Page 34 of Flirting with Forever

Cam felt the familiar rush of embarrassment. “No. This is meant to be a surprise.”

He returned his gaze to the kindling. “What’s his name?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know him.”

“I know almost all of them.”

“Jacob,” she said. “Jacob Ryan.”

“Ah,” he said, brushing his hands on his breeks and standing. “You’re right. I don’t know him. Irish, is he?”

“His father, yes. His mother’s from London.”

“And his work?”

“Portraits, mostly.” She thought of the fruit in Lucite. “Some, er, still lifes.” Still lifes were what she had once painted. She waited for Peter’s dismissal of the genre. Portraitists were notoriously snobby when it came to still lifes. Of course, in the 1600s, “historical” paintings—scenes from the Bible, mythology or history—were considered the highest form of painting, so Lely’s work was already a step down from the top rung of the ladder. She wondered on what rung Restoration-era painters would put the sort of post-conceptual art Jacket did. Probably a ladder in a different universe.

Lely made no comment, just picked up the lantern he’d brought from below, and used a stiff piece of paper to move the flame to the kindling. The room filled with a golden glow just as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Who goes?” Lely demanded.

“Tom, sir.” The lad popped into view with a tray of food in one hand and a decanter of ruby red liquid in the other. “I have given your message to Miss—”

“Thank you, Tom. Put the tray there. Instruct Stephen to prepare my standard palette, with the exception of carmine and ochre. Four brushes. Not the boar’s bristle.” Tom nodded and placed the tray as directed.

Like an architect envisioning a cathedral, Peter appraised her form. “A quarter-size, I should think,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, as he flipped through bare canvases leaning against the wall. He untied his neckcloth and tossed it on a table. “May I assume we have abandoned the notion of Athena, Mrs. Post?”

She wasn’t even sure she wanted a portrait, but the room appeared to be fitted for only one other potential occupation. “Aye.”

“Have the apprentices finished for the evening?” Lely asked Tom, who paused at the top of the stairs.

“Aye, sir.”

“And Miss Gwyn?”

“Gone.”

Cam, wondered if the dress had gone with her.

“Thank you, Tom. No interruptions. Let Stephen know. Handsomely, now.”

Cam gazed longingly at the cheese, olives, grapes, and rolls. She hadn’t actually eaten that hot dog.

Unbuttoning his waistcoat, Lely caught her look and smiled. “The cheese is from Gloucester. The rolls from my cook. She has a delicate hand. Enjoy. You can’t eat after I begin,” he said and disappeared into the area with the seducing couch.

Cam dropped reluctantly on the chaise, still clutching her purse, and cut a slice of cheese. She gazed at the knife, steel with a narwhal and mermaid entwined in the carved wooden handle. It was a fine detail, and she was determined to add it to her manuscript when—if—she returned. Distracted, she chewed without thinking, but the cheese’s smooth, buttery flavor was hard to ignore. She wondered if she could hide the extraction of the phone in another movement, like the filling of her glass.

She adjusted her body so that her back was between the purse and Lely, and popped the flap open. She turned to check on him. He was out of sight. She’d ease the phone out and walk to the window, and she’d be golden. She turned back, slid her hand forward—

Lely lifted the bag from her knee.

Oh.

“Try this,” he said, the purse and the decanter of white wine in one hand, a glass outstretched in the other.

“Um…” She took the glass. It was filled with the same white wine as the decanter. “You don’t care for the red?”

“Not for our work.” He placed the bag on a table by the easel.