* * *
He sat almost naked.
And decidedly muscular. With large feet and bulging arms. No wonder Titania leaned into him with a lustful expression, despite him also being an ass.
The painting fromMidsummer Night’s Dreamwhich adorned Evelyn’s bedchamber wall kept her entranced and she tilted her head.
Titania – likewise half-naked but acceptable because it was Shakespeare, after all – cosied up to a brawny Bottom, nuzzling his furry donkey face and gazing at his long ears in lust. The artist Fuseli had imbued the painting with fairy darkness, wanton grace and a sensual carnality that made her shiver.
Evelyn had imagined her father’s painting an anomaly within the duke’s collection. That he would prefer elegant Gainsborough or pastoral Constable, and although they too had lined his walls, it appeared he also had an eye for the amatory.
The bedchamber was similarly adorned: large Gothic mahogany pillars rose like Greek statues from each corner of the bed, deep-green silks draped from them in sensual lavishness. A plush rug of Turkish design robed the bare boards and she imagined lounging upon it in nothing but her chemise, supping on champagne and lobster as the coal fire crackled merrily in the corner.
Or mayhap her wits had become undone by all the silken luxury and fine nosh that had arrived on five silver trays: buttered crabs, lamb pasties, creamed parsnips, and venison braised in sherry. Seed cake and syllabub. Cheese and claret.
She and Artemisia had dined together in the small sitting room which separated their two chambers, and then unpacked their scarce belongings, filling half a drawer and two inches worth of wardrobe. All her artist paraphernalia had been safely stowed – or hidden, if one must – under the bed.
Later, she’d helped her sister over to a mattress crammed with soft feathers and tucked her within the cosy woollen blankets, kissing her cheek that at last held some colour.
“Do you think the duke means to make you his mistress, Evie?” she’d sleepily asked. “He stares at you…a lot.”
Only sixteen years and too soon aware of men’s desires. Her question, however, had remained unanswered.
And that was Evelyn’s one aggrievance with the duke.
Suspicion as to his motives.
So she opened her bedchamber door a slither.
A maid plodded down the hall, lugging coal.
“Excuse me, but where would I find the duke?”
The girl bobbed a wobbly curtsey. “His Grace would be in his principal study until the hour of midnight, ma’am.”
Was that the same study where she’d first met the duke? “I see. And the principal study is…?”
“’Tis between the rear parlour and the library.”
“And where is the rear parlour…and library?”
“Down the main staircase, two flights, and turn right past the second dining room.”
“Second?”
The maid peered at her as though she was dim. “The Queen’s dining room is by the state room on the first floor. It has three windows.”
“Er, thank you.” She’d head for the ground floor and hope for the best.
Creeping down the stairs, the quietness of this house struck her. The Pearce family home had never ceased its noise and bustle: artists, models and stray friends making blithe laughter all hours God sent and she realised….
Evelyn realised she enjoyed this quiet, this pure solitude after all the hubbub and chaos of Covent Garden.
This house radiated tranquillity and contentment: the maid hummed as she bustled room to room and filled the coal buckets, a footman stood trimming wicks, all neatly togged and well fed, and the extensive rugs smothered any sound from below stairs.
As she crossed the hall and passed a dining room, although which one she’d not the faintest idea, a deep rumble of voices arose, filtering through the stern door at the far end of the corridor.
Abruptly, a lock clicked and she startled, scuttling through an ajar door to one side, the lightless interior enshrouding her.
