Epilogue
London, One year later
Amelia stood in her discreet corner and checked the gold pocket watch Tristan had given her as a wedding gift. Cheeky man.
Eight o’clock.
The doors to Sutton House would be opening any second. A frisson of anxiety flashed through her, and her palms slicked with sweat.
She’d insisted none of her family be here until the doors opened, like everyone else. Everyone? It might only be her family who showed up, and in truth, she might prefer it that way. Because what she was about to show the ton, well, they might not be prepared for it.
Oh, why had she agreed to a showing of her art?
Because Tristan had asked.
That was all.
And she could deny him nothing.
She took another sip of prosecco and smiled. Tristan had ordered it especially for the evening.
“What if I dance naked in a fountain?” she’d asked.
He’d given her the wicked smile that ever set her thighs ablaze. “This time I’ll be able to enjoy it as your husband.”
As attendees began to stream in, Amelia pasted the smile reserved for society onto her face and began extending greetings and thanks for their attendance at the Marchioness’s little soirée in her honor. Naturally, her ears were attuned to any opinions of her work that might be floating on the air.
“There are certainly numerous studies of men’s hands.”
“Coarse hands,” came another observation.
“The honest hands of a laborer,” came yet another.
Amelia smiled a secret smile. Actually, she could inform them, if she were so inclined, they were the hands of a duke.
Her duke.
Further, she could tell them that she’d fallen in love with his hands first. Except that wasn’t quite correct. She’d fallen in lust with his hands first, and the man himself not long after. After she’d experienced those hands on her body.
But it was a conversation starter that wasn’t quite fit for polite company, and when she pulled back the curtains and revealed the triptych at the center of tonight’s collection, she would be testing the limits of polite company quite far enough for one evening.
Through the set of open double doors leading from the next room strolled Archie, Delilah, and Juliet. Mama and Papa had returned from Samarkand early for her and Tristan’s wedding, but then had immediately taken themselves off to Denmark.
Delilah took in the contents of the room with a sweeping glance. “There are certainly a lot of hands,” she said. “I think it would be fair to say you have those down pat.”
Amelia felt herself blushing at the gentle ribbing only her family could deliver.
“I take it those are the Duke’s hands?” asked Juliet.
“They appear quite…” Archie began and stopped, as if only realizing his sister had painted those decidedly sensuous hands.
“Capable,” finished Juliet, blushing.
It was true those hands could make a lady blush.
In fact, they did so on a regular basis.
As if the mention of him had conjured her muse into solid form, he strode into the room, catching no few pairs of eyes.
Amelia had grown accustomed to the attention her husband’s presence commanded.
Not paying it one iota’s worth of notice, he made straight for Amelia and wordlessly drew her in for a greeting kiss.
Her eyes opened when he pulled away, and she felt foolish. However fleeting, she ever gave herself over to her husband’s kiss, reveling in the feeling of being deliciously claimed. A smile shone in his eyes. He knew. And his eyes promised more. Later.
Archie cleared his throat. “When’s the big reveal, Amelia?” He checked his own pocket watch.
“Have somewhere to be, brother?” asked Delilah.
“It’s Thursday, and Kilmuir is expecting me at the Five Graces.”
Delilah snorted. “You and your low entertainments.”
“Ah, they’re good fun, Lilah. You should join us one night.”
Delilah’s eyes went wide in a perfect affectation of shock. “What? And destroy my speckless reputation?”
Again, Amelia accepted her family’s ribbing. They understood where she now stood on the matter of reputation and its importance.
With them.
On the side of infamy.
Speaking of which, the time had nearly arrived to cast that reputation firmly in stone.
“Duchess,” came the Marchioness of Sutton’s cultured voice, “are you ready for the unveiling of your pièce de resistance?” Her gaze flicked toward Tristan. “Ripon, I never knew your hands were quite so…commanding.” The marchioness blushed like a girl several decades her junior.
“I’m ready,” said Amelia with a show of bravado, though she quaked on the inside.
The marchioness nodded and mingled into the considerable crowd that had gathered, leaving Tristan and Amelia a moment to themselves.
She caught his gaze. “Are you ready?”
His eyes glinted with mischief. “Are you?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
The crowd followed the marchioness’s progress toward the curtained centerpiece of the showing.
“I must thank everyone for coming out tonight in support of a most promising new artist, the Duchess of Ripon. Without further ado, I present Man in Three Moods: A Study.” She signaled a servant, who drew the curtain back.
A few seconds of studied silence…
A collective gasp…
Several more seconds of stunned, scandalized silence.
Before the collective hung three paintings of the Duke of Ripon in various poses…
all while starkly, unrepentantly nude. From left to right: the first in the style of a traditional portrait with him facing the viewer squarely with his typical expression of dukely arrogance; the second a silhouette of his body, his head angled just enough to reveal a wicked smile on his mouth and in his eyes; and the third…
that was the one which likely had the room growing hotter in their clothes.
He lay on his back, an arm draped above his head, utterly and completely spent, his direct gaze replete with satiety.
Amelia remembered that session well.
Now, Tristan reached for her hand and squeezed. “Steady on,” he murmured. “Everyone came here to be treated to your art.”
“But I have a feeling they’ll be staying to ogle your naked form,” she said, dry.
The twinkle in his eyes invited her into a conspiracy with him. “Artistically rendered, of course.”
It was true, for his, ahem, manhood was tastefully angled out of view. To show it, would’ve been one step too far into infamy for Amelia.
She snorted. Her husband had taught her well. She might be a novelty of an artist—a duchess!—but he might rival her as a nude model—a duke!
A few attendees stalked out of the room, thunderstorms on their faces, the word dissolute trailing in their wake; others planted their feet and canted their heads in study. Whether it was down to Tristan’s rather impressive nude form or her ability as a watercolorist, she didn’t know or care.
“Sister,” said Delilah, leaning in to murmur into Amelia’s ear, “who knew that you would become the most scandalous Windermere of us all?”
An easy laugh escaped Amelia, the sort of laugh she’d never been capable of before meeting Tristan. “I’m quite certain that if you put your mind to it, you could top me, Lilah.”
A pensive expression on her face, Delilah returned her attention to the triptych.
“And you, dear husband,” Amelia began, sliding her arm through Tristan’s, snugging close.
“Yes?”
“When shall you exhibit your latest works?”
His gaze turned serious. “Those are not, nor ever will be, for the public’s consumption, my sweet.”
They were speaking, of course, of the set of nude sculptures Tristan had done of her this spring. Now that she thought about it, she really would prefer all and sundry didn’t know the particular shape of her breasts or the indent of her navel.
The simple fact was they couldn’t get enough of each other.
They were each other’s muses.
They were each other’s obsession.
No shortage of shocked glances continued to be thrown their way. If this was what it felt like to be infamous—wildly and completely alive—then she looked forward to a lifetime of infamy with this man.
“You are my forever love, Tristan.”
Oh, the words she found herself saying to this man on a daily basis.
“I’ll hold you to it.”
And he took her in his arms before all gathered and kissed her until her head went giddy and her knees weak, thereby sealing their reputation as the most dissolute, indiscreet couple of the ton.