, you’d comply?”

  She’d been more or less teasing with that outrageous offer, but he didn’t look at all fazed by it. Instead, he offered her a beautiful smile that nearly took her breath.

  Dropping his voice, he replied, “I would.”

  She laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

  His brows rose as he leaned back casually once more, lacing his fingers together over his stomach. “I think, madam, that if the worst thing I must do is pay ten thousand pounds for the enormous pleasure of sitting and staring at you for several hours a day, for perhaps weeks, it would be an investment well spent.”

  The satisfaction she felt from his compliment wrapped her in a seductive heat she simply could not brush aside. Why he flirted with her, she couldn’t fathom, but she decided to attempt to get an explanation from him regarding his intent.

  “Since you said time is of the essence, your grace, and I’ve made it known how my time is the greatest cost,” she expounded matter-of-factly, “I suppose one can assume you’ve chosen a lady to court and marriage plans are in the making?”

  His eyes widened fractionally, and he almost looked surprised. Almost. Then he tipped his head a bit to gaze at her askance.

  “Would that have an effect on the price?”

  She grinned. “Perhaps.”

  He smiled. “Why?”

  She lifted her cup to her lips, taking another swallow of tea without moving her gaze from the directness of his. Seconds later, she replied, “If you propose to a friend of mine, I might be more willing to give you a generous offer.”

  “You’re a matchmaker now?”

  She lifted a shoulder delicately. “I wouldn’t call myself a matchmaker exactly, but I think I should be rather pleased if someone I care about married so well.”

  “Indeed. So you find me an excellent catch, do you?” he asked, his voice low and taunting with amusement.

  Without pause, she countered, “Wouldn’t you if you had a daughter?”

  His eyes lit up. “Touché, Lady Cheshire.”

  She nodded once, feeling enormously satisfied that he seemed to admire her polished comeback.

  He regarded her closely, tapping his thumbs together in his lap, his eyes narrowing even as he continued to smile.

  Moments later, he remarked, “Lady Isabella is beautiful, and she is a friend, is she not?”

  The fact that he would mention Isabella as a possible wife for him irked her for a reason she couldn’t define, though she really should have expected it. He had appeared at her party, after all, and she would make an excellent match for him, at least socially.

  “Yes, she’s actually my closest friend, and she is beautiful,” Viola agreed pleasantly, masking her feelings well. “But you do know if you show even the slightest interest in courting her, you’ll be forever at the mercy of Lady Tenby.”

  He chuckled, his dark eyes sparkling. “Thank you for the warning. But truthfully, I think I’d prefer a wife who’s more . . . vibrant.”

  She had no clue what that could mean. “Vibrant, your grace?”

  Shrugging, he replied, “I tend to prefer ladies with dark hair, someone more like . . . an enchantress than an angel.”

  Her stomach fluttered, and for a slice of a second, Viola wondered if he considered her more attractive than Isabella, though in a million years, she’d never ask him. Instead, lifting her cup to her lips, she finished off her tea in a swallow, then placed both cup and saucer on the walnut table in front of her.

  “I see your point,” she maintained with a forced sigh. “Isabella does look like an angel, and she’s rather too innocent to be called an enchantress.”

  “Agreed.” He paused, watching her closely, then said, “And what do you think of Lady Anna Tildare?”

  He couldn’t have shocked her more. “Lady Anna?” she fairly blurted. Then, catching herself, she smoothed her skirts and cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, your grace, but a man of your . . . um . . . stature can surely find someone more suitable than Lady Anna.”

  “You don’t care for her?” he asked, his tone warm with continued good humor.

  She shouldn’t have said anything. If he told a soul, gossip would surely spread, and in the end, she could be excluded from certain social events that would no doubt dampen her impeccable reputation. Then again, perhaps she worried too much, though it never hurt to be careful.

  Smiling, she replied, “That’s not what I meant, your grace. Lady Anna would make a lovely wife, I’m sure.”

  His brows rose. “And yet she’s not suitable for someone of my stature?”

  Viola couldn’t now tell if he was teasing her or simply didn’t believe her meager explanation. Suddenly she felt uncomfortable in her stays and she fidgeted a little on the sofa.

  “Please forgive me,” she said with feigned meekness, “I only meant that she is very social. She adores the city and attends every ball and festivity. You told me yourself that you prefer the country. And while it’s true that I don’t know you very well, I do know Anna. It just doesn’t seem quite a . . . suitable match, but that’s only my opinion.”

  “Ahh . . . I understand.”

  Frankly, she couldn’t tell if he understood or not.

  “And yet she does come with a remarkable dowry,” he added seconds later.

  So he already knew the marriageable value of Lord Brooksfield’s only daughter. That irritated her more than the thought of him courting Isabella.

  She smiled flatly. “But you don’t appear to be in need of it, your grace.”

  He blinked, as if he couldn’t believe she’d said that. Then, grinning widely, he murmured, “Thank you for the compliment, Lady Cheshire.”

  His good-natured response, when he could have reproved her for her gauche interjection into his personal affairs, consoled her a little, and she decided to make light of it. In a low, conspiratorial voice, she acknowledged, “And think of it this way, if you court Lady Anna, I’ll have to charge you more for your portrait, since she’s worth a fortune.”

  He grinned again, slyly. “Really? You’d charge more than ten thousand pounds?”

  She ran a palm down one long sleeve. “You must admit it would be difficult to pass up such an opportunity to enlarge my own coffer.”

  He nodded very slowly. “For both of us, I should think.”

  “Except that Lady Anna is also blonde,” she reminded him. “And you said you prefer ladies with dark hair. I woul
dn’t call her vibrant, either.”

  He didn’t reply for a moment, just continued to eye her candidly, as if he studied her for some unknown purpose, trying to delve into her very female thoughts. Not only did his overt attention make her nervous; it made her hot all over as well, and she immediately regretted wearing such a conservative gown, which scratched her neck and didn’t allow her to breathe. She should never have permitted the conversation to become so intimate.

  With a wave of her hand, she tried to dismiss it all. “Of course who you choose to court is your affair, sir. And naturally I won’t charge you a penny more than I would anyone else, which is far, far less than ten thousand pounds. I suggest we get started with our first sitting tomorrow morning, and if we work quickly, it shouldn’t take too long to finish.” With a rush of air, she finalized their meeting by saying, “And please forgive me for infringing on your privacy. It isn’t for me to discuss.”

  “Not at all, madam,” he fairly drawled, lifting a hand to rub his chin with his fingers and thumb. “I rather enjoyed your insight.”

  Enjoyed her insight?

  “And watching you squirm,” he continued as his amusement faded. Leaning forward, he confessed, “You are far more clever and beautiful than Lady Anna Tildare, and I’m certain she knows it, which is why she disregards you and flaunts her wealth and class whenever you’re near. You, in turn, are flustered by the notion of her marrying a man you find attractive.” With a deadly smile, he finished in a whisper, “You needn’t worry, madam. I won’t tell a soul that you tried to dissuade me from her charms, whatever they may be.”