Free How To Distract a Duchess by Mia Marlowe

“Until you’ve shucked out of your skivvies and stood there, you wouldn’t understand. I guess you’d have to try the job yourself to know what it’s like.”
    “I beg your pardon?” She’d surely misheard him.
    “That’s not a bad idea, actually,” he said, dusting the crumbs off his hands. “It would be a nice rest for both of us. We could trade places and I could draw you for a while.”
    She almost choked on her tea. “Very funny. For a moment, I thought you were serious.”
    “I am.”
    She set down her teacup. “Ludicrous. You’re no artist.”
    “Well, you have me dead to rights there,” he said. “I’ve no eye for composition like you, but I’m not such a bad draftsman. Here. I’ll show you.”
    He fetched her sketchpad and chalk and with a few deft strokes captured Pollux napping in the window, his furry feet tucked beneath his body in a manner that Artemisia thought made him look like a ‘kitty-loaf.’
    “Not bad,” she admitted. His lines were clean and sure, the figure of her cat in near perfect proportions.
    “I did a bit of map-making in the service,” he explained. “Well, how about it, Your Grace? Shall we turn and turn about? I promise not to give you three . . . eyes.”
    “Mr. Doverspike, this is entirely irregular. It just wouldn’t be proper for someone in my position,” she protested. “It would be . . .”
    “Demeaning?”
    “Not at all,” she said, irritated to have been caught by her own argument.
    “Then what’s stopping you? Are you afraid?”
    “Certainly not,” she lied. Then because she believed whatever else art was about, it was about truth first of all, she swallowed hard and nodded.
    “I must admit I was a bit afraid myself at first,” he said.
    She scoffed. “You? Whatever happened to ‘Shyness-is-not-one-of-my-faults’?”
    “Sometimes the only way to face your fears is to ignore them and push through,” he said. “Being naked—your pardon, I mean nude —before someone you barely know is daunting. But in this case, you know me.”
    Did she? She still wondered about Mr. Doverspike. She liked him well enough, but he was too self-possessed for a common worker, too subtly dangerous for a member of the gentry. Even though he’d spent time nude in her presence for more than a week, he was still a puzzlement to her. Her observation skills were higher than most, but she still couldn’t discern the secrets of another human heart.
    She tried to dismiss memories of his kiss from her mind, but sometimes it rose unbidden. It was like recalling a whirlwind, one that swept reason before it and left devastation in its wake. No doubt looking at his sensual mouth was clouding her judgment now since she was actually entertaining his outrageous suggestion.
    “I’ll never be able to explain to you what it’s like,” he said. “If you truly want to know what it is you’re asking of your models, you have to experience it for yourself.” He raised a brow at her. “If you dare.”
    If she didn’t do as he suggested, he’d continue to accuse her of demeaning him. The infuriating man had boxed her into a moral corner where she couldn’t refuse.
    “I’ll be right back.” She headed for the dressing room. By the time she closed the door behind her, her belly was writhing like net full of eels. She took a deep breath. She could do this. After all, she did expect her subjects to do this very thing without a qualm. In the interest of fairness, she should know how they felt.
    Her hands shook as she removed her paint-spattered smock. The simple muslin day dress came off next. She was down to her chemise, stays and drawers and realized she couldn’t go forward. She was unable to unlace her own corset.
    “Are you all right, Your Grace?”
    “Yes, I’m fine,” Artemisia said, irritated that her voice tremored. Bloody French dressmakers. She’d long believed fashion made fools of everyone. How could it be that a grown woman couldn’t even undress herself?