Trevelyn smirked in surprise. He’d been on the receiving end of The Tattler’s sharp lash more than once. He had no more use for that yellow rag than she obviously did.
“I promise you faithfully that I do not write for The Tattler or any of its competitors. I abhor them.”
“Careful, Mr. Doverspike,” she said in a voice laced with strychnine. “Your Wiltshire accent is slipping. Now, who are you and why are you here?”
Funny how being stark nak*d made it harder to hide behind an assumed persona. Trev’s mind churned furiously for a plausible ruse.
“I . . . oh, hang it all, you may as well know that I am responsible for your real model’s morning debauch. I chanced to meet him over a pint, and he told me about this job. All he had to do was stand around in the altogether, he said.” Trevelyn shrugged. “It sounded a much easier way to turn a coin than my usual employment so I helped him into a rum pot and took his place.”
“And your accent?”
“I thought you probably used country bumpkins for this post, so it made sense to sound like one.” He cocked his head at her. “But truth to tell, this job is not so easy as it looks.”
The sincerity in his tone seemed to soften her anger.
“No, I suppose it isn’t,” she conceded. “But why were you talking with my father?”
“Does one need a reason to strike up a conversation with a pleasant old man?” A dollop of flattery never hurt, and Trev knew he could be charming when the occasion called for it. “Truly, I didn’t see the harm in humoring him with a bit of nonsense. It will not happen again.”
She sniffed, apparently mollified by his answers. “Indeed, it will not. I encourage my models to speak their minds with me, but I would appreciate it if you did not seek out my father again. From now on, kindly present yourself to Cuthbert instead of skulking around in the garden. There are those who would consider your actions this morning on the order of trespass.” She sent him a frosty glare. “That is how I will consider them if they are repeated.”
“Yesterday you chided me for being late. Today, I was early and you’re still unhappy.” Trev decided a good offense would stand him in better stead than a good defense and Her Grace had just encouraged him to speak his mind. “Is there anyone who can please you?”
It occurred to him that he had yet to see a smile of real pleasure on her lips. He’d like to be the man to coax one there.
But for now, he had to remember his place. He was Thomas Doverspike, a common fellow who’d worked his way into her presence through guile. And she was a duchess, after all. As Trevelyn Deveridge, he might seek to charm her, but Thomas Doverspike needed a job. And he’d just been insolent to his employer.
“I ask your pardon, Your Grace. I misspoke.” He ducked his head deferentially. She regarded him for a few moments, her brows knitted together as if she were trying to weigh him for veracity.
“No, you didn’t. You said exactly what you thought,” she finally said. “No one has done that to me in a long time.”
“I’m sorry if I offend.”
“No, you’re not,” she said with a tight grin. “And I’m not sorry either. In fact, it’s rather refreshing to hear the truth from someone. I am hard to please. But it’s only because I care so deeply about my work and am rarely satisfied with it. I suppose that perfectionism spills over into other things.”
“I’m sure your paintings are quite wonderful.”
“But you wouldn’t know because you’ve never seen them.”
He shook his head.
“No one has. I am doing the entire Greek pantheon and until I finish with the major gods, I won’t have a showing. It’s rather like a symphony. No one would be satisfied with just the first movement. Each painting will be part of a larger whole.”
“Then you intend to sell them all together?”
“Sell them? Why would I do that?” she said with a frown.
“The usual reason is to make money.”
She shrugged. “Fortunately, I have no such needs.”
“Then how will you ever know if your paintings are any good? I mean, unless someone is willing to plunk down a bag of guineas for them, how do you measure their worth?”
“Art is measured by how it affects those who view it,” she said.
“And how does painting the gods affect you?” His voice was huskier than he’d intended.
She drew a few lines on her sketch pad as she pondered. The duchess didn’t seem to sense his underlying question. He drew a relieved breath.
“The gods were men idealized,” she finally said. “Don’t we all seek perfection?”
“So what you’re telling me, Your Grace, is that you’re looking for the perfect man.”
Chapter 6
“Looking for a perfect man?” Her cheeks bloomed with fresh color. “Certainly not. Besides, perfection is only an ideal. It does not exist in men. I can only strive in the creation of it.”
“And thus trump even the Almighty.” He raised a brow at her. She looked back to her sketchpad, but as Trev watched, her knuckles whitened around her chalk. Clearly, he’d struck too close to the mark. Then slowly, her mouth curved into an enigmatic smile.
“Sit down, Mr. Doverspike,” she ordered with calm.
“On what, Your Grace?”
“On your posterior, of course. Mars did not have overstuffed armchairs, you know.”
He did as he was bid, feeling even more ridiculous seated on the cold floor than he did standing. If he sat with his knees raised, his ballocks would dangle between his legs on the polished oak. If he sat with his legs straight before him, he’d feel unnaturally stiff, like a wooden marionette whose strings had been cut. He crossed his legs, Hindu-fashion, but felt too exposed by half.
The duchess sighed. “Let me help you,” she said. “I experimented with a pose last night in my sketching. Place your weight on one hip, legs to the side.”
She left her sketchpad and came to stand over him. It was a maneuver clearly designed to make him feel small.
He stared up at her without a blink, determined not to let her best him. “How do you want my arms?”
“Lean on one palm,” she suggested. “No, a little further. Here, like this, Mr. Doverspike.” The duchess knelt and positioned his hand away from his body so his torso was stretched into a reclining pose.
“You know, I’ve never been nak*d with a woman who didn’t call me by my Christian name,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I don’t suppose you could call me Thomas?”
“It is precisely because of the circumstances that I must call you Mr. Doverspike,” she said. “And besides, you aren’t nak*d. You are nude.”
“Feels nak*d to me.”
Her face screwed into a puzzled frown as she leaned forward and took his other hand. The heady floral fragrance she wore tickled his nostrils. Was that lilac or jasmine or some exotic mix of the two?
“I’m not quite sure where I want this other hand,” she said.
The neckline of her gown fell forward again as she leaned toward him. Trevelyn had a suggestion for where he could put his hand, but he wisely kept it to himself. His fingers tingled at the nearness of her br**sts. He began to mentally count from one hundred again.
“Why did your father call you Larla? I know that’s not your given name.”
She looked at him sharply. “Larla was my baby name. It’s not important.”
“It must be to him if he still remembers it. What does Larla mean?”
Her lips twitched in a brief smile as she put his hand first on his hip and then palm down on the floor before him. “When I was a child, my ayah always said we all have secret names, names that call to our true selves.”
He watched her lips as she spoke, captivated by the play of her pointed little tongue against her teeth and lips. Secret names. Did she suspect he wasn’t really Thomas Doverspike? For a moment, he regretted the necessity of deceiving her.
“And if you learned that secret name and its meaning,” she went on, “you’d know that person as well as if you climbed into the same skin.”
He’d be satisfied with just getting next to her skin. As she fussed around him, what he could see of her was flawless, smooth and pale. He couldn’t help wondering about the parts he couldn’t see.
“Then by that reckoning, I’m halfway to knowing you, Your Grace. Now I only need discover what Larla means.”
Trevelyn knew he was being brashly forward, but how could she expect a man to sit around wearing nothing but a smile and not feel some degree of familiarity? Especially when she leaned over him, casually arranging his limbs and adjusting his posture to suit her.
“What do you think it means?” she asked as she moved his right hand from one spot to another.
Her delicate fragrance beckoned to him. When she shifted, he was rewarded with another tantalizing peek at the tops of her br**sts, pale rounded mounds of perfect flesh. Would her n**ples be pink and sweet as sherbet or ripe and rosy as berries? He closed his eyes and began to count backward again.
This time, in French.
Her touch was warm and where her fingers nudged and prodded a shower of sparks sizzled over his skin. For a moment he imagined her hand wandering over his groin. He bit the inside of his cheek. If he let his mind tread that road, he’d be well on his way to disgracing himself before her, spilling his seed like a callow youth in the first throes of lust.
“Doesn’t this affect you at all?” he asked, giving up trying to quell his swelling erection. “If it doesn’t, I’m guessing Larla must mean ice maiden.”
“There’s no need to be insulting,” she said with an unmistakable catch in her voice, a breathlessness that told him his nearness had moved her. “Just because I’m not helpless with lust over your nude body, does not mean I’m without feeling. I bridle myself for the sake of my art.”
“And you’re always in control?”
“I must be.”
“Care to put that notion to the test?”
She bit her lip and looked away, determined to ignore his question. “Oh, botheration!” she finally exploded. “I can’t decide where to put your right hand.”
“I’ve an idea.” He reached up and placed his hand along the side of her neck, his fingers gentle on her nape. She gasped but didn’t jerk away. Slowly, he pulled her head down till her breath was a moist warmth on his face. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide. She made no move to free herself.
Trevelyn closed half the distance between their lips, watching her intently. She held her breath for a heartbeat or two; then a soft moan escaped her lips and her astonishing green eyes fluttered closed.
He took her mouth, tasting, questing. Her lips trembled beneath his, then softened. When they parted, he slid his tongue in to explore her luscious secrets. To his delight, she actually suckled him for a moment, then twisted her tongue with his in a warm, wet joust.
Definitely no ice maiden.
Trevelyn sat up straighter without releasing her mouth and cupped her cheek with his left hand. Her skin was as exquisitely soft as he’d imagined. He trailed his fingers over her silky smoothness, down her neck to brush the tops of her br**sts with feather-light strokes. He toyed with the hollow between them, sliding his fingers in and out of her bodice. Then he cupped one of her br**sts in his hot palm. Her nipple was hard beneath the sheer muslin of her simple dress.