Page 50 of Flirting with Forever

“Sure. I mean, if you got there with ‘Surprise Me!’ why wouldn’t it work going in the other direction?”

“Omigod, Jeanne, you’re amazing! Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Mrs. Post?”

Cam jerked back into the room. Mertons was standing at the door with a look of confusion on his face. She swung the phone behind her gown, but had it been too late?

“What are you doing here?” His eyes narrowed. “To whom were you talking?”

“Myself.”

“What are you doing in this room?”

Cam could feel Jeanne squawking into her hip. “I was looking for the privy.”

“Wedged out the window?”

“Sometimes they’re in the oddest places.”

Mertons looked at her as if he were trying to tease out a puzzle. All he needed was a magnifying glass and one of those Sherlock Holmes hats with the earflaps. She prepared for a run.

“There you are.” Peter appeared in the doorway. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“I was looking for the privy.”

Peter bit back a smile. “I hope you’ve satisfied your curiosity here, then.”

“Thank you. Yes.” Men. She gathered her purse and slipped the phone inside in one smooth move. “Would either of you be willing to redirect me?”

Peter coughed. “Certainly.”

“Peter,” Mertons said. “Might I have a word?”

“Aye. Just one. No.”

“But, Peter, there are certain oddities—”

“Mertons, I know we have a shared appointment. But as far as I can tell, the sitter we so anxiously anticipate has not arrived. Am I correct?”

“Well, aye, but—”

Peter took Cam’s arm and began to pull her out of the room. “Then I think you might do well to concentrate on your brushwork. I’m afraid Stephen has commented on your lack of practice. Twelve hours a day, my friend. That’s what makes a painter. Familial connection can only carry you so far.”

Cam frowned. Bald-headed Mertons was related to Peter?

Twenty

As Peter fiddled with the paints, waiting for her return from the privy, he found himself almost nervous. “Good God, man,” he muttered, smiling, “you can’t even hold a brush.”

He heard her steps on the stair and watched as those beautiful blue eyes found him.

“You’re back,” he said.

“Indeed.”

He couldn’t help but remember a time before Ursula, when the measure of a good time had been guiding whatever lady-in-waiting had met his eye that evening to the closest private wall, where he’d loosen her gown, hook her leg over his arm, and plow her until she cried, dry mouthed, for more. Ursula had taught him the value of soft bedding and long-drawn-out afternoons, but looking into Camilla’s eyes now, the thought of those rough walls and incandescent joinings seemed very, very appealing.

Did she see his longing, feel him stripping her with his eyes? He hoped not.