Distracting the Duchess

All the widowed Duchess of Southwycke wants is to be taken seriously as an artist. She also wants a lover, but first she has to finish her magnum opus—a collection of nudes depicting the Olympian gods. It’s not her fault she mistakes Her Majesty’s agent for her next figure model.

Trevelyn Deveridge never expected to pose naked to serve Queen and country, but when the trail of the elusive Mr. Beddington leads straight to the Duchess of Southwycke’s door, he’s left with little choice. Rule Britannia!

No artist ever had such a mess on her palette. Add a nosy newsman, stir in a secret, mix a masquerade with a mistaken betrothal, toss in Russian spies and a missing statue and ignite unexpected passion.

It’s enough to drive a duchess to . . . distraction.

Reviewers rave about the DUCHESS!

"Bryan gives readers a sexy, fast-paced romp that will appeal to fans of Cheryl Holt, Lisa Kleypas and Celeste Bradley."
~ RT BookReviews


"Bryan has a great handle on the material and her characters, creating a charming, colorful story with an intricate, fast-paced story line."
~ Publishers Weekly

"Distracting the Duchess has a cast of characters that stay with you long after you close the book. Desire, sex, intrigue and betrayal…this book has it all. Distracting the Duchess has a permanent home in my bedside cabinet!"
~ NightOwl Romance

"Distracting the Duchess is one of those rare books that could well turn into a modern classic. The opening line sets the tone, and there's no mistaking how the book will progress. I found it utterly delightful, funny, risqué and very well constructed."
~ BooksMonthly

"Wickedly witty writing and wonderfully entertaining characters are the key ingredients in Bryan's sinfully sexy historical romance."
~ Booklist

"Ms. Bryan has penned a great story and historical fans will want to pick this title up. It gives you a little bit of everything from intrigue to murder to love."
~ The Romance Reader Connection

Read an excerpt!

Beddington holds the key.”

—Last coherent message received from

Angus Dalrymple, Esq.

Covert agent for Her Majesty’s interests

on the Indian sub-continent.





Chapter 1

“I’m going to have to shorten his willie.”

The artist stepped back from her easel and regarded the offending member with a critical eye. Her name was Artemisia. “Sounds like amnesia,” her father had complained when her mother insisted upon the unusual moniker. Artemisia Dalrymple Pelham-Smythe, to be exact. Such a heavy load might have been a burden for some. But Artemisia was a duchess, so most people simply called her ‘Your Grace.’

“Of course, it’s absolutely true to life,” she said finally, closing one eye and holding her thumb upraised to do a rough comparative measurement. “The proportions are accurate to the model, but critics tend to find well-endowed males in art to be prurient. I can’t imagine why. A willie is just a willie, after all. What do you think, Cuthbert?”

“On the subject of art, Your Grace, one is of no opinion.” Cuthbert set down the silver tray and poured out a steaming cup of tea with extreme dignity. “But if one may be so bold as to suggest, perhaps Madam would do well to be more delicate in her speech.”

Artemisia took the offered cup and sipped the aromatic blend. It was almost as good as the tea she grew up with in Bombay.

“I was being delicate, Cuthbert. That’s why I called it a willie instead of a pe—“

“Your daily reading, Your Grace,” Cuthbert interrupted smoothly, handing her a neatly folded newspaper.

Hiding her smile, Artemisia set down her tea cup. She knew she shouldn’t purposely try to irritate her butler, but his ears turned such a charming shade of purple when she did.

Artemisia ran her gaze over the headlines. “The Tattler?” She tried never to read the ubiquitous scandal sheets and The Tattler was worst of the lot, laden with juicy on dits and sly innuendo. “You know I’ve no time for such drivel.”

“Indeed. Then perhaps Madam should refrain from giving the writers so much fodder. The article just below the fold could not escape one’s notice. Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

“No, I think that’s quite enough,” Artemisia said wryly.

The butler bowed and retreated with dignity. Almost as an afterthought, he stopped and turned back.

“A gentleman is waiting to see you, Madam.”

“Ah! That will be the model Mr. Phelps is sending round today. I’m ready to start sketches of Eros now that Neptune is finished. Nearly finished,” she amended, silently reminding herself that there was yet a willie to be shortened.

“It is highly unlikely that this man is one of your young gods.” Cuthbert shook his head solemnly. “He dresses like a proper English gentleman.”

“There are so many second-hand clothing shops in London a stable lad can fit himself out like a lord if he wishes.”

Artemisia bit her lip. She realized she was sounding just like the writer in The Tattler who last week bemoaned the fact that class distinctions could no longer be made by dress—not with so many ladies’ maids larking about London as well turned out as their mistresses. It irked her that she should be mouthing the sentiments of a scandal sheet. Artemisia made a mental note not to read The Tattler again even if Cuthbert shoved it under her nose.

She consulted the Ormulu mantle clock above her fireplace. Even in summer, she burned a fire for the comfort of her models. Goosebumps did become an Olympian, after all. “Send the man in.”

Once Cuthbert closed the French doors to her studio, Artemisia released a pent-up sigh. Perhaps she should encourage him to retire, but the crusty gentleman’s gentleman probably wouldn’t hear of it. Cuthbert’s family had been with the estate for two generations. He had served Artemisia’s late husband, the Duke of Southwycke, as his father had served the duke’s father before him. Even though his master was dead and Cuthbert not-so-tacitly disapproved of his unconventional mistress, he lived to serve Southwycke. Anything else was unthinkable.

Artemisia donned a paint-daubed smock over her simple day dress and began assembling her materials. Today she’d do a few preliminary sketches and experiment with poses. Once she settled on a composition, she’d transfer her ideas to canvas with her brushes and pallet knife. As she arranged her tools, one of the soft sticks of chalk rolled from the table’s edge and she bent to retrieve it. She was so intent on her task, she didn’t even hear the door swing open behind her.

* * *

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 obs