Free How To Distract a Duchess by Mia Marlowe Page A

She hadn’t thought of this when she agreed to this farce. Now she’d have to admit she couldn’t go through with it.
    “Do you need help with your stays?” The sound of his voice told her he was just outside the door.
    “How thoughtful of you to offer.” She should have realized he’d be intimately familiar with the undressing of women. He wasn’t about to let her off on a technicality. She opened the door a crack.
    “Yes, Mr. Doverspike, I would appreciate your help,” Artemisia said as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to assist her with her corset. She was committed now, and the last thing she wanted was for him to see her falter. She turned her back to him, certain he’d know what to do.
    She held her breath as he tugged at the knot. When it came free, his fingers worked their way up her spine, pulling her laces loose on each set of eyes. She realized suddenly that he’d have to lace her back up when they were finished.
    She removed the corset and her breasts fell free beneath her thin chemise. She was able to draw a deep breath, but didn’t feel up to turning to face him. What might she read in his dark eyes now?
    “Thank you. I can manage from here,” she said quietly.
    He withdrew from the small room and left her to face her fear. She lifted her chemise over her head and lowered her drawers. What would he think when he saw her? She wished she provided a mirror for her models. She longed to check for imperfections.
    She looked down at herself. Her nipples were at full alert and if she slipped a hand over her slightly rounded belly to the dark curls at the apex of her legs she suspected she’d find them damp. Her heart pounded and she felt an answering throb in her groin.
    Really, this was the most outrageous thing she’d ever done, she decided. She didn’t have to go through with it. All she need do was slip back into her drawers and chemise and call for Mr. Doverspike to re-lace her stays.
    But then he’d know her for a coward and a hypocrite. How could she expect her models to do something in the name of art she was unwilling to do herself?
    Artemisia took down the second robe from its peg and slid her arms into the capacious sleeves. She pulled it tight around her, the feel of velvet against her bare skin a surprise. She’d worn any number of velvet gowns before, but with all the layers of undergarments—drawers, chemise, corset, petticoats, crinolines, the soft fabric barely touched her skin and certainly not in such intimate places. The texture rubbing against her naked bottom was positively decadent. She decided she liked it.
    “Do you require further assistance, Your Grace?” Mr. Doverspike asked through the door.
    “No, thank you,” she said, determined to brazen this out. She drew a deep breath and opened the door.
    The look of surprise on his face was almost worth the back-flips her stomach was doing.
    She padded to the center of the room. “Well, don’t stand there gaping. If you intend to draw me, you’ll need more than a handful of fingers. My sketchpad is yours and you’ll find fresh chalk in the top drawer of the little desk.”
    He quickly retrieved the items and seated himself in her straight-backed chair, crossing one ankle over his knee to cradle the sketchbook. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, one corner of his mouth twitching with a suppressed grin.
    Then suddenly all the levity drained from his features and his eyes went darker. Artemisia felt the heat of his gaze even through the thick velvet. Surely he’d scorch her when his view was unfettered by the robe. She looked down, seemingly fascinated by the swirling grain in the dark hardwood, unable to meet his eyes. She fiddled with her lapels, inching the fabric off one shoulder. Anticipation rippled through her, but now that the moment had arrived, Artemisia wasn’t sure she could go through with it. She was about to admit defeat when he cleared his throat.
    “You haven’t asked how I