Page 84 of A Foolish Flirtation

“It’s very…beautiful,” she said, catching her breath and gazing down at the portrait of Amanda Liversedge resplendent in a dazzling white gown, her blond hair piled up on her head in a large chignon. She had almost forgotten just what a lovely creature she was. Amanda was depicted with one arm draped gracefully over a large stone urn, while the other held a white rose to her decolletage. “Ode on a Grecian Urn?” she asked lightly.

“More like Isabella,” he said, naming another poem by Keats. “I suspect she has Lorenzo’s head in that urn.”

Emmie frowned. “You are confusing Isabella with Judith,” she said firmly.

“I suppose I am,” he said dismissively. “But as a matter of fact, I never cared for that portrait. It used to hang in the blue salon opposite my mother’s portrait, but I relegated it to the attic after the divorce.”

“Is that what your father did with your mother’s portrait?” she guessed.

“Yes, actually. It’s quite the family tradition.” There was a faint edge to his voice. “Did you never give Stockton a miniature of yourself?”

“A miniature?” Emmie shook her head. “No, but if I had, I feel sure he would have returned it with my letters rather than sticking it in an attic somewhere.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “You know, you never did give me back my letters to him.”

“I know. They’re in my room. You can retrieve them whenever you decide to beard me in my den.”

Emmie looked at him with surprise. Now, what did he mean by that? “You want me to—?”

“Oh, Emmie!” Pinky called. “Do look at what we’ve found! Such a pretty inlaid chest of drawers. I think it’s Louis XV.”

Emmie cleared her throat. “Just a minute, Pinky. We’re trying to find a picture.” She returned her gaze to Lady Amanda’s portrait, but she could feel Jeremy’s eyes were still fixed on her face. Swallowing, she reached for the next canvas which turned out to be a drawing of an industrial building with a huge wheel next to it and a great big chimney. “What is this?”

He glanced at it. “The design for a mine,” he said shortly.

“A mine?” Emmie was glad of the distraction. “One of your family was interested in industry?”

“That’s where most of the family wealth originates.”

“From industry?”

“From mines, specifically copper and slate. China clay, too, for a while, the stuff they use to make porcelain.”

“I never knew that!”

“Well, my family never precisely broadcasted the fact we were involved in trade.” He pulled a face. “Perish the thought! My father sold all the mines before his death. That, my dear, is why we are so very wealthy.”

“And you prefer racehorses.”

“I do.”

Emmie pondered this. “Are they considered more genteel than mines?”

He looked amused. “Possibly but that is not why I like them. Did I tell you that Nye is a prizefighter? Sporting blood apparently runs in our veins.”

“Papa! I like this one!” Teddy interrupted them from across the attic. With some difficulty, he hoisted up a colorful painting of a boy with a large green parrot sitting on his shoulder. The boy was wearing a large blue velvet hat with a high brim and holding a bowl of fruit from which he was plucking grapes to handfeed his bird.

“Yes, I like that one too,” Emmie agreed.

“Then it’s settled,” Jeremy said decisively. “Let’s get out of here before we are quite covered in dust. Iversen, can you help me with this table? Smith, grab that painting.”

In no time at all they had the room set up with its new trappings. They set the green damask sofa by the window and the spoon-back chairs, malachite table, and two globes against the opposite wall. The focus of the room was the low round table surrounded by large, plump cushions as it was set in the middle of the room. The tall Turkish glass lamps now sat on the mantelpiece and all around the hearth. When lit, they would cast colorful reflections all around the room.

“Look at that,” Emmie said, placing her hands on her hips and surveying their work. “Who needs room designers?”

Jeremy eyed the boy and his parrot painting critically. “Are we sure that picture is quite straight?”

Emmie considered it. “I think so, yes.”

Teddy was lolling on the green damask sofa next to Miss Pinson. “Helloooo? No one is chaperoning us,” he sang out, pointing to the extra seat on the end which was empty.