The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  “Tonight’s bidding,” the man carried on, “shall begin at five thousand pounds.”

  Whistles and a rumbling of voices ensued.

  “This obviously isn’t a dignified auction,” Fairbourne mused.

  “It isn’t dignified art,” Ian replied.

  The guard with the melon fists came forward and clutched the bottom of the black velvet drape. The owner and auctioneer stood to the side, one hand raised. “I now present to you tonight’s painting, titled . . . Gentleman Chained!”

  The drape flew up to gasps of astonishment.

  “Holy Christ,” Fairbourne whispered as a low murmur began to spread through the crowd.

  Ian felt his heart stop and a freezing blanket of fear and dread envelop him. He backed up to the wall, his glass dropping from his hand to shatter on the wooden floor at his feet.

  On the easel stood a wide portrait in mostly bronze, tan, and peach, the background dark brown, of a nude couple in carnal embrace, painted in side view. The man lay flat on his back, his right arm lifted slightly and shackled to the stone wall behind him at the wrist, his face in profile, eyes closed, jaw clenched, and head lifted at the height of ecstacy. The woman on top sat upright, her bare hips melding with his as she rested her visible leg to the side of him, foot pointed back toward his, her waist long and slender as she arched up and forward, her own head tipped back, the silky strands of dark brown hair barely skimming his thighs. Most of her face remained obscured in shadow, though her lips could be seen as the brightest part of the artwork, slightly parted as if gasping, and painted a searing scarlet. Most shocking of all was the placement of hands, hers cupping her breasts, fingers pinching her erect nipples, his free hand lost between her thighs. And they were both clearly at climax.

  The form was exquisite, the colors—aside from the centered, red mouth—subdued and perfectly blended, the painting masterful, shocking, dark and erotic. And Ian knew at once that the man in chains was him.

  Suddenly he began shaking with rage, with confusion and absolute panic. The features weren’t exactly defined, but all of society knew he had been held in a dungeon, shackled to a wall, and anyone who looked at this famous Bartlett-James work would surely think of him.

  She had exploited his terror and now thought to sell it publicly for profit. The whispers would begin, and soon the entire country would know that Victor Bartlett-James had created an erotic painting in the image of Ian Wentworth, prisoner.

  Fairbourne put a palm on his shoulder. “Ian—”

  Instinctively he jerked back, shoving it aside. “She did this,” he whispered harshly, teeth clenched, hands fisted at his sides. “She did this to me.”

  Voices grew louder as the bidding began.

  “Is it—Is that her?”

  Ian shook his head, blinded by disbelief, by suddenly sparking memories and thoughts he couldn’t control or understand. “I don’t know . . .”

  “Who painted it?” Fairbourne asked, clearly as appalled and bewildered as Ian was.

  Ian drew a staggered breath, swallowed harshly. And then he knew.

  She did.

  “God . . . she’s Bartlett-James.”

  Fairbourne blinked. “What?”

  The bidding continued, the loud chatter grew to a deafening pitch. Ian turned to Lucas. “Buy it. Bid for it and buy it, no matter how high the final price.” He scrubbed a palm down his face. “I have to leave.”

  “Wait a minute,” Lucas insisted, glancing around them. “What the devil is going on?”

  “I think you know I can’t let anyone else own that piece,” Ian replied quickly, his anger consuming. He slammed a fist on the table. “Jesus, just bid until it’s yours. I’ll repay you, whatever the cost.”

  “You’re going to her,” Fairbourne stated rather than asked.

  Ian didn’t reply, though the fury in his eyes said everything.

  Fairbourne grabbed his arm. “Don’t hurt her,” he admonished carefully. “I’m warning you, Ian, confront her if you must, but don’t hurt her. You started this war. Remember that.”

  Ian couldn’t reply, couldn’t think clearly. Pulling free once more, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s been almost five days since I’ve seen him. Mama kept me in to take care of her needs, whining about how she suffers in the cold. I’m afraid for him when he’s alone. Much of the time I’m only there to listen to him speak. Sometimes I laugh at his tales, sometimes I tell him a story or two, even when I know he doesn’t understand. I’m starting to think he needs me more than anyone does, or ever has. . . .

  It took him forty-five agonizing minutes to reach her town house. The congested traffic in the city kept his driver to a crawl, and at one point he almost left his coach to walk instead. In the end he decided he would use the time before their confrontation to think, to center his thoughts and calm himself lest he unleash his fury on her smug and deceitful charms in ungentlemanly fashion the moment he laid eyes on her.

  Fairbourne had been right. He had started this war, and she had merely fought back, and fought back hard, though it wasn’t in his nature to hurt her or any other woman physically. But she would know his wrath, and after nearly an hour of thinking about the humiliation that had just taken place, he finally came to the conclusion that she had probably expected it, had to have known that he’d attend the auction and would be waiting for him to arrive at her home, her claws sharpened, exposed and ready to lash out.

  Viola Bennington-Jones. Victor Bartlett-James. God, he should have suspected it sooner. But would any soul alive imagine a lady painting bawdy art? Then again, objectively he had to admit her work wasn’t exactly common in expertise or subject. There truly existed a beauty to her form, a talent that went beyond the vulgar, which, he supposed, was the reason for the high price the artwork demanded. It also explained why Bartlett-James remained such a mystery. She could hardly expose herself as the artist and expect to live and raise her child in high society. But had her late husband known? Ian couldn’t recall when Bartlett-James’s work had first appeared on the stage, whether it would have been during her marriage or after Lord Cheshire’s death. Such thoughts nagged at him, and the longer he sat waiting in a stifling coach to confront her, the more troubled he became, and the more questions he intended to have answered before the night was through.

  At last they turned onto her drive and pulled up in front of her brightly lit town house. Ian jumped from his coach the second it stopped and climbed the stone steps to the large front door two at a time before using a heavy hand on the brass knocker. Several long moments later, the door opened a crack to show the surprised expression on the face of a parlor maid.

  “The Duke of Chatwin to see Lady Cheshire,” he said, amazed that his voice sounded far more steady than he felt.

  The girl, who couldn’t be more than sixteen, curtseyed with bright eyes. “Sir, Lady Cheshire isn’t home.”

  Of course she was home, likely hiding from him, and this girl probably knew it. It took all of his effort not to barge in and search every room for himself.

  He smiled, trying to appear charming as he replied, “I rather thought she was expecting me. Perhaps you could check with the staff?”

  The parlor maid’s thick brown eyebrows furrowed deeply. “I—I’m sorry, your grace. I’m certain she’s out, but maybe you’d like to speak with Mr. Needham?”

  Viola’s butler. At least he’d have specific answers. “That would be most excellent, thank you.”

  She looked him up and down, then, apparently deciding he didn’t appear very frightening, opened the door enough to let him step inside.

  He noticed the artwork first, frame after frame of paintings stacked along one wall of the brightly lit foyer.

  “Is Lady Cheshire moving all of these?” he asked, forcing a con
genial demeanor and what he hoped was a dashing grin.

  The girl paused, shifting her gaze uncomfortably over her shoulder and back. “We’re leaving for the country in two days’ time. These are the paintings Lady Cheshire is taking with her.”

  “Leaving for the country?” he repeated, unable to mask his concern and urgency. “To Cheshire?”

  She bit her lip, afraid she’d blundered. “Yes, but I think—I think perhaps you’d best speak to Needham, sir. Wait here, if you please.”

  With another quick curtsey, she turned and scurried down the hallway.

  Ian stared at her departing back, paralyzed with uncertainty and feeling as if Viola had kicked the wind out of him just as he prepared to go on the attack.

  She’s running. And one step ahead of me. . . .

  Immediately, he moved into action. If she’d chosen these particular paintings to take, they were important, at least to her, which meant the possibility existed of one or more portraits or sketches of him. He couldn’t imagine her exposing erotic art to servants by just leaving it here in the foyer, but then perhaps they all knew of her persona and the details of her work already. Or she had sketches and paintings of his time in the dungeon that weren’t erotic but remained nonetheless revealing. Regardless of her motives, he needed to know if she had anything here that could incriminate or expose him to even greater indignity.

  Quickly, hearing nothing as yet from the staff, he walked to the first stack and began pulling the frames away from each other, just enough to catch a glimpse of the art before moving to the next. The first row was nothing more than still lifes, gardens and ponds, paintings ladies displayed at tea. The second stack—more of the same, with one sketch of puppies sleeping on a blanket, probably something she’d created for the nursery.

  The third stack held his attention longer. Five gilded frames displayed portraits of individuals he assumed to be family. He recognized the first instantly, causing a deep rush of chilling anguish to slice through him as he gazed upon the faces of his captors—all three sisters, looking solemn and contemplative, Viola so young, expression lost. He shoved it from his view.

  The next two paintings were of individuals he didn’t know, followed by a remarkable family portrait of Viola, her baby, and her husband, Lord Henry Cresswald, Baron Cheshire, a man nearly twice her age and so unappealing physically that it astonished Ian. He stared at it for a moment or two, unable to imagine Viola married to the likes of this gentleman, so lean as to be gaunt, with deep-set eyes, a long, pointed chin, thin, curling mustache, and enormous ears he attempted to cover with fine, oiled hair he combed straight down from the center part on his head to his lobes.

  Fascinated and slightly appalled, Ian turned his attention to Viola, probably no more than twenty, noting an expression that suggested a smile but never revealed one, her beautiful hair piled high on her head, eyes vibrant and focused, dressed in a modest blue gown and standing beside her sitting husband, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding her swaddled, infant child. They made a striking couple, in every way they shouldn’t have, and for several seconds he felt a stirring of sympathy and sadness for the young woman in the portrait.

  Ian shook himself. She had made her bed, marrying above her station and moving from Winter Garden and her despicable past before he had even gained enough strength to walk without help. She would receive no sympathy from him. Her choices were hers and she could suffer with them. That thought in mind, he shoved the portrait forward to expose the last one in the group.

  The intensity of the color struck him first—bright reds and brilliant blues of all shades, creating a stunning portrait of a boy of about four, wearing short pants, stockings, and a velvet jacket buttoned to the ruffled neck of his white collar, as he stood formally in front of a massive staircase, each step accented by a vase filled with blooming red roses. At first glance the child looked very much like Viola, especially in his subtle expression and the shy tilt of his head. But as Ian finally focused on each distinct feature of his face, he felt a stir of a memory deep within.

  With narrowed eyes, he studied the color and cut of his light brown hair, the shape of his hazel eyes, the line of his cheeks and chin. And although a boy of his age hadn’t yet reached the maturity when facial characteristics became defined, if he had been wearing a girl’s dress and had had ribbons in his hair, this child could have passed as his sister at that age.

  He looked like Ivy. He looked exactly like Ivy.

  “Your grace?”

  Startled, Ian jumped back, shifting his gaze to Needham, who now walked toward him from the rear of the house.

  “I’m sorry, sir, we’ve been preparing for a return to the country and I’ve been rather busy. Liza says you’re looking for Lady Cheshire?”

  The man’s words didn’t register. Momentarily disoriented, Ian blinked quickly several times, then glanced back to the painting. “Who is this?”

  Needham looked at the stack of frames. “You mean the boy? That’s Lord John, Baron Cheshire.”

  Ian’s mouth went dry; his pulse began to race. “Lady Cheshire’s son,” he said as a confirmation to himself.

  “Indeed. She painted this portrait last year. One of her favorites.” Needham frowned. “Is there anything wrong, your grace? You look a bit . . . winded.”

  Not winded. Alarmed. There could only be one possible reason this child of Viola’s looked nothing like her husband and very much like Ian’s twin sister, Ivy. As a slap to the face, it all became clear.

  “My God . . . ,” he whispered.

  “Sir?”

  Ian staggered back, reeling inside, his eyes opened wide in astonishment as he stared at the painting. “How old is he?” he asked, his voice choked and barely audible.

  Needham pulled at his waistcoat, shifted his weight to the other foot uncomfortably. “He will be five come October.”

  Five in October. She conceived in January five years ago.

  “Jesus . . . ,” Ian breathed, stumbling as he began to move away.

  “Your grace?”

  Ian had trouble taking his eyes off the portrait. She had given birth to his child—his child—and he couldn’t even recall being with her. Did that mean she’d forced him? Was it possible for woman to rape a delirious man? And for what purpose, when the greatest risk would be pregnancy? He couldn’t imagine such a thing happening, and yet he’d been chained, drugged, and altogether helpless under her control. All the nightmares and vague reflections that occasionally surfaced of that horrible time in his past suddenly had new and even darker meaning.

  This child was living proof that they had been together in the dungeon, just as the erotic artwork auctioned tonight suggested. He had already suspected she’d touched him intimately until he’d responded, but this confirmed without doubt that she had, at least once, taken him inside of her.

  Ian’s throat tightened, his stomach lurched in sudden revulsion as it also occurred to him that he might have been abused by all three girls at different times, fondled as a plaything until he’d grown hard for their perverted, disgusting enjoyment, then stroked or raped to release. Yes, in the inky blackness of an ancient, abandoned dungeon, he had been used sexually, and, in the end, when they’d finished with him, they had left him to die.

  “Your grace, you’ve gone ashen,” Needham said, cutting into Ian’s thoughts as he stepped toward him. “Perhaps you should sit—”

  “Where is Lady Cheshire?” Ian demanded, voice shaking, taking a deep breath to control his nausea, the bitterness within as a new chill of enlightenment took hold.

  The butler straightened, his features going slack at the sudden cold formality. “She’s not at home, sir.”

  Sweat broke out on Ian’s body and he wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand. “Yes. Where is she?”

  Needham cleared his throat, raised his chin a fra
ction. “She said she had an errand or two to complete before leaving the city, one of which was a visit to her solicitor. I’ve no idea when she’ll return.”

  Of course. She’d gone to Duncan, the man who sold her work and kept her secrets. She intended to hide there, evading Ian’s immediate wrath, making plans to escape the city, or even the country, while his anger cooled, thinking he’d eventually return home from the auction humiliated and defeated, his tail between his legs. It made sense, and clearly she told her staff very little about her plans. Duncan would be the only person with details, the only man she could trust.

  And there wasn’t a bloody chance in hell he’d let her get away with it. She had painted him at his most vulnerable, a time when she’d held power over him, then exposed his likeness to the world tonight, selling it for profit. And that after knowing she had carried his son. The injustice was done, and there could be no turning back, for either of them.

  With a nod to Needham, Ian offered a stiff thanks and walked to the front door, opened it himself, and climbed down the steps to his waiting coach.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He was very distressed today, thrashing, mumbling incoherently, pulling on his chained wrist so hard I feared he’d break the bones. And yet still, I wonder what would happen to my life if I helped him escape. My future seems as bleak as his. . . .

  Viola stood at the window in the Duke of Chatwin’s green salon, staring out at the thick garden foliage, now dark except for shadows cast by moonlight. She’d spent the day packing, making arrangements with servants, writing letters, and taking care of final necessities that had to be done before they left. But she’d come to his home to confront him as soon as the auction had ended and Mr. Duncan had informed her that Lucas Wolffe had purchased the painting on Ian’s behalf.

  She’d been sitting alone in this gorgeous room for nearly two hours now and had yet to hear his voice or learn that he’d finally arrived, and she was getting anxious. True, he might have gone to her town house to confront her, but she’d just assumed he’d come here after learning she wasn’t home. Perhaps that hadn’t been a clever calculation on her part, but her main concern had been avoiding a confrontation where her own servants could overhear or come to wrong conclusions. She also wanted her sketch back, since he expected her to repay him, and she refused to leave this night without it. So, while waiting for the clash of wills to begin, she’d twice accepted Braetham’s offer of a sherry, sipping it slowly to give her something to do while the sweet elixir warmed her body and helped keep her nerves as calm as possible.