Page 43 of Flirting with Forever

She did not want to think about her would-be fiancé. It seemed intrusive in this interlude she was sharing with Peter, and she shifted guiltily. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to talk of him. It feels strange. Until we’ve finished here, you understand?”

He bowed.

“It’s only that we have not had an easy time of it,” she added.

“Is that so?”

“He has not exactly proven himself to be faithful and true.”

He shook his head. “Men change.”

“Aye. They can. I think it’s better, though—safer—when they are born faithful.”

“Safer?” He scoffed with a smile. “Who wants that?”

She watched the way he approached the canvas. It was confident, precise, controlled—very different from the disorganized chaos of Jacket. But it was also guarded. She wondered if Ursula had departed because Peter withheld a part of himself from her. Had he known the breakup was coming or had he been blindsided, just as Cam had been?

“Did you paint Ursula?”

He stilled. “Who mentioned Ursula?”

“Nell. She said I resemble her.”

She saw the muscles in his cheek contract. “You do, in truth. The hair and…” He made a vague gesture that seemed to encompass most of the features above her shoulders and cleared his throat.

More footsteps on the stairs and Peter yelled, “Dammit, Tom, I said—Oh!” He dropped into a formal bow.

Cam covered herself, but it was too late. The king’s eyes, as well as Stephen’s, had raked her. Stephen’s gaze dropped instantly, ears reddening. The king’s lingered considerably longer. Cam jumped to her feet and grabbed the dressing gown before curtsying.

Peter, who looked horrified at the intrusion, said, “Your Majesty. What a great surprise.”

“Aye. I see that.” Charles nodded at Cam. “Good evening, Countess. ’Tis a pleasure once more. I wanted to thank you for the masquerade earlier. It was most helpful.”

Cam resummoned her inner Penelope Cruz. “’Twas nothing.”

Charles looked around the room. “Peter, is this your private studio? I’ve never seen it.”

“’Tis the quietest.”

“Quiet being an uncommon virtue. I should like to have a word.”

Stephen, who looked pained to have been part of this interruption, said, “His Majesty said it was quite urgent.”

Cam understood her removal was being requested. “I could—”

“No. Stay,” Peter said. “There’s a painting I wish to show His Majesty downstairs, in any case. Though it is nearly six, I do believe the light will still do for viewing.”

Charles nodded and began down the stairs, followed by Stephen.

Peter gave her a deep bow. “Until I return.”

Nineteen

Mertons watched Stephen bustle into the larder and gather glasses, with the cook—a full-bosomed Scot named Morag with raven hair and sparkling eyes—directly on his heels. Mertons, who’d been rerunning the calculations this last hour, trying to narrow the window of time in which the writer might arrive, found the spare amenities of the Restoration period charming—like camping for time-jump accountants. He clutched his ale with a happy smile.

“How many times can we expect Himself in a day?” Morag said with a huff of irritation. “I barely got my floors swept from the last visit. Does the king have nothing better to do? Not that one, you great gowk!” She waved Stephen away from an intricately carved decanter. “That’s for special guests.”

“He is the king, madam,” Stephen said.