Flirting With Forever by Gwyn Cready (new books to read TXT) 📕

the lower rooms of the house, partly because of the smal er scale of the elements—a lantern instead of sconces and chandeliers, shelves instead of a workbench—and partly, Cam realized when she turned, because of a low, wide settee that stretched out in the darkened space on the other side of the fireplace.

Covered in etched dark velvet, the settee’s cushion was perfectly flat and long enough to seat four with ease.

Several plush throws lay folded near one arm, and a dozen or more cushions in various silks and Far Eastern prints camouflaged the settee’s odd depth and high-backed frame.

It wasn’t until she spotted the decanter of pale yel ow wine and glasses on a low table to the side that, with an unexpected pulse in her bel y, she saw that it wasn’t just a settee, it was a seducing couch.

His evening work, eh?

She turned and crossed her arms. “My fiancé says he despises an evening light.”

As she had hoped, Lely flinched at the word fiancé.

Nonetheless, he continued his arrangement of dry grass and kindling beneath the grate.

“Why is that?” he said.

“He says it makes every brushstroke lie.”

Peter stopped and turned, and Cam instantly realized her error.

“Your fiancé is a painter?”

“He is …” The wheels of her mind spun but nothing came. “… a painter, aye.”

“Would he not prefer to paint you himself ?”

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

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

“Oh, you wouldn’t know him.”

“I know almost al of them.”

“Jacob,” she said. “Jacob Ryan.”

“Ah,” he said, brushing his hands on his breeks and standing. “You are right. I do not know him. Irish, is he?”

“His father, yes. His mother is from London.”

“And his work?”

“Portraits, mostly.” She thought of the fruit in Lucite.

“Some, er, stil lifes.” Stil lifes were what she had once painted. She waited for Peter’s dismissal of the genre.

Portraitists were notoriously snobby when it came to stil 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 highest rung of the ladder.

She wondered on what rung of the ladder Restoration-era painters would put the sort of postconceptual 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 fil ed 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 wal . 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 rol s. She hadn’t actual y eaten that hot dog.

Unbuttoning his waistcoat, Lely caught her look and smiled. “The cheese is from Gloucester. The rol s from my cook. She has a delicate hand. Eat. You cannot after I begin,” he said and disappeared into the area with the seducing couch.

Cam dropped reluctantly on the chaise, stil clutching her purse, and cut a slice of cheese. She gazed at the knife, steel with a narwhal and mermaid