“I’m all yours, Guv. I’ll follow the crumpet’s arse like a dog trailing a bitch in season.”
Quite.
Chapter 13
Haven’t we all had enough of dukes?
“Maybe we watered down the grog too much,” bemoaned Flora as she cut a currant bun into thirds. “My pa once bought a cart with no wheels after he’d downed the strong stuff.”
Evelyn merely nodded, stroking Artemisia’s brow as she lay in her lap with rasping breath, Cleopatra atop acting as blanket. Except for less money, no coal, an angry duke and Filgrave’s lengthening shadow, their lives had not altered since two weeks previous.
And how could she have yielded to the duke’s kiss? Causing her to pant like a mewling child denied cake.
Although what a cake… Iced and spiced. Rich and tempting as sin.
His reputation within the scandal sheets of being a dull and brusque nobleman was obviously utter claptrap as anyone who’d kissed him would vouch for, but mayhap he only allowed his composed demeanour to shatter with a widow of low rank, and hence no threat to his bachelor status.
With hindsight, perhaps she should not have dared to provoke him with such flirtatious banter and hence witness those slate eyes blaze with anger, fire and amusement.
But no more. She’d had quite enough of dukes.
Rothwell must now be consigned to her past, a pleasant reminiscence to trot out whilst stood in the dreary bread queue, a remembrance of how a gentleman should touch a lady.
And she would remember only too well.
As a girl, she’d been kissed by some of the fledgling artists, but they’d been teasing pecks or slobbery busses, which she’d disentangled herself from rather quickly.
The duke’s kiss had been firm, dry, measured, forceful, heady… Impossible to disentangle from.
But no more. She’d had quite enough of dukes.
As soon as he’d departed the Clipstone residence, Evelyn had dashed around, replacing pictures, rotating statues and hailing a hackney to take herself, Flora and the portrait home.
But home held no refuge. Only reminders of debt and decline.
Should she have confessed all to the duke? Appealed to his benevolent side? Did he have one?
Rumours abounded that he’d cut the funds from his own brother, and Lord Humby’s fate was still gossiped upon in the rags, so what could a forging woman who lived a street away from Covent Garden expect from such a merciless gentleman except possibly acarte blanche? As, after all, what else could his ravishing kiss and fierce arousal signify?
If he offered, perhaps she should accept. But where would such a choice lead if he took her to mistress? When he grew bored, as all men were wont to do, she would have to find a new protector, and then again and again, until she was at length discarded for being too old or too diseased.
How would Artemisia grow up within such a world? Of payment for lust.
Surely, the only difference between succumbing to the duke or Filgrave was the duck-feather bed and a handsome face.
A handsome face that hid deep emotion, she now realised. A mask of respectability and decorum, when beneath, like most noblemen of this land, he seethed with repressed passion and strength.
But no more. She’d had quite enough of dukes.
“We will have to move,” Evelyn stated quietly. “Maybe to the outskirts of London.”
“A midnight flit? Filprick will be furious,” warned Flora. “So a dandy idea, but you’ll have to go further than the outskirts. He’s got peepers everywhere.”
Indeed, Evelyn had noticed a grubby boy hiding behind a wagon as they’d heaved the portrait through the door. Had Filgrave sent him? She’d cautioned Flora and bribed the neighbours with potato soup to keep quiet if any questions were asked.
“I’ll scrub out the signature and offer it across the river.” She glanced to Flora. “The duke threatened Bow Street if I sold it but…what choice do I have?”
Flora sighed, shoving her own third of bun onto Artemisia’s plate for supper. “I know a cove who might give you sommit. Won’t be much but…”
