A Duke the Spy an Artist and a Lie Page 3

  “Is that a bribe? Can I count on this?” I pinched a small piece of cheese and settled it on my tongue. “You’ll get one of those white notes and you’ll be gone by morning. Your mistresses are too demanding.”

  His face became quite serious with his long nose flaring. “I’m faithful, Cecilia. Never doubt that, but my business interests require attention.”

  “Not much adventure in broken promises.”

  He shifted in his traveling boots and pumped his arm like that of a jaguarete on the prowl. The jaguarete, the largest predator in the world—well, my old world of Demerara—was a solitary beast on the prowl. Was that what I found on that road in Stabroek?

  Felton snapped his fingers. “Cecilia, come back to me. I’m right here posing for you. We are good when we make the most of our time.”

  “That definitely sounds as if you will be leaving soon.”

  “Cilia. My Cilia.” That purr, the way he said the endearment of my name sent a thrill over my skin. I did miss him and hated that some cheese and hearing his voice made me weak for him.

  But he’d never know that.

  He might give up trying to woo me.

  With a flick, I uncorked my deep rouge pigment. “My lord, if you had chosen to wear the Roman toga, I’m sure I would believe your offer.” I stirred the red tint into the paint on my palette and decided my canvas needed a sailor’s morning sky. “Red sky in the morn . . . one should be warned. I believe that’s how it goes.”

  “I missed your wit. Your little hums. Cecilia, may I come to you and embrace you? Then let’s talk openly about our marriage.”

  My heart panicked.

  What fault would he find? I smoothed the sleeves of my blush gown. “Complaints, my lord? I’d rather not hear those. You’ve only been back a few hours.”

  His head dipped. His shoulder-length locks, black and thick, hung free. Part of me wished he’d cut them shorter to sport a curl, but that would deprive me of the delightful image of a corsair pirate. In the mornings when he slept and a shadow had taken his chin . . . sigh, he was beautiful. Felton did inspire me in the mornings we awoke together.

  “I should be used to our prescribed torture, Cilia. If I’m late, I’m to model for you as you paint. Then you’ll talk to me.”

  Peering around my easel, I glared at him. “Am I wrong to be fearful of your delay? And you’re more than a little tardy. Weeks overstay is more than a miscalculation.”

  Overstay. Overstay. Drat. I tried hard not to have my syllables hiss and expose how anxious I’d been. With no word from Felton or my baby sister, I was adrift in a house of strangers, ones who didn’t want my presence at Felton’s new London home, or in his life.

  Half holding my breath, I made my tone as soft as possible. “Repeat your excuse this time. I want to see if it remains the same.”

  Felton raised his hand and hit his neck with the torch. He groaned. Hidden beneath his hair, the skin at the base of his head was so sensitive. It only had a little scarring. I think that was why he liked his hair hanging low and his collars high.

  I was glad the torch wasn’t lit as I had wanted. Would be a shame to burn such a pretty man, tall and thin. Pity he wasn’t more reliable.

  “If you want more specifics of my delay, it was in service to a friend, Cecilia. He needed me.”

  “Do any of these friends realize that you have obligations, a family . . . umm . . . children, a sister that needs you?”

  “And what of you, Cecilia Lance? My Lady Gantry, are you telling me that you missed me too? The husband on paper is what you called me during our last tiff. The skillful fortune hunter was the nickname you gave me at Warwick. No doubt, words from my father’s influence.”

  Lord Tramel had jokes . . . some were witty. I could see now how they could be seen as cruel or bitter with the bad blood between father and son.

  Felton tapped the shaft of the knife on the bridge of his nose. “My particular favorites are your marriage of convenience, partner in crime, and your occasional bedmate. I must say, I do fancy the bedmate part the best.”

  Closing my eyes, I turned away.

  Though each slight was true and mirrored our understanding of when we had schemed in that hot Demeraran ball, nothing captured how I felt now, how I longed for Felton when things were quiet and still. How his presence calmed me when things were noisy and I felt out of control.

  A discernible ache fomented in my chest. How were we to grow closer if we were so often apart? “I’m shamed at my words, my lord. That’s my frustration at our circumstances.”

  He tapped my knife along his smooth lips. “Frustrated, Cilia? You sounded quite certain of these truths.”

  “A thing said in anger, my lord, shouldn’t be repeated.”

  “But you’re angry now, Lady Gantry.”

  “How can I sustain such volatile emotions? I’m painting. You’re posing. We’re steady friends again. I’d say we remain a suitable match. Hapless and hopeless.”

  He tilted his head a little. A smile bloomed and I could imagine him with a bit more color like an emerald waistcoat with purple threading, purple like the jacarandas, the flowers we wed beneath. With his onyx waistcoat, he looked dressed to leave again.

  “So, what’s the next thing to take your attention? Are your preferred mistresses skin and bone, the likes of which Lady Jane thinks well of? She starves herself, you know. Barely finishes a plate.”

  He chuckled, that soft, silly look shadowing his eyes. “You know I like a snuggling waist and an armful of backside. I adore you as you are. You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. More so when you smile.”

  The heat in his gaze said he’d moved past just acknowledging my presence. In his eyes, we were together, not fussing or fighting but swept away where no words were heard, just the banging of a headboard, the bating of his heavy moans, and a barrage of boom-boom hearts.

  Say no, Cecilia Chari.

  Make him leave.

  Forget how you long for him.

  Capturing my gaze, not letting go, he stepped around my makeshift table and kissed my forehead, then walked out the door.

  CHAPTER 5

  CECILIA—PAINTING FOR PLEASURE

  The silence of my studio disappeared.

  Footfalls paced out my door.

  Then a solemn knock. Pound. Pound.

  It was probably a light rattle of the door, but sometimes I struggled with sounds. A walk would settle me, but not in cold London streets.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Lady Gantry, may I enter? It’s been a week.”

  I liked that he never barged inside. Sometimes I locked the door to keep Lady Jane out, but not today.

  “Answer, please. A yes or no.”

  “Why do you want to enter, my lord? I know how precious your time is.”

  “Cecilia, let me in. I want to make amends. I need to. I’ve been trying for days.”

  I set aside the brush and palette. “Have you not left already, my lord? No friend in danger?”

  He knocked again. “It’s been seven long, lonely days. You haven’t come to dinner.”

  “What of breakfast? Did we not share eggs and toast?”

  He tapped the door. “I meant a private meal in my chambers. Please, I’ve no plans to go anywhere, not anytime soon.”

  “The last time we shared a meal in your chambers, I didn’t paint for three days. That is highly unproductive.”

  “But what a three days, Cilia. Please let me in.” His voice sounded determined. Felton was always respectful, never making or forcing demands. He was perfect in that way, but he’d left me adrift, caught in my own stubbornness.

  “I’ll get the key. I must see you.”

  He wouldn’t be deterred this evening.

  “A moment.” I put the landscape away in the closet where it would dry, and brought out the clownish image I’d worked on a few days ago when he posed. My Roman soldier in the woods of Stabroek—I set upon my easel and called to Felton.

  With a silver tray in his hand, he came inside. “First, I’m sorry again. I’ll do better. Two, you’re right. I’ve been neglectful. Three, you’re beautiful. Four, I offer chocolate sauce and blackberries.”

  The scent of sweetened darkness teased my nose. Hints of vanilla filled the air. Felton came near and dipped the fattest berry into the chocolate. It dripped heaven back into the bowl.

  “Open wide, Cecilia.”

  When I did, he put the berry on my tongue. Tart and sweet, the roasted cocoa danced in my mouth.

  “Aye, I think Lady Gantry likes.” He fed me one after the other.

  There had to be purply-black juice on my lips.

  Setting down his tray, he took a napkin, patted my mouth, then he kissed off the rest of the chocolate. “There, clean and tasty.”

  Such a simple thing, a short touch of my lips to his, and my heart raced. Glances tangling, he had me in his arms.

  His scent, the clean pines like the woods of Warwick, was what his hugs smelled of and reminded me of sheltering in his arms as we walked the grounds. I’d paint that image next week.

  “I missed you so, Cecilia.”

  Weak, letting him nibble my neck, I began to waver. Had I forgotten, I was a strong woman. My mother’s blood, her labors and sacrifice, were in me. I couldn’t be reduced to wanton nothingness, to a place where his needs outweighed my own.

  Pressing on his finely done-up brass buttons, I freed myself. “Felton, you just can’t come here and expect—”

  “Expect to be with my wife, my Cilia.” His exaggerated whisper was soft, like the way he touched me.

  “Only you call me this endearment. My sisters used Chari, a shortened form of my middle name.”

  “Like you prefer Felton, I prefer Cilia. Lovely, loving Cilia.”

  The way he repeated it, did he ache for me as I him? Did he wish we had more to bind us together than a contract, a dowry, and crazed impulses?

  “My dearest wife—”

  “Do you mean me? I’m your only living one, I think. Another household could be where you go when you leave for months.”

  He chuckled at my jealous words. “You’re the only Lady Gantry I want.” He took up my hands. “Let me confess a few things.”

  I held my breath.

  He bit his lip and planted his bowlegs in front of me. “I travel often, too often. But I have a group of friends that I owe everything, from helping with my military commission to sorting out my affairs when my life fell apart after my first wife died. Then there’s a deep commitment to support my brothers in arms and leaders of my old regiment.”

  “You sound indebted to many. No wonder you needed my dowry.”

  If he had been smiling, it would be gone now. His mouth remained a line. I could never tell if I touched his heart. “And I visited my late friend Johnson’s family. I needed to see that his son’s doing well. He would do that for me, if I had a son and hadn’t come home.”

  His words tugged on my heartstrings. I’d made a joke when I should’ve been listening. “That’s why it’s hard to despise you. Even your abandoning me is for a noble purpose.”

  He kissed my fingers, his lips lingering on the peaks and valleys of my knuckles. “Do you despise me, Cilia? Hope not.”

  Before I could protest such nonsense, he put his arms about me. Wide flat palms clung to my waist and pressed me to his chest.

  Fire.

  His body was always fevered. Through all his layers, the linen, the silk, and wool, he gave off an inferno of heat. My reserved husband was a lantern, a contained flame.

  How I longed for the glass to shatter, and we could both be free to live and love. I thought I might love him. This was my first time ever believing in the emotion. I hated to feel it alone.

  “If I say again that I’m sorry and that I missed you terribly, could that inspire forgiveness?” His whispers in my ear always made it hard to think. It was pretty impossible with Felton being near and strong and hot.

  Spinning from his chest, I faced my canvas to keep his kisses from turning me to jiggly jelly, like the delightful molds he had his cook make for me.

  It was a mistake to put my back to him.

  Felton fast unbuttoned my smock, planting his lips to the scooped neckline of my rosy linen gown.

  Always buttoned up with the thickest cravats or high shirt collars, he wasn’t vulnerable to this feeling. The way he guarded his neck, I wasn’t sure he had a point on his shoulder that sent him panting, or stirred visions of me and him in his bed.

  My ragged heart wanted to surrender and forget every anxious moment he’d been away.

  But this cycle would repeat—me feeling loved and accepted; me realizing I was too easily abandoned; me grousing between worries about him and my family back home. I needed off this boat, out of this storm of my making.

  “Long ago, Felton, I craved adventure. Now I want nothing but lasting peace.”

  “I know this house is smaller than Warwick Manor, and London will make things seem chaotic. We’ll make this a wonderful home. You and I.”

  He didn’t understand. Not sure if he ever would. Not sure I wanted to keep trying.

  Freeing myself from his embrace, I went to the table and studied my palette. The colors I’d used for my proper painting were out. None of the bright ones I used for the funny picture.

  Felton wouldn’t notice. Only Tramel, my father-in-law, a fellow lover of art would know.

  “Cilia, I’m consistent and faithful, even when I’m called away. Is that wrong?”

  “No. I’m as well, though your cousin Gladstone thinks differently. Probably Lady Jane too.”

  “Don’t care what they think. Only what you do. Meet me halfway on this path to reconcile. Show me how to make amends. Open the door to you.”

  “We are good with doorways and entry.” I put down my brush and faced him. “I’ve seen you gentle with your daughters, humored with your sister, very animated with your father, but with me always a mishmash: part cautious, part repentant, part neglectful.”

  His face was blank. I saw nothing to fight for other than this insane attraction to his arms, the way he kissed. Those nicely bowed legs.

  Turning, I cleaned my bristles and focused on how to blend this dark palette and bring life to my Roman soldier.

  “Cecilia, I’m cautious. You’re an unexpected blessing. I wrestle with that and the plans I have. I want to be good to you and meet my obligations.”

  “What happened to the impulsive man who proposed in Demerara on a whim? Is it England? It took away my sister. Papa’s solicitors say her husband is no longer answering questions. All my letters have been returned.”

  “I’ll keep apologizing.” He stuck his ring finger into the chocolate and smacked his lips. “Is it wrong when I return, hungering for my wife?”

  “Ahhh. No. Bu-ut.”

  Licking his fingers, he slipped beside me. “You’re shivering, Cecilia. The chill of London is hard to get used to. Should I have Watson bring more coal for your fireplace?”

  It was cold in here.

  Maybe too cold, but it was part of my efforts to not be a bother or source of amusement to his household. “I’m fine.”

  “I know you are, and that you’re faithful. It’s why I’m comforted and secure when helping my friends.”

  “Oh. Then it’s my fault. Because you perceive me to be strong, I’m to be disregarded. I didn’t know that.”

  “I’ll do better with you and the girls. They tell me they love painting with you. Do you make them do Roman soldiers too?”

  The laughter in his face was what I deserved. I hadn’t shown him my true talent, just a few sketches during our wedding trip.

  As confident as I thought I was in myself, my art, somehow his opinion had become too important. How could I look at a canvas and see my world, all the beauty and shades and colors, if he thought my efforts were merely cute, or worse, unbecoming his title?

  The pressure of his fingers on the bib of my apron increased. He wanted me free of it. “What is this contraption? Part of the Roman garb so you’ll match me?”

  “It’s a smock to keep paint from spoiling my gown. How are we to match when you refuse the toga? If you insist on staying, go to the other side of the table and finish posing.”

  Sighing, he moved there. His face held no frown but that assessing look—could he see into my soul? Could he separate what he liked from the parts he wished to overlook?

  “What’s the matter, Cilia? You usually forgive me by now, and we usually are quite nice to each other. This isn’t you, so skittish. What’s wrong?”

  I pulled the letter from my pocket. “In addition to no word of my elder sister, the solicitors have no word from Papa either. I fear for my family. I feel helpless here.”

  “Cilia, you should’ve told me that right away. I could get—”

  “For you to say you will do something, then forget. Why break my heart all over again?”

  “Sorry.” He tucked a hand to his lips. “My solicitor will make inquiries. I’ll do it in the morning.”

  “Yours. Your family. Mine. What can anyone do? My father and Helena, they are my family. I can’t lose them. I wish I’d insisted my little sister come with us and not wait. She’s too young to be alone.”

  Felton stepped around my easel and drew me into his arms. “Everyone is well. I’ll make arrangements for both your father and sister to come as soon as the blockade of the Caribbean is done. The war has made everything difficult.”

  Which war? The current one raging or the skirmishes about the islands which precede the next? “That could take forever. You know how long these battles last.”

  His warm palm caressed my cold cheek. “I want you to have faith. Then I want you to promise to tell me whatever’s bothering you. Maybe we should think about us, you and me, as a family. Remember us, remember how we mesh.”

  “Mesh. Is that what you call it? To be waiting on you? To hope for a spare moment?”

  “But we make the most of these moments.”

  “Is everything you’re saying just to bed me?”

  A smile bloomed. “Not just to be with you, but I do want you. Always have, since the moment we met.”