If I Only Had a Duke(48)

It's only my due, after all.

Waiting to be adored,

The Self-Portrait of Artemisia Gentileschi



Coming to London, was she? Waiting to be adored? Surely that all boded well.

Though it had been written as the damned painting, not as Thea.

And she'd told him quite unequivocally that she didn't wish for adulation. She wanted freedom.

Could she be happy with him?

He wouldn't have to wait long now to sweep her off her feet and kiss her so masterfully that she would say yes to anything at all he might propose.

It was fine spring weather. No rainy delays. She should be here within two days at the most.

So he waited.

And waited.

Rehearsing the right words to say.

Dreaming of what he'd do with her in his great big lonely ducal bed.

Because a bed wasn't welcoming at all without a demanding, delectable Thea in it.

And when he had her in his bed . . . he'd never let her go.





Chapter 27





One even longer week later . . .



"I'm late," Thea announced.

The extremely correct and proper-looking butler who'd answered the door at Osborne Court stared at her blankly. "Pardon me, madam?"

"I told the duke I would arrive a week ago."

"I see." The butler stared disdainfully down his long nose, obviously considering the best way to eject her without dirtying his spotless white gloves or scuffing his polished shoes.

Well, who could blame him? She was dressed like a trollop. A Swedish trollop.

"Please inform His Grace that Olofsson is here to see him."

He looked her up and down. "Just . . . Olofsson?"

"That's right." Thea shook her head and her unbound hair swished over her shoulders.

The butler's eyebrows raised in an impeccably butlerish manner. "Please wait here, madam."

It didn't take long for him to return.

"Just as I thought." The butler sniffed. "His Grace did not order any . . . services. And so I must bid you adieu, madam."

He shooed her back out the door.

Thea refused to be shooed.

She planted her red boots on the marble tile. "Tell him Olofsson refuses to take no for an answer. Tell him she demands satisfaction."

"Does she now?" a deep voice asked.

Thea's heart thumped.

Dalton stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at her forbiddingly, so handsome it rendered her momentarily speechless.

How she'd missed the bold, powerful lines of his jaw and the enticement of the deep cleft in the center of his chin.   





 

Thea raised her own chin. "She does."

The duke strode down the stairs.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked with mock sternness.

Thea cocked her hip. "Didn't you receive my note, Your Grace? Why are you so surprised to see me?"

He gave her a devilish grin and hoisted her into his arms.

"Oh," she cried. "You'll crush my gown. And there's a jar of orange marmalade in my cloak pocket."

"I'll teach you a lesson," he growled. "About why it's not wise to keep a duke waiting for weeks."

The butler, clearly scandalized but struggling to maintain the indomitable composure of his profession, edged out of the way as Dalton carried her across the entrance hall and up the stairs.

She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, thrilling to his nearness and the possessive look on his face.

"What are you wearing under that dress?" he whispered in her ear.

"Blue silk garters," she replied saucily.

"God, Thea," he groaned. "How I've missed you. Can you ever forgive me? I've been such an unmitigated ass."

"You forgot puffed-up bastard. Or how about pompous tyrant?"

"All of those," he whispered fiercely, clasping her to his chest. "And more besides."

He kicked open the door to his chambers and then kicked it shut again.

"You belong in my bed, Thea."

He tossed her gently into the center of his bed and stared at her with dark intent.

Like any rake worth his salt.

"I'll tie you to the posts if you think of leaving me again," he said sternly.

"I didn't leave you, you crackbrain," she laughed. "You left me."

"Did I? Now why would I ever do anything as stupid as that?" His eyes turned serious. The bed sank as he lowered his huge frame beside her. "Will you . . . can you forgive me?"

Her heart beat so swiftly she thought it might sprint away and leave a gaping hole in her chest.

He wrapped her hands in his fists. "I was so focused on revenge I couldn't imagine any other future. The possibility of a long, contented life with someone to love by my side."

Bringing her hands flat against his chest, he stared into her eyes. "I love you, Thea. I think I fell in love with you the moment you climbed atop me, stomped on my shoulder, and left an imprint across my heart."

She smiled through sudden tears. "Someone had to teach you a lesson."

Dalton wiped her tears away with his thumbs, stroking her cheek, eyes darker than a rookery alleyway.

"That's not all you've taught me. I've been running away from the fact that I needed love my entire life. Like a bloody fool. Having Patrick and Van here is so very wonderful. But nothing's complete without you. I've missed you, Thea. Desperately."

He brushed a rough thumb across her lower lip and she shivered. "I'm nothing without you. Please say you'll stay here with me. Say you love me."

"Yes," she said simply. "Oh, Dalton, yes. I love you. Quite irrevocably."

He gathered her into his arms and kissed her with firm, strong lips, setting her blood on fire and her body melting.

And that, Thea thought as he kissed her until she was half-mad with pleasure, was exactly how to topple a monumental duke.





Epilogue





Two months later

The Duchess of Osborne's Painting Exhibition & Art Auction

Grand Gallery, Osborne Court



"She's quite remarkable, isn't she?" Lord Haselby, the learned gentleman from the British Institution for Promoting the Fine Arts in the United Kingdom, remarked to his equally erudite companion, Lord Kingsford.

Thea stood behind them, watching as they peered at Artemisia's self-portrait, stroking their learned, barbed beards.

"See here, Haselby." Lord Kingsford hoisted a magnifying glass at the painting. "To follow Ripa's Iconologia, the mask on the chain around her neck should have the word imitation inscribed upon it."

"By George, you're right, Kingsford. What do you make of that?"

Thea drew closer. "The mask has no inscription because Artemisia was imitating no man. She was a true original."

Lord Haselby turned his magnifying glass on Thea. "Not much is known about her, Your Grace."

"No." Thea smiled. "But this portrait allows us to fill in some gaps. Do you know, gentlemen, that I have a theory? After studying this painting, I believe it was she, and not her father, who painted the allegory of Peace Reigning over the Arts on the ceiling of the Queen's House in Greenwich."

"You don't say," Lord Kingsford exclaimed. "Would you care to attend one of our meetings to elucidate on your theories, Your Grace?"   





 

Thea inclined her head. "I would be honored."

"Now that ceiling, if I recall, was painted in 1636 and features Peace with olive branch and staff presiding over the twelve muses, who are each . . ." Lord Haselby launched into a long and dry description of the entire ceiling.

A possessive touch on Thea's elbow. Dalton beside her, a lock of burnished hair curved stubbornly over his brow, above midnight eyes.

"You must excuse Her Grace, gentlemen. She's wanted," Dalton said.

"Of course, Your Grace." The gentlemen made their bows.

"You looked as though you might need rescuing," Dalton whispered in her ear.

"I did, rather," Thea laughed. "I'm wanted, am I?" she whispered as they made their way through the milling crowd, who attempted to appear to be studying paintings but were mostly searching for gossip.

"Desperately," he growled.

"Not yet, my wolf." She smoothed her hands over the heavy satin of a new gown that shimmered with gold and green like the wings of a scarab beetle. Familiar red leather glowed merrily beneath the green. She'd had to wear the half boots tonight. Because the path through polite society was probably going to be muddy.

This was her first public appearance as the Duchess of Osborne.

In the gathering of humanity mingled every person who'd ever laughed at her. Who'd gleefully recounted her transgressions, crowned her Disastrous Dorothea, and borne witness to her humiliations.

But the whispers of the crowd no longer held the power to wound her.

She had too many people here tonight whom she loved. And trusted. And who loved and trusted her.

Dalton, of course. She squeezed his strong arm.

Her mother. She glanced around, finding the countess, regal as ever in a cool silver silk gown that mirrored the shining streaks of gray in her hair, talking to Dalton's mother, the dowager duchess, who was frail and thin, but still lovely with silver-streaked auburn hair and leaf-green eyes.

"Your mother looks well tonight," Thea said to Dalton.

"Doesn't she?" His eyes shone with love.

And then there was Thea's half sister Charlene, the Duchess of Harland. They'd become the best of friends in the past months.

Where was Charlene? Thea scanned the crowded room but didn't find her.

Charlene's younger sister Lulu had a piece in the exhibition: Self-portrait with Ruined Castle. A delightful work, full of promise.