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to his bed before Mr. Doverspike had the pleasure of seeing a future peer foxed out of his mind.
    Doverspike followed closely behind her, humming a tune she didn’t recognize. Probably a shockingly ribald drinking song, but at least it allowed her to know he was there.
    Once on a tiger hunt, Naresh told her that wild creatures had a sixth sense that allowed them to feel when eyes were upon them. Was Thomas Doverspike’s dark gaze focused on her right now, probing her secrets, looking for a point of weakness? A delicious shiver tickled down her spine and settled at its base.
    This will never do.
    She stopped, turned back suddenly and bumped right into him. He reached out to catch her as she tottered. Her whole body was pressed tight against him. Dressed en dishabille as she was, without stays and whalebone to buttress her form, she could feel every solid plane of him. The broad expanse of his chest, his tight, flat abdomen, even his muscular thighs, and his . . .
    Artemisia gulped as she realized what other part of Mr. Doverspike became suddenly rock hard.
    “He’s right, you know.” His voice was a low rumble, like the purr of a full-grown tiger. He smelled of the wild, too—all wood smoke and fresh clippings and green growing things. “He’s absolutely right.”
    Who is? Artemisia wanted to ask, but the words got hung up in her throat. She didn’t trust herself to speak for fear an unruly shiver would slip out with her words.
    “‘If we haven’t time, we haven’t anything.’” He studied her face with unhurried absorption, making no move to release her as he ought.
      It was one thing to reach out to catch her when she was in danger of losing her balance, but it really was positively indecent the way he was holding her now—so close she could feel his heartbeat, feel her own quickening into the same racing rhythm.
    A woman could sink into those dark eyes and never be heard from again. Artemisia felt herself begin to tumble into them. If she tilted her head, he might very well kiss her.
    This will most certainly never do.
    Artemisia shoved against his chest, and he released her immediately. She stomped away from him toward the house.
    “You’re wrong, Mr. Doverspike,” she called over her shoulder. “For some things, there is not enough time in the world.”
     
     
     

Chapter 5
     
     
     
    At first Trev thought he’d overplayed his hand and scared her shy of him. Still, he thought he sensed a moment when her body melted into his before she shoved him away. He really shouldn’t have held her so closely, but damnation, she felt good in his arms.
    He feared he’d been sacked as well as rebuffed, but clearly the duchess meant for him to follow. Else she wouldn’t continue to glance back at him.
    “Come along, Mr. Doverspike, don’t dawdle.”
    “Oh, that’s right,” he drawled. “The sun waits for no one.”
    “Precisely.” She sailed through the halls to her sun-lit studio, claiming the space by right and sweeping all lesser mortals out of her way.
    Without further instruction, Trev slipped into the changing room, peeled out of his clothes and donned the comfortable robe. He took several deep breaths before he rejoined Her Grace, willing his lust into quiescence.
    The duchess may have once been a married woman, and from the number of covered canvases in her studio, he was sure she’d painted a veritable pantheon of naked men. Yet the way her green eyes flared with alarm when he held her close was more reminiscent of a virgin.
    She was seated with her drawing accoutrements at the ready when he emerged in his robe. Light from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her bathed her in luminescence, gilding her dark hair with the luster of polished jet. Fashion favored blond curls, but they seemed insipid to Trevelyn compared to Lady Southwycke’s dusky beauty. Her head was bent over her sketchbook, completely absorbed in her work. She was so lovely, his member rose of its own volition despite his