Page 51 of Flirting with Forever

He dropped his gaze. “I do apologize for the king’s intrusion.”

“’Twas nothing. Really.” She darted to the chaise and dropped her bag before returning to his side, a tentative smile on her face. “I take it he requires a lot of attention.”

Peter laughed. “Aye, like an underdisciplined child with the army of Hannibal at his command.”

“Not a promising combination?”

“No. He is a most demanding patron.”

That ringlet still hung loose. His fingers burned as he remembered pulling the pin. She caught him gazing at the tendril and tucked it over her shoulder self-consciously. He wanted her—in every way a man can want a woman. He had been moved at the beginning by her resemblance to Ursula, but now his desire had many sources—her courage, her wit, her wild, untamed spirit. There wasn’t a woman in a hundred who would have inserted herself into Nell’s spot to save him, and there wasn’t a woman in a thousand who would have bared her desires before him the way she had.

He said, “Shall we rest a bit before I begin painting again?”

“Yes. That would be good.”

“Perhaps something warm to eat or a—”

“Is this yours?”

She had stopped in front of an unfinished canvas. It was of little Jane, the daughter of Viscount Harrison. The day had been warm, and the girl, no more than ten, had found the long period of enforced stillness difficult. He had said he would allow her to move the rest of her body if she would keep her hand still. She agreed readily, and he placed a peach in it. Jane’s image, therefore, was barely started, though the hand and especially the thick impasto of fruit and its green-brown leaf represented a nearly finished passage.

“Aye. I do not normally start on the hand”—he flushed again, thinking of how the movement of Camilla’s hand had drawn his eye earlier—“but it helped the girl sit still.”

“And me. How do you do this, the shade just under the leaf? My God, it’s as if an actual leaf sits there. I can see the sides.”

He chuckled. “’Tis nothing. A trick my teacher taught me. Only a bit of incising.” When her forehead creased, he added, “Come. Let me show you. ’Tis easier than explaining.” He reached for the palette and offered it to her. “You said you paint, aye?”

“Oh no. I couldn’t.”

“Of course you might.”

He guided the wood over her thumb, ignoring the flicker of heat, and handed her a brush. “Start with the ocher and a bit of the black.” He watched as she mixed the paint, diffidently then with greater assurance.

“That’s right,” he said, “only a touch. Now, I want you to let go and just guide the brush as if the painting were yours and the leaf a mere impediment to your objective.”

“My objective?”

“Aye. You have to keep your objective in mind.”

* * *

Cam’s objective was growing unclear, even to her. What she should be doing is asking him all the Van Dyck questions she could think of, as quickly as possible, then buying a one-way “Surprise Me!” ticket straight back to Pittsburgh, assuming she could ever sneak past Peter’s nosy relative. But a part of her just wanted to be with Peter and enjoy the fine night.

She could feel him willing her to try her hand at painting. He had no idea that she’d once fancied herself a painter, nor how long it had been since she’d worked upon a canvas with anything more than halfhearted interest. The small still life on her desk didn’t count.

“Where?” she asked. “Where do you want me to paint?”

“There. You shall add a second leaf.”

“What? No! Large or small?”

“Your choice. The canvas is yours, milady.” He bowed.

She gazed at the stem he had begun and was surprised to see the new leaf form clearly in her head.

“Layer it on like silk,” he said, “with just as much texture. This is the underlayer, you see, the part that will be hidden.”

She drew the brush along the canvas, letting the bristles flip upward. It left a perfect leaf shape on the blue background.