Excerpt of Distracting The Duchess by Emily Bryan

Trevelyn Deveridge had been warned the duchess had a well-earned reputation for the unexpected, but he certainly didn’t anticipate being greeted by the sight of her bottom first.

And a bottom as ripe as a plum, he almost said aloud. She wore no crinoline, no contraption of horsehair and wires to enhance her form, just a simple shift covered by a short smock, nothing to obscure what was a decidedly shapely derriere.

Stick to business, he ordered himself. You’re here to find Beddington, not to see the sights.

Wiping off his salacious grin, Trevelyn cleared his throat.

"Oh!" She picked up the chalk she’d dropped, straightened and turned abruptly.

Trevelyn’s first impression was that the duchess was much younger than he expected and far more comely. Several locks of her raven hair had escaped from the loose chignon, teasing her delicate neck and nape, the curls off on jaunts of their own. She looked as if she’d just risen from a rousing tussle on a feather tick. He flexed his fingers, imagining threading the silky tendrils through them. As if she read his thoughts, a becoming flush kissed her cheeks. Then her delicately arched brows lowered in a frown.

"You’re late," she accused.

"Your pardon, Your Grace, but—"

"Spare me your excuses. Surely Mr. Phelps explained that punctuality is essential to your position. I don’t want to lose the morning light."

"Clearly, there’s been a misunderstanding, mum," he began in his best imitation of a rough country burr while he made an old-fashioned courtly leg to her. He’d been trained to adopt an assumed identity when the situation called for one. Trevelyn had already decided this was a job for Thomas Doverspike, his less aristocratic alter-ego. "Allow me to introduce myself, an’ it please you. I’m—"

"No names, please," she said crisply. "At least, not until the painting is well under way. I find calling you by the title of the work enables us to maintain professional distance." The duchess beckoned him closer with a wave of her slim fingers. "Well, don’t just stand there. Come here so I can get a good look at you."

Amused by her abrupt manner, Trevelyn swallowed his retort and strode forward. The first lesson drummed into him when he joined Her Majesty’s corps of intelligence officers was to listen more than he spoke. He might learn a wealth of information if he simply let his subject talk. The duchess had obviously mistaken him for someone seeking employment. Once she realized her error, she’d be embarrassed enough to tell him anything.

Even where to find the elusive Mr. Beddington.

She eyed him carefully, walking a slow half-circle around him. Finally she stopped and pinned him with a direct gaze. Her eyes were a deep, moss green and a faint streak of blue chalk was smudged near her temple. The scent of oleander, mingled with oil paint, wafted about her. He inhaled her sweet fragrance, surprised to find his soft palate aching for him to plant a kiss on the chalk smudge.

She shook her head. "No, I’m afraid you won’t do at all."

Trev blinked in surprise. Women usually found him most agreeable. "An’ it not be too forward to ask, in what manner do I disappoint Your Grace?"

"The fault is not yours. I shall have to speak to Mr. Phelps about this. I specifically requested blond curls and a soft, cherubic face for my Eros. While there is a hint of a wave in your hair, the color is definitely chestnut and the planes and angles of your face are far too jarring to belong to the god of love. With those brooding dark eyes and strong jaw line, you’re much more a god of…"

She stopped and her eyes seemed to go out of focus for a moment as if she were seeing something other than him. One of her brows arched.

"There’s nothing else for it," the duchess said. "You shall be Mars, my god of war."

"I’ve been called many things, Your Grace. A god of anything was never one of them." He inclined his head slightly. "I’m honored."

"You will be," she said with certainty. "When I’m finished, your face and form will be immortal. Now then. Let’s begin, shall we? The dressing room is through that door. There’s a robe in there for you. Remove your clothing—all of it, if you please—and return in the robe. Pray be quick about it. The sun waits for no one."

And neither evidently did the Duchess of Southwycke. She wanted him naked as God made him, did she? Trevelyn never expected to have to pose as a figure model to serve his Queen, but he’d done far more difficult things for the sake of Victoria Regina. Besides, when a lady asks so prettily for a gentleman to disrobe, how could he in good conscience refuse?

Especially when the lady is a well-favored, widowed duchess, Trevelyn decided. No marriage trap here, even if the session ends in something more involved than etchings.

He might have thought better of it if the duchess had been a wrinkled old hag, but a leisurely morning spent unclothed in the company of a lovely woman would be far more interesting than the quick interview he’d expected. And if all went well, the job would certainly provide him with an opportunity to spend enough time with her to glean all the information he sought, probably without her ever knowing his true business.

He squared his shoulders and decided to play the hand dealt him. Trevelyn headed for the dressing room, whistling Rule Britannia between his teeth.

The things one does for one’s Queen and country. . .