The Nude (full-length historical romance) Read online

  THE NUDE

  KINDLE EDITION

  by

  Dorothy McFalls

  "McFalls' tale is a wonderful combination of mystery, suspense and romance." ~ Romantic Times BookReviews

  “McFalls has a special gift for handling serious subjects with a gentle touch, an invaluable trait that will endear her to Regency romance fans.” ~ Patty Engelmann, BOOKLIST

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  Afterward

  Other Works by Dorothy McFalls

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  * * * * *

  Dedication

  To Jim

  This story has always been for you, my personal hero.

  And to my father, Robert Dollar McFalls

  You were my best champion with my writing. I miss you dearly.

  * * * * *

  Acknowledgements:

  Writing a book can be a solitary and sometimes lonely endeavor. But like any passion in life, it’s rarely accomplished without outside support. My family has provided never-ending encouragement as I chased my dream of writing fiction, believing in me even when I forgot to believe in myself. My online buddies, especially Tracy Anne Warren and Mallary Mitchell, have let me share in their writing triumphs, which lately have been many. Can I be you when I grow up?

  And I can’t say enough about my critique group partners: Nina Bruhns, Kieran Kramer, Vicki Sweatman, and Judy Watts. They are a group of talented writers who are unfailingly honest, cheerfully supportive, and quite simply a great group of friends. The next bottle of wine is on me.

  Finally, my loyal readers, your emails and notes have touched my heart and have never failed to make me smile. I hope this book does the same for you. Bless you.

  Prologue

  London. May 1814

  He’d finally lost his sanity. There was simply no other way to explain it. His breathing quickened as a solitary tallow taper sputtered, the bright orange flame turning smoky. Dionysus tore his gaze from his work long enough to search the cluttered workshop—the floor littered with discarded brushes and paints—for a replacement.

  “Sir?” a servant called after tapping on the door. “Sir? Please, will you eat today?”

  Dionysus, too absorbed in his work, lit a new taper and returned his attentions to the canvas. His heart thundered in his chest. He lifted his brush and pulled it slowly across the canvas—tracing the gentle curve of a thigh.

  Her thigh.

  He’d only seen her briefly at the Baneshire’s ball. She was a widow, one of the grand matrons of the ton had whispered, after taking notice of his overlong stare. He could not, no matter how hard he tried, lift his eyes from the beautiful creature dancing—nay—floating like a gossamer faery across the glassy ballroom floor.

  “She’s my niece,” the Earl of Baneshire had told him when asked. “Her husband died on a battlefield in France, poor thing. Left her without a sou. It appears his estate was mortgaged to the hilt.” The earl paused to watch his niece curtsy to the man she’d been dancing with as the set came to a close. “She’s just now out of mourning clothes. It warms my heart to see her in something other than widow’s weeds. I could introduce her to you.”

  Dionysus’s heart had been hammering, like now. His palms had grown moist and his mouth dry.

  Could it be her? Could it really be her?

  “No, no, thank you,” he’d said with a bow. He didn’t even ask her name before finding a footman, before demanding his carriage sought and his cloak retrieved. No matter what, he could not stay.

  He could not.

  That very evening he’d locked himself in his workshop, trying desperately to exorcise the demon that had stolen his sanity. He’d tossed aside six canvases before finally finding the right strokes and the right shades of pigment to create a portrait of the woman.

  He held his breath, lightly tinting the tips of her breasts with a delicate paint prepared from powdered garnets. Her deep eyes from crushed sapphires. Her full lips from the dust of rubies.

  As he stepped back, a wave of dizziness overtook him. He reached out to steady himself against a small worktable. He’d missed too many meals, lost too many nights of sleep. Pulling a shaky hand through his hair, he stared at the image in front of him.

  It was perfect.

  She was perfect.

  Now that the work was finally finished and his obsession drained away, he could see what he’d done for what it was—madness.

  Unable to lift his eyes from the painting, he sank to his knees. What had he been thinking? What had he created?

  No one could ever see it.

  No one.

  But to destroy it, to deface the perfect image of her, would surely be echoed by the destruction of his soul.

  His strength gone, Dionysus curled up at the base of his easel and fell asleep with her perfect ruby lips smiling down on him.

  Chapter One

  “You must come!”

  The breathless demand sailed into the tiny parlor where Elsbeth sat alone. Not a moment later the parlor door came crashing open. Elsbeth glanced up from her embroidery work and frowned. What excitement had caused her cousins to forget, yet again, that they were gentlewomen and well beyond the reckless age of sixteen?

  “The exhibition promises to be the grandest event this week! You simply must want to come,” Olivia shouted as she dashed into the parlor. Lauretta, the younger of Elsbeth’s cousins, came trailing closely behind. The two ladies crowded around Elsbeth’s overstuffed chair.

  “Papa already said we could attend, but only if you agree to chaperone,” Olivia said in an overeager tone. She tugged on Elsbeth’s sleeve, nearly ripping the tender pale-blue muslin.

  Their exuberance brought a bitter pang to Elsbeth’s chest. They were both so innocent, so excitable. She paused, trying to remember what it truly felt like to be so mindlessly happy . . .

  No matter, such foolishness only led to trouble.

  She pried her cousin’s fingers from her arm. “I fear I’m suffering from another headache.” She set aside her embroidery—a table runner she’d been trying to finish for the past three months—and reached for the tea tray. A delicate Wedgwood cup clattered against the saucer in her hand while her conscience battled a silent war.

  Her uncle, the generous Lord Baneshire, had invited her to come live with his family after her husband’s death. Although her options had been severely limited, she’d accepted his charity only after he’d agreed she could serve as chaperone to his two daughters for the Season.

  She shouldn’t be shirking her duty to her uncle. Not after all he’d provided. It shouldn’t matter that the thought of mingling with the gosspy ladies of the ton frightened her all the way down to her trembling toes.

  No, that wasn’t precisely correct. It wasn’t society she was afraid of facing—but herself. How could she live with herself when nearly everything that passed her lips felt like naught but a lie?

  “La, you’ve suffered from a headache for the past week,” Lauretta said with a long sigh.

  “Ever since Mama’s and Papa’s ball,” Olivia finished.

  Ever since the ball. All gathered had praised her for her strength of character. And they praised her husband for his heroism.

  Elsbeth winced, and thought just how undeserving they were of those praises. But she’d accepted their words, agreed with them even though she felt by no means strong. And her husband . . . She shuddered at the thought of him; her husband was certainly no hero. He’d been just a man . . . a man foolish enough to be shot by a Frenchman a mere six months after purchasing his commission.

  Thank the Lord.

  “Yes,” she agreed, yet another lie forming on her tongue. “I haven’t been well since the ball.”

  Her gaze strayed to the new pile of invitations that had arrived in the morning post. Her husband’s dead hero status—a by-product of a brutal war—had made her a curio, a much sought after one at that.

  Despite the ton’s eagerness to include her at their entertainments, Elsbeth had discovered she was unready to face the beau monde and continue the charade. She planned to pen gracious refusals, delaying her full return to Society for at least another week.

  As if a week could change the truth.

  “Ask your Aunt Violet if you’re so anxious. She should enjoy the frivolities of such an art exhibition.”

  The younger ladies drew long faces.

  “But—but—” Lauretta sputtered.

  Olivia swooped down beside Elsbeth’s chair. “But you’re ever so good at puzzles,” she said, her hazel eyes coming alive with color. “Shouldn’t you want to attend the art exhibition? Shouldn’t you want the chance to discover the true identity of Dionysus?”

  Olivia inched closer. “Imagine, all those fantastic paintings. They say a nobleman paints them. But no one knows who. His identity is more carefully guarded than Sir Walter Scott and his Waverley novels.”

  “Wouldn’t it be grand if Dionysus were my Donald?” Lauretta whispered. “Wouldn’t it simply be grand?”

  Sir Donald Gilforth was a fine young gentleman perfectly suited to the mild Lauretta, and dull. Exceedingly so. He couldn’t possibly be this mysterious Dionysus, this new artist fueling the gossips.

  Elsbeth sighed. She was curious about the paintings. She would like to see for herself if—

>   A sharp pain struck her heart.

  Dionysus couldn’t be—

  “Elly,” Olivia whined, using a pet name that set Elsbeth’s teeth on edge. “Please, please, please, come with us.”

  “We don’t want Aunt Violet to come,” Lauretta said. “She never allows—”

  “Ah—she doesn’t give us the company you do,” Olivia quickly said, sending her younger sister a quelling glance.

  “I understand very well why you prefer me over Aunt Violet. I allow you and Lauretta to disappear with your beaus unescorted. She does not.”

  Lauretta and Olivia both lowered their pretty heads. Tears sparkled in their eyes. It was the lowest trick in their arsenal. She hated to disappoint the lovely girls. Olivia, the elder of the two, had recently turned one-and-twenty, and Lord Baneshire was beginning to openly despair that she’d ever settle on a man long enough to marry. Lauretta, on the other hand, at merely eighteen was lost in love.

  Elsbeth reached over to pat Lauretta’s hand. “Will Sir Donald Gilforth be in attendance?”

  “Oh, yes, he’s promised to explain the finer points of the paintings.”

  “Truly?” Elsbeth said, and felt the tug of a rare smile. Lauretta was something of an artistic genius and could tell Sir Donald volumes more about the paintings than he could possibly think to tell her.

  “If I refuse, you will no doubt badger me the entire afternoon. At least at the art exhibition your attentions will be on something other than me.”

  Both of her cousins remembered their manners long enough to thank her politely before dashing away like unschooled hoydens.

  * * * * *

  The carriage rocked and swayed. The horses’ hooves clopped a steady beat on the pavement as they approached Montagu House, the stately building that housed the British Museum. It was located in the middle of the affluent residential neighborhood of Bloomsbury. Having visited its exhibits several times with Lauretta in the past few weeks, Elsbeth knew the building well. And she usually enjoyed the museum. But unlike her regular visits, this event turned out to be a quite a crush. She should have known it would be. Hadn’t Olivia warned her?

  Her cousins led the way into the special exhibition room, their eyes wide. The three of them squeezed their way past a throng of young gentlemen and a pair of giggly young ladies with their stone-faced chaperone, stopping in the first unclaimed niche adjacent to a small painting framed with ornately carved mahogany.

  The work—a lush landscape of deep purples and greens—depicted the vast expanse of the Yorkshire moors with vibrant colors and bold, broad brushstrokes.

  “It’s lovely,” Olivia breathed.

  “It makes me uneasy,” Lauretta said with a shiver.

  It’s him. Elsbeth gripped her golden locket. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest. It’s him. She now had a name—although a false one—to put with his work.

  Dionysus.

  She felt herself being pulled into the scene he’d created. The desolate, uninhabited moors appeared to extend far past the horizon, as if nothing else in the world could possibly exist. The painting evoked so sharp a pang of loneliness that it threatened to bow her in half.

  She barely had time to recover before Sir Donald approached, bedecked in the most outrageous pink and yellow striped waistcoat decorated with a half-dozen shiny watch fobs. He greeted them politely, flashing his teeth.

  “Lady Mercer,” he said, touching her arm.

  Elsbeth shuddered.

  “If you would but allow me to escort Lady Lauretta over to a particular painting. It’s the pinnacle of blending color and light and realism, and I wish to point out to her its less obvious merits.”

  Elsbeth warned Lauretta not to stray far, and watched Sir Donald as he led her cousin to a large painting filled with crimson and violet shades.

  “Did you see those silly watch fobs he wears?” Olivia whispered, after Sir Donald was out of earshot. “I say, that large one is the most—”

  “Not now, Olivia,” Elsbeth said tightly. Severin, the fifth Baron Ames was fast approaching and there was absolutely no possible way she could make a graceful escape.

  “Oooo, look,” Olivia had noticed him, too. She latched onto Elsbeth’s arm. “Lord Ames is ever so handsome. Please, Elsbeth. You know him. Please, introduce me.”

  Introducing Lord Ames to her innocent, young cousin was one of the last things she wished to do. Unfortunately, Olivia curtsied to Lord Ames before Elsbeth could stop her.

  Ames was a powerful man with dark hair and a clever gleam to his eyes. Elsbeth prayed for strength as she stepped in between her cousin and this wicked rake. She needed all the strength she could muster, because Ames had been friends with the late Earl of Mercer—her husband. And she’d battle the devil himself to protect her cousins from men like Ames.

  But hadn’t Ames, on certain occasions, stood up for her? Hadn’t he even spoken out against her husband on her behalf? Foolish man.

  Rude or not, she refused to give Olivia an introduction to the wicked Lord Ames. Olivia, not one to be thwarted, blurted out her own name while batting her long eyelashes.

  Ames didn’t appear the least bit shocked by Olivia’s outrageous behavior. He flashed a playful smile.

  “My dear ladies,” he purred as he bowed in their direction. He then lavished Olivia with the most outrageous compliments: inquiring after her dressmaker, praising Olivia’s skills in selecting the most refined fabrics, and suggesting Olivia’s complexion rivaled the moon in its beauty.

  Much to Elsbeth’s vexation, Olivia drank it all in. Blushing, the young woman started babbling on and on about some silly fluff of a bonnet she’d spotted in a shop window. Ames crossed his arms over his broad chest and appeared to be utterly enthralled by the conversation.

  “Lady Mercer?” a soft voice from behind startled Elsbeth. She turned her back on the wicked Lord Ames long enough to come face-to-face with a beautiful woman dressed in a shimmering gold gown.

  “Ah, it is Lady Mercer,” a second woman said. Several heads turned and before Elsbeth knew what was happening, she was surrounded by the very people from which she’d been trying to hide. They were closing in on her, pressing her with questions about her heroic husband.

  She backed away, murmuring her answers—lies, mostly—and berating herself for being such a coward. One bold woman pressed more doggedly than the rest, insisting that Lord Mercer deserved a medal for his sacrifice while tut-tutting over the debts he’d accumulated before his untimely death.

  It was really too much to take.

  She pried the woman’s hand from her sleeve, only to have another take her place. She was trapped. And she had no choice but to smile, and pretend, and play the dutiful wife who had loved her husband.

  * * * * *

  Damnation.

  Severin, Baron Ames, listened with only half an ear as young Lady Olivia twittered on and on about a dress she planned to wear to Almack’s that week. He smiled and nodded at the appropriate intervals, but his attentions kept straying to Lady Mercer.

  Offering his arm to Lady Olivia, he edged closer to where Lady Mercer stood, trapped by the worst of the town tabbies. He stepped closer still, but the din in the large room was too loud for him to hear a thing. He fought an urge to toss himself in front of those swarming vultures. Lady Mercer had suffered enough.

  Once, several years ago, he’d overstepped his bounds and tried to rescue her from her bounder of a husband only to be rewarded with a sharp tongue-lashing from her for his efforts.

  Lady Mercer was a cold woman. He watched as her deep blue eyes hardened. She was strong, much stronger than her willowy form would lead one to believe. But he knew better.

  She would never allow a man to rescue her.

  He smiled down at Lady Olivia and patted her hand. “And kid boots to match the dress, you say? Splendid, simply splendid,” he said absently, checking his battered pocket watch. It was past time for the circus to begin. With one final glance in Lady Mercer’s direction, he gave a shrug.

  She wouldn’t welcome his assistance anyway, he assured himself.