Their Wicked Ways (24 page)

Put that way, it seemed
completely unreasonable of her to object.  After a moment, she nodded.  “If
you’re certain it’s what you want?”

“We’re sure.”

Bronte stood quietly while
they helped her to dress in the emerald gown Nick had chosen for her, too terrified
to speak, or even to think.  Partly, it was because she had a very bad feeling
that this would be breaking the laws of pretty much every country in the
world.  Even those that allowed for multiple partners only allowed for more
than one wife, not more than one husband.

Primarily, however, her fear
was rooted in her first marriage.  She knew it wasn’t the same.  She trusted
Nick and Darcy, loved them, knew that they would take care of her as they
always had.  In the back of her mind, however, the horror of her first marriage
still held sway.

The captain looked the three
of them over as if he was staring at a group of lunatics when he was allowed
inside, or, more accurately, as if he strongly suspected the three of them were
too inebriated to realize what they’d demanded of him.  Shrugging, he performed
the ceremony … awkwardly, since he wasn’t accustomed to addressing two grooms. 
When he’d finished by announcing his authority to legally perform marriages, he
concluded with the customary, “You may kiss the bride … uh … both of you.”

The three of them butted
heads and drew back, rubbing their foreheads.  Sighing irritably, Nick produced
a coin.  “Heads or tails?”

“Heads,” Darcy said promptly,
watching the proceedings suspiciously.

Nick flipped the coin, showed
Darcy the results and pulled Bronte into his arms for a lingering kiss, handing
Darcy the coin.

“Damn it to hell, Nick!  This
is that trick coin!”

Nick began to chuckle and
finally pulled away from Bronte, grinning at Darcy unrepentantly.  “You knew I
still had it.  You should have called tails.”

The End

An excerpt from Succumb to Me
by Julia Keaton, now available:

Winter Stevens gasped as
Vincent Giovanni unveiled his creation to her at long last, whipping the cover
cloth to the side with a flourish that threw a fine mist of dust into the air. 
The air born particles drifted through the beam of sunlight that poured through
the open window, shining on the painting with strange illumination.

Looking upon his creation,
Winter felt a bolt of shock akin to lightening pass through her body.  As if
she’d suddenly been transformed into petrified wood, Winter found she could not
move, could not blink, could not even breathe.

It was a monstrosity.

“I call it The Ice Princess,”
Mr. Giovanni said proudly, apparently pleased with Winter’s reaction.  He
seemed to be laboring under the assumption that she was stunned speechless with
admiration.

Thaw set in.  For a moment,
Winter felt herself hovering between a faint and violent illness.  Her stomach
clenched in a painful knot as she continued to gape wide-eyed at the painting,
backing slowly away in disbelief until she bumped into a chair and collapsed
into it with weakened knees that had turned to jelly.  She wanted to cover her
eyes, but she was powerless to look away.

Blissfully unaware of her
initial, and subsequent, reaction, Giovanni remained engrossed for some moments
in studying his latest masterpiece.

Winter took a deep breath,
attempting calm, fighting down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.  She
would not be ruled by her emotions, least of all by stark terror.

She swallowed, trying to
unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth.  She realized after a moment
that her tongue felt swollen and uncooperative for the simple reason that her
mouth had gone dry as dust.  She swallowed convulsively, several times, and
managed to gather a little moisture into her mouth.

“Mr. Giovanni, why have you
... what happened to my ... why has my portrait been composed as a nude?” she
managed faintly.

His accent was heavy, but his
English was flawless.  She knew she couldn’t have misunderstood his intentions
when he’d sought her out as a model.  She’d been so thrilled, so defiant of her
mother’s stern admonition that she could not, under any circumstances, pose for
the brilliant artist.  He had never mentioned anything of this sort, nor could
she reconcile the genteel old man with any deviousness of character.  Why then,
had he done
this
?

She had not—definitely NOT
posed for him without her clothes!  And yet, the painting depicted a woman
completely without shame, lounging in a pile of dark, supple furs, clothed only
in her hair.  Crystalline walls protected her from the harsh, beautiful winter
raging outside.  There was such exquisite detail in her face and form—no one
would believe that she’d been wearing her best walking dress as she’d posed for
him.  No one would believe that this ... this monstrosity was the result of
nothing more than the man’s vivid imagination ... no one would doubt that she
had posed nude for him.

He nodded, so engrossed in
his admiration of his handiwork it was obvious he had not heard one word out of
three.  “Nude, yes!  Is it not perfection?  Is it not exquisite?  At first I
was doubtful, but I do not regret that I allowed myself to be persuaded ... I
believe you are one of my best subjects.  In truth, your unusual coloring
intrigued me from the beginning.  I may like to paint you again someday.”  He
thought about it a moment. “Though in a different setting, of course.”

Winter nearly strangled on
her incredulity.  Was the man mad?  She would
never
do something like
this again if she managed to recover.  Why would he think she would
ever
sit for him again?

Scandal.  The foul word clung
to her thoughts like a stench.  It was the only thing her mind could wholly
grasp.  She deeply regretted going against her mother’s wishes now, for
deceiving her mother into believing these past weeks that she’d been going to
the park with her friend, Sarah.  In truth, she had no friend named Sarah.

When she thought back on the
lengths she had gone to, only to find ruination!

Her mother must never find
out.  She’d had far too much heartache in her lifetime to weather her
daughter’s deceit and ruination.  It wouldn’t matter that she was an innocent
still.  Never mind that Vincent Giovanni was at least thirty years her senior,
no one would believe they
hadn’t
been lovers after viewing his painting
of her.  It reeked of intimacy.

Her stomach heaved.  She
clamped a hand to her lips, placing her other hand protectively over her
stomach, soothing the ulcer she could already imagine forming.

Her thoughts were chaotic in
her desperation to find a way out of the mess she’d gotten herself in to. 
Abruptly, a solution presented itself, uplifting her spirits.  All was not
lost!  It wasn’t too late.  She could destroy the portrait before anyone else
saw it.  Once she pried it away from him, she would burn it in private with
none the wiser.

“Thank you, Mr. Giovanni.  It
is beautiful.  Now, for payment—”

“It has already been taken
care of, Miss Stevens.”  He faced her, smiling.

Hope soared, but she tamped
it down to reality.  He’d worked long on this project.  She couldn’t allow him
to simply give it to her, even if it was what she wanted.  “No, I cannot allow
you to give me such a gift.”

Years of pride dictated she
not accept charity, nor could she allow him to go unpaid even if she’d been
inclined to accept charity.  It was unfortunate she had not had the foresight
to stow away more of her meager allowance.  If she hadn’t had to pay for
conveyance to his studio....  That was over and done now and could not be
helped.  She had saved what she could.  It would have to be enough.

He chuckled then and covered
the painting once more.

She was grateful.  It was
unnerving to see herself so depicted.  His amusement, however, confused her. 
Questions burned her tongue for want of asking, but, from his attitude, she
felt he was building to some revelation.  She could feel trouble brewing like a
storm about to erupt.

Finally, he settled himself
down behind his desk, devoting his full attention to her.

“The Ice Princess was a
commissioned piece of work.  You were requested specifically as the model.  I
had no choice but to seek you out and invite you to sit for me.  It was fortunate
for us both that you agreed without requiring too much persuasion.”

Dear god!  Winter shook her
head, trying to make sense of his speech.  Someone had
paid
the man to
destroy her?  Someone had specifically requested her, had plotted to ruin her by
commissioning a nude of her?  She’d never suspected something so vile ... not
even in her nightmares.

An ache began pounding behind
her eyes.  She was ruined.  She had ruined her family—her mother’s good name. 
It was all they’d had left and now they would not even have that much because
of her willful disregard for her mother’s warnings.  How could she have been
such a vain fool?

With a strength of will she
didn’t know she possessed, she managed to calm the chaos of her mind and form
the question burning her senses away.  “Who commissioned this ... this...?” 
Atrocity
. 
If someone had deliberately set out to ruin them, she had to know who it was.

And why.  She could think of
no reason for hatching such a plot.  What could they possibly hope to gain by defiling
her family name and destroying her reputation?

Blackmail?

She shook the thought off.  
That was absurd.  It was common knowledge that they had no money to pay.

“I am afraid I can’t divulge
that information.”  He steepled his hands, his face gone serious as he studied
her, eyes strangely saddened.

Winter felt that he wanted to
tell her the truth, but something, or
someone
, prevented it.  What
person could have such a hold?  Only one with power and riches—enough to crush
anyone in their path.  Enough to crush her.  She prayed that she was wrong in
her fears.

“Mr. Giovanni....” She
paused, working up the courage to beg.  “Whoever it is, you must not allow him
to take it, Mr. Giovanni.   I’ll be ruined, my family shamed,” she pleaded,
knowing it was useless.

Mr. Giovanni could not have
failed to realize what the portrait meant ... ultimate disgrace.  For whatever
reason, he was under the conspirator’s power and could not help her now even if
he had wanted to.  His next words confirmed her worst fears.

“I have no choice.  But, you
need not worry.  He assured me it was for a private collection.  He gave me his
word of honor, or I would not have agreed under any circumstances. 
Unfortunately in this day and time, I must accept work when it is offered me.”

“His word?” Winter echoed
faintly, wondering a little wildly if Mr. Giovanni was feeble minded.

What good was the word of
honor of a blackmailer?  A defiler of a young woman’s reputation?  The urge to
laugh was almost insurmountable, and she knew hysteria threatened.

She was not such a beauty as
to make someone desire a portrait of her, in innocence.  This person
meant
to plot her ruin.  And had paid handsomely for it.  Winter and her mother had
only a modest income.  She knew without being told Giovanni had been well
compensated, and she couldn’t blame him for succumbing to the needs of his
purse.  Would that she could earn some sort of income for her own family.... 
She would have never been placed in this predicament, never been so powerless.

Still, she could not simply
allow this
collector
to have the painting.  She would find out the man’s
name, somehow, and appeal to his sense of honor and propriety ... if it was
even possible—beg—threaten—whatever it took.

Winter shook herself.  She
could not let doubt creep into her now.  She had to believe she would succeed. 
Tomorrow, she would return with a clear head and try to wheedle the information
she needed from Giovanni.