A sly grin split the youth’s face. “The Tiberius already slipped ‘er cables, guv. If you ‘urry, you can just see ‘er sails rounding the bend in the river.” The boy took to his heels lest he be forced to surrender the guinea.
The coin was the furthest thing from Artemisia’s mind. She didn’t wait for Cuthbert to open the barouche’s door. She clamored down unaided and ran as fast as her legs would carry her to the end of the nearest pier.
Canvas flying in the distance, the heavy-laden merchantman was making its way down the Thames and out to the Channel with the receding tide. A dozen punts bobbed in its wake. Artemisia’s first thought was to hail a small craft to overtake the Tiberius, but after seeing the way the larger vessel pulled away from the river boats, that hope sank like an anchor.
Her breath caught in her throat. Perhaps she could arrange passage on the next ship bound for Bombay and overtake him at one of the ports of call.
Compose yourself, she ordered fiercely. There’s no need to chase a man who obviously doesn’t want to be caught.
Tears pressed behind her eyes, but she tried to hold them back. If he was content to leave her forever, she must accept the idea. In time, she might even come to bless him for it. A dedicated operative in Her Majesty’s intelligence service had no need of a wife to encumber him. And hadn’t she only grudgingly accepted the idea of placing herself under the thumb of a husband once again?
Surely, it was for the best.
Then why did her chest feel as if a lodestone had replaced her beating heart?
She covered her face with both hands and wept. What a fool she’d been. She’d demanded more of Trevelyn than he was able to give. Unlike the gods on her canvases, he wasn’t made for her to mold into the image that most suited her. If he couldn’t abide for her to continue painting nudes, she should have accepted him for who he was. Her damnable pursuit of perfection had driven away the one man who might at least have given her slices of the ideal.
She felt a warm masculine hand rest on her shuddering shoulder. Dear Cuthbert. Heaven only knew what it cost that most reticent of men to demonstrate his sympathy with the simple gesture.
“Oh, Cuthbert, he’s gone,” she sobbed. “And I have only myself to blame.”
The floodgates opened afresh, and her tears flowed unabated. A handkerchief dangled before her and grasped it like a drowning woman latches on to a lifeline.
“I should have . . .” Words failed to form in the back of her closed throat. A lifetime of quiet despair rose before her eyes and she dissolved into incoherent sobs. Finally, she managed to stammer, “Now what am I to do?”
Long arms came around her and drew her into a surprising embrace. Shock stopped her tears.
“Really, Cuthbert, I appreciate the sentiment, but this display is wholly inappropriate.”
“Madam, if I were Cuthbert, I’d totally agree with you.”
She whirled in his arms. “Trevelyn! What—”
He stopped her with a kiss that warmed her to her toes. Finally he released her mouth, but still held her tightly against him. She wouldn’t have left his embrace willingly for worlds.
“I couldn’t go without you,” he said simply. “I was late in coming round to it, but now I know I haven’t the right to demand that you give up something so important to you. Conditional love is no love at all. And I do love you, Larla. Slap as many nude men on your canvases as it takes to make you happy. I don’t care so long as I’m the only one you slap in your bed.”
She tapped his cheek with her fingertips. “Careful, sir, or you may find yourself slapped in my bed posthaste.”
“Promises, promises,” he said with a sinful smile. Then his expression turned sober. “Seriously now. For my past behavior, I own myself an ass. But I mean to make amends.”
“And how long do you think that will take?” she asked.
“The rest of our lives, I expect,” he said with a laugh. ”I want to be your husband, but I wonder if you have the patience for it.”
“I greatly fear you’ll be the one who needs patience,” she admitted. “But yes, Trev, of course, I’ll be your wife. I love you more than my next breath. The very thought of living without you knocked all the fight out of me.”
“Well, if that’s all it takes . . .”
She swatted his shoulder.
He covered her with kisses.
“Hold there, mate,” one of the passing sailors called to them. “That’s like pouring out water before a parched man. Don’t be making love to the lady on the wharf. Not when there’s rooms to let over at The Tipsy Dutchman.”
Artemisia’s chuckle stopped his kisses. Trevelyn let her come up for air. Then he scooped her up and swung her in a dizzying circle.
“I can hardly believe you’ve consented,” he said breathlessly. “You’ve made me the happiest man in Britain.”
“Only Britain? I think we can do better than that,” she said with a smile full of promise. “Let’s go see about a room at the Tipsy Dutchman.”
EPILOGUE
From The Tattler
Nuptials among the Beau Monde
By Clarence Wigglesworth, Esq.
All the crème de la crème of London Society was present at the grand wedding of Miss Delia Dalrymple and Lord Shrewsbury the younger on Saturday last. In pomp and spectacle, it was easily the most lavishly garish event of the Season and almost makes up for the not-quite-hushed-up scandal of the bride’s sister’s elopement to Gretna Green with a mere stable hand.
But only a select few were present at the private ceremony uniting the Duchess of Southwycke with the Honorable Mr. Trevelyn Deveridge. Held in a tiny chapel in Wiltshire, the marriage service was simplicity itself. The bride’s sister Florinda (she of the Gretna Green debacle) was matron of honor while the brother of the groom, Theobald Deveridge, the future Earl of Warre, served as best man. The duchess’s parents, her stepson Felix Pelham-Smythe, His Grace the Duke of Southwycke (upright, sober and sorely missed at various gaming hells of late) and an unlikely collection of servants (notably Her Grace’s butler and an East Indian couple in full barbaric dress) were the only other guests.
Conspicuous by his absence was the groom’s father, Lord Warre. However, as the happy couple left the chapel, the earl made a tardy appearance. He approached the newlyweds and, after a few moments conversation, kissed the bride’s cheek and shook the groom’s hand. Upon this evidence of noble approval, the bride’s mother had an attack of the vapors and swooned. The earl and the bride’s father attempted to carry the lady back into the chapel, but she revived suddenly and began shrieking to be put down. Pandemonium ensued and the bridal couple escaped in the confusion.
Truly such goings-on make this reporter sad that Constance and Angus Dalrymple have run out of daughters to be wed. And with the former Duchess of Southwycke, now Mrs. Trevelyn Deveridge, making her home in faraway Bombay, one wonders if scandal will take a holiday in London.
However, Mr. Deveridge assured this reporter that since his wife will continue to paint, London has probably not seen the last of the duchess and her infamous art.
One lives in hope.
The End