The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  Tomorrow, at their second sitting, he intended to draw her further into his web. He still wasn’t certain how to go about getting her to succumb to his charms without forcing the issue, and he didn’t want to frighten her into running before his final act of vengeance. He needed her trust. That’s when she would be the most vulnerable. That’s when she would help him remember every horrifying moment as he had been forced to live it—alone and scared and chained in darkness.

  A fast knock at the door jarred him from his musings and he turned back to his desk, his posture erect.

  “Come.”

  Braetham entered a second later. “Forgive the intrusion, your grace, but the package you’ve been expecting has arrived.”

  Ian stood immediately as his butler walked across the carpeting toward him, the frame, approximately three feet long by two feet wide, wrapped in newspaper, held firmly in his hands.

  “Place it here on my desk,” Ian said, making room by moving pen, paper, and his whiskey glass to the side.

  Braetham did as ordered, laying it gently flat in front of him.

  “Anything else, your grace?”

  Ian shook his head. “No, not now. I’ll call if I need you.”

  His butler bowed, turned, and left his study, closing the door behind him.

  Ian stared at the newspaper for a long moment, hands on hips, hesitant about tearing it open to view the erotic piece of famous art he’d purchased from his nemesis for five thousand outrageous goddamned pounds. He hoped it would be money well spent and that in some manner he would be able to use the piece against her.

  That thought in mind, he lifted his glass and finally took a sip of whiskey, then began pulling at the corners of the paper until he ripped it from the frame, exposing the entire picture to his view.

  Pure and unequivocal astonishment washed over him as he stared down at the most incredible, sexually suggestive drawing he’d ever seen.

  The sketch, though simple and elegant of design, exposed a nude woman in full form, standing with feet spread about a foot apart, her head turned sideways as she leaned it against the shoulder of a man hidden behind her, her long dark hair flowing so that it obscured the features of her face, her arms reaching up to clutch his shoulders behind her. The man, head down, pressed his lips against her bare neck, his arms wrapped loosely around her, one hand clasping a breast, fingers teasing her nipple, the other hand pressed fully into the dark triangle of curls between her legs, his fingertips hidden inside her delicate, feminine warmth.

  Ian took a step back, staring in utter fascination at a spectacularly good drawing. Although he’d never call himself a critic of good art, it was quite obvious to him why Victor Bartlett-James had become a sensation. The sketch had clearly been drawn by a talented hand, and the subject matter, though certainly erotic, managed to tastefully depict a pose without making the act between the two seem debauched.

  Indeed, as he gazed at each intricate detail now, the hourglass form of the female, the strength of the man’s arms and hands on her body, his delicate kiss and the hidden planes of her face beneath flowing hair, it struck him as it should, as it was intended to do. Ian felt himself grow hard with a rush of desire, not only from looking at such a titillating picture but also because it just occurred to him that Lady Cheshire had seen and likely stared at this work with longing herself. And it was the thought of Viola getting physically aroused by such work, just as he did now, that enticed his imagination, making him wonder what she had been like in bed with a husband twice her age, if the man she’d married had satisfied her, what she did now to relieve her own sexual tension without him or any man to fulfill her fantasies.

  Reaching for his whiskey glass, Ian downed the contents in one gulp, then turned, stepped around his chair, and walked to the window to lean his shoulder on the frame, arms crossed over his chest as he gazed out to the blackness of a moonless night.

  He felt a little annoyed at himself for never considering that in his quest for justice he might discover a different Viola Bennington-Jones with her own sensual secrets, that the girl he remembered from five years ago might have turned into a fiery, experienced woman. She hadn’t just gotten older; she had become an independent widow who would not now be so easily manipulated by her naivete. But she wouldn’t be able to deny her sexuality. Nobody who’d at one time tasted the fruits of the flesh could give up that particular sweetness forever.

  Still, something more than merely knowing that Viola had seen, owned, and then sold such an explicit drawing nagged at his curiosity and, warranted or not, gave him pause. As an artist herself, she had to have noted the nature of the talent, critically considered each line and blend of the charcoal, just as she’d done for his benefit when she’d drawn the sketch of him. She certainly would have studied Bartlett-James’s specific gift to improve upon her own, regardless of the fact that she only drew and painted still lifes and formal portraits.

  And perhaps that’s what intrigued him. An artist could study erotic art for its precision and elegance, its beauty and form. But could that same artist do so and not find the picture as a whole arousing?

  Ian glanced over his shoulder to the drawing again. He could imagine the prelude to passion the artist had chosen to convey with each stroke. But had it come from memory or from models standing before him? Could Viola draw such a lascivious portrait if paid the right price? A slow grin of satisfaction spread across his mouth at the thought of witnessing her expression if he actually asked her to draw him nude. And of course if he was watching her draw him like that, he wouldn’t be able to avoid having an erection in full view.

  Suddenly a thought struck him soundly.

  Why do you paint fruit?

  It’s inoffensive . . . one can hang it anywhere. . . .

  Not just inoffensive. It was safe.

  Ian quickly moved around his chair and back to his desk, peering down at the picture once more, a bizarre theory beginning to take shape in his mind.

  And how do they pay you?

  Their wives bake me pie. . . .

  A coquettish answer, and yet probably truthful to some degree. Yes, still life was safe, and didn’t pay all that well. Erotic artwork would no doubt bring in far more money as a sensation within the ton.

  But Victor Bartlett-James had been retired for several years, or so Cafferty had said. Perhaps this drawing wasn’t actually one of his but a copy forged to bring in fast money. Could a female artist be so forgetful of her station as to purposely duplicate an erotic piece of art for auction? Yes, he decided at once, if that female artist was a lady of the nobility and desperate to protect her child. And he had made Viola desperate.

  He tried to eye the work skeptically this time, to envision the artist’s hand in creating it. Viola had shown him the lines of his face in the drawing she’d made of him, and although he’d paid some attention, he couldn’t say this drawing was anything like the one she’d so quickly created for his benefit. They were entirely different, at least in subject matter. And one more problem occurred to him. If Victor Bartlett-James got any notion of a forgery being auctioned, Lady Cheshire would surely find herself in a terrible quandary with authorities and likely charged with fraud. The only reason she would take such a risk, he concluded, was if she planned to leave the country. If forgery was her intent, he had no doubt done her an enormous favor by purchasing the drawing privately.

  Ian reached out and touched the picture with his index finger, skimming the figure of the woman, aroused again, not because of the drawing itself but by the intriguing notion that Viola might have drawn this very image herself, perhaps even from the memory of a specific time with a man.

  Indeed, it was an incredible thought, but not necessarily impossible to believe. And even if she hadn’t, if this was a Bartlett-James original that had belonged to her husband, he could still use the forgery aspect against her in som
e way. He just needed to think it through.

  “Viola, Viola, Viola . . . ,” he whispered aloud, his bitterness returned with an absolute satisfaction. “You are far more vulnerable to me than you will ever know. . . .”

  The darkness engulfed him, the damp cold made him shiver. And then she curled up beside him, offering her warmth, her softness. He felt her touch him on his cheek, drape her leg over his, press her head into his shoulder. Her hand caressed his chest, and he tried to pull her close, but the chain kept him defenseless, unable to respond even to her affection. She began to move her hand downward, rubbing his stomach over his ragged shirt, then his legs, all in an effort to keep him warm. And then she realized he wanted her, and with a soft sound from her throat, she timidly closed her hand over his erection. He moaned, uncertain of time, of events, but so desperately needing! He couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t speak, but he felt her fingers explore him, her lips on his neck, heard a raw sound come from his throat as he jerked his hips into her—

  Ian woke with a start, sitting up quickly, breathing in gulps of air as he looked around in the blackness, confused. His heart thundered from the intense fear that enveloped him, and he shivered from the cold sweat that coated his body. For seconds he sat there, breathing deeply to calm his racing pulse, and then the haze began to clear and he realized he was safe in his bed, in his home, and all was silent.

  It had been weeks since he’d had one of his nightmares, the scenes of the dungeon so vivid they always caused him to awaken in a panic. But this one had been different, erotic in nature, and as he now became more alert, the terror of the moment all but gone, he realized he had climaxed in his sleep.

  That kind of physical reaction to a dream hadn’t happened to him in ages, no doubt caused this time by his need for a woman and the erotic nature of the drawing that only hours ago had brought such base feelings to the surface. But what troubled him was that this nightmare stemmed from a memory he’d apparently repressed during his experience in the dungeon. Or perhaps repressed wasn’t the right word. He’d always known he had been touched intimately during that time, though whether it had been an intentional, criminal act in itself or a matter of nursing, he couldn’t be sure. But this memory didn’t fall into either of those categories. Regardless of the fact that it had been sexually pleasurable for him, regardless of whatever comfort he’d found in it at the time, someone had taken advantage of him in the most despicable way possible, leaving him vulnerable and humiliated. And because of the nature of the drugs he’d been given, and the utter darkness of the dungeon, he couldn’t remember the specific details, or who exactly had been with him.

  Pushing his bedcovers aside, Ian stood and walked to the basin beside his wardrobe. He poured half a pitcher of water into the bowl and splashed it on his face and neck, relishing the icy tremor that shot through him.

  It was time for the nightmares to end. Time to take back control of his life from those who had stolen his innocence by making him face his own mortality in their hands five years ago. Time to demand retribution from those who had assaulted his masculinity by stimulating him sexually without his consent.

  It was time for Viola to pay.

  Chapter Eight

  He begged me not to leave him, and so I sat at the foot of his cot for a while and held his hand until he slept. . . .

  Unfortunately, due to a steady rain, they couldn’t have their sitting in the garden, out in the open, as she’d hoped and fairly threatened the last time they’d been together. So, with fortitude, Viola braved another uncomfortable morning as she sat on her own stool in her studio, several feet away from him, trying to concentrate on the painting she’d begun at last. He made it difficult for her, though, just by his bearing. He hadn’t said anything more than the usual superficial nonsense one spoke in greeting, and she hadn’t offered anything else. But she was overly nervous this morning, and he probably noticed it.

  She knew he had to be watching her with the eyes of someone fully aware that not only had she sold a Bartlett-James original for the money it garnered but she had also certainly examined the erotic image for herself. He knew it had belonged to her, but she remained convinced that, at least for now, he didn’t suspect she and Bartlett-James were one and the same person.

  But she only had to bide her time. With Duncan’s help, she’d quietly and discreetly finalized arrangements to retrieve her son and leave for the Continent in less than thirty days, and if it killed her, she would keep Ian Wentworth unaware of her plans. He knew that she corresponded with her solicitor, but only she and Duncan knew of her arrangement.

  “May I ask you a question, Lady Cheshire?”

  His continued civility under the circumstance quite annoyed her, and it took everything in her to hide her irritation from him. Still, the way he scrutinized her this particular morning left her brush strokes lacking their usual elegance.

  Smiling flatly, focusing on mixing a shade of blue on her palette, she replied, “Of course, your grace.”

  He waited for a moment, then lowered his voice a little to continue. “Do you miss your husband?”

  Her lashes flickered as she looked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  He offered her a half smile. “Your husband. Do you miss him?”

  She couldn’t for the life of her decide why he would drop the formality and ask her such a personal thing now, and so, in quick response, she relied on the usual answer. “I’m sure all widows miss their husbands, your grace, especially those husbands recently lost.”

  “Were you in love with him?”

  That question, coming from Ian Wentworth, so startled her that she nearly dropped the palette of paint in her hand.

  “Of course,” she replied, repressing the desire to tell him it was none of his blasted business. Lifting the paintbrush, she motioned with it in an attempt to change the conversation. “Now, if you’ll tip your head just slightly to the left.”

  He did as she ordered. “How did you meet?”

  “Meet?”

  “Your husband.”

  She didn’t want to look at him now, and so focused intently on her work. “He asked me to dance at a masked ball several years ago.”

  He waited, then said, “I see. And how long after the ball did he propose?”

  She laughed in an effort to lighten the mood, trying her best to make it sound sincere. “Goodness, why all the questions, your grace? I assure you my past is quite dull and unremarkable.”

  He inhaled deeply, then lowered his voice to reply, “Not to me.”

  Her pulse began to race; perspiration broke out on her upper lip. Without a glance at him, she reached for a fatter brush and began mixing two different shades of yellow together on her palette. “And how are you managing in your search for a wife?”

  For ages, it seemed, he said nothing. Viola refused to look into his eyes for fear of giving herself away by showing anxiety and a desire to discuss anything but the past she shared with him.

  Finally, he murmured, “Answer my question first.”

  She held her tongue from a sharp refusal. “I’m sorry, your grace—”

  “When did he propose?”

  She swallowed at his perseverance. “Shortly thereafter, if I recall.”

  “After the ball?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you his first wife?” he asked, brows furrowing in thought.

  Suspicion began to bubble up inside her, but since she had neither any idea why he was quizzing her about her husband nor knowledge of his intent, she decided to just answer forthrightly for now. “Actually, he had been married once before, and was a widower before we met.”

  “Ah. I see. How long was he married to his first wife?”

  She chanced a glance at him before looking back at the paint in her hand. “Perhaps you’ll first tell me why you find my late husband
so fascinating.”

  “I wouldn’t say I find him fascinating at all, but I am rather . . . curious.” He lifted one side of his mouth in a smile. “Humor me, Lady Cheshire.”

  Humor you, indeed. . . .

  Cordially, she maintained, “I think they were married for twelve or thirteen years, though I really don’t know. It was a long time ago, and long before he and I became acquainted.”

  He reached up and ran his fingers through his hair. “He must have been older than you by several years, then.”

  She felt like throwing the paintbrush at him to get him to stop the meaningless inquiries. Good breeding prevailed, however, and after adjusting her bottom on her stool, she acknowledged, “He was seventeen years older than I at the time we married.”

  “And he had no other children from his first marriage?”

  She hesitated in answer, then gave him the standard response, “Unfortunately, they were not blessed.”

  Nodding, and somewhat bemused, he remarked, “Then he met you at a ball, made you a baroness, and you gave him a son. Quite a whirlwind, and fortunate for all of you.”

  She didn’t know how to take his comment at all. Somewhere deep within she felt a certain resentment from him, and a blatant curiosity coupled with a palpable anger that went far beyond the superficial, as if he was trying to sort out the timing of events and how they related to him and his captivity five years ago. If he was indeed concocting a brilliant revenge against her as the only remaining Bennington-Jones daughter left to disgrace, understanding the sequence of each occurrence between the time of his capture and her escape from Winter Garden could be vital to any plan he might have in store for her. And for that reason alone, for John Henry’s protection, she needed to remain as vague as possible.