Page 27 of Flirting with Forever

“An honor.” Charles’s eyes trailed slowly over Mrs. Post’s leg.

Peter inserted himself between the two, being struck most forcefully by the reason he did not wish Charles and his guest to meet. “Countess, may I introduce His Royal Majesty, Charles, the King of England, Scotland, and Ireland, as well as Her Grace the Duchess of Portsmouth.”

Mrs. Post rose, a breathtaking column of blue, and dropped a handsome curtsy.

All eyes turned to the duchess. Her reaction would spell success or doom. Every person in the room was pulling for the countess’s affirmation. Peter hadn’t felt such religious fervor since the night Charles bet the entire phalanx of his wife’s ladies-in-waiting that they wouldn’t run naked through the maze at Hampton Court.

The duchess’s odd cockeye worked the room like a beacon on a stormy night. “But…”

Stephen reappeared from nowhere and set Nell’s portrait on the easel with the charm of a mountebank. Despite what was to Peter an obvious difference in their frames—the painted Nell had the slimness of an adolescent while Mrs. Post’s body suggested a more nuanced and, to Peter, far more interesting maturity—the dressing gown hid much and hair color provided the only visible distinction. Both heads could reasonably be described as red, though Mrs. Post’s was slightly lighter, with eye-catching streaks of pumpkin, amber, and even a sunny marigold.

Without conscious intent, Peter’s mind began to calculate the mix of pigments such a heady confection would require. Red madder and yellow ocher were the obvious choices, but white lead, raw umber, and even verdigris would have their place. His hands began to tingle at the prospect—that is, were he to have further prospects of any sort, for if the duchess didn’t swallow the tale, Peter would be sketching Whitehall Palace for coppers in the street.

The duchess thrust out a trembling lip. She was not so dull as to be entirely swayed by this ruse. Nonetheless she could hardly accuse Peter or the king of setting up such a verisimilitude with no more than a moment’s notice, especially when that moment had been spent entirely under her observation.

Peter said a prayer to Saint Luke, the patron saint of painters.

The duchess’s eyes narrowed, and she threw a shoulder back in challenge. “Vamos a ver si entiende esto, coño,” she said to Mrs. Post.

Peter gasped, as did the king. Peter’s Spanish was poor, to say the least, but there was no mistaking the wallop of the last word. He’d heard Carlo, a bargeman on the river, call a sailor that once, and Carlo had taken a pole across the cheek in answer to it.

His gaze cut to Mrs. Post. How does one signal to another that the other has just been called the worst name a woman could be called? He cleared his throat and raised his eyes meaningfully, but he might as well have been waving English signal flags at a Chinese prow. There was no mum show equivalent for the insult that had just been hurled, and if there were, no gentleman would employ it.

Mrs. Post chewed her lip as she attempted to decipher this sentence. Spots of red appeared on her cheeks. Her eyes darted from one face to another. She twisted the broadsheet in her hands and coughed. It was more than Peter could bear.

He held up a hand. “I am putting an end to this. I must confess—”

The rest died in his throat. Mrs. Post lunged forward and smacked the duchess across the nose with the paper.

The duchess squawked in surprise, and for an instant Peter’s heart stopped. No one spoke. No one moved. Peter could hear a dog braying in the street outside. He wondered if he’d be joining the brute there soon.

The king threw back his head and laughed.

“I must confess”—Peter stepped in front of the duchess to block what looked like the start of a second assault on the part of Mrs. Post—“your language surprises me, Your Grace.”

The king clapped his hands, filled with the sort of delight he displayed at the Windsor wrestling matches. “You have been routed, my dear. You have made an attempt, and you have been routed. Make peace with the countess. I shall not have a war started over this.”

But the duchess’s fury was not so easily doused. Her face contracted, and Peter could see another outburst coming.

“Make peace, I said,” Charles repeated sharply, all humor gone.

The duchess curtsied meekly and then turned to the king. “Please take me home,” she said with a pout. “I have a headache.”

Thirteen

When the door closed, Cam collapsed on the chaise in relief. A Spanish countess?! Jeez, what next? A Sri Lankan snake charmer? Her accent was bad enough. Anything beyond that obviously required more than her occasional Masterpiece Theatre watching would provide. Thank God for Natalie and her Latin temper. Cam hadn’t understood anything else, but that coño had been as clear as a bell.

Nell poked her head out of the adjoining room. “All clear?”

“Ugh.”

“You smoked ’er!”

“I don’t think she was entirely persuaded. Though I suspect the newspaper across the snout will keep her from trying that a second time. At least, it always did with my dog.”

Cam could hear the sounds of the royal entourage dispelling into the street. Sex, betrayal, the capricious powers of a king. It was a tale that would fit with ease into any book, and she wondered if she could reasonably refashion it for hers on Van Dyck.

The door cracked. Peter stuck his head in, looked from Cam to Nell, who was doing little twirls in Cam’s gown, gave Cam a hurried but grateful smile, and closed the door again.