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

“Wednesdays, huh?”

“You smile. Why?”

“I don’t know. Wednesdays always seem to be the day for weekly meetings.”

“Liaisons, you mean?”

“Yes, actual y.” She giggled. “Especial y the afternoons.”

“Is that an aye, then?”

The guileless look of hope on his face sent her back almost to her teen years. She would be courted. First, out of her gown for the painting, then, after many long weeks of laughter and wine, out of the chaise and into his bed. His reward for winning her trust. She wondered what it would be like for a man to seek her heart first, not her body—to be slowly won, not claimed. She was a castle, and Peter was wil ing to lay patient siege to her.

“Aye,” she said softly. “I should like that very much.”

“How much time do you have?”

“A bit. Why?”

“I’m glad. I think we have two choices, then—”

A boom sounded in the distant night. “What’s that?” She looked out the windows.

He smiled in surprise. “Do you not know?”

When she shook her head, he took her hand, fetching his coat from a hook on the wal . “Come. This is one of the choices.”

Mertons col apsed on a chair in the scul ery. The woman was odd. There was no doubt about it. Was it possible she was an al y of Campbel ’s? The calculations had not shown the presence of a second conspirator. And yet …

Morag brushed by. He saw a smidgen of ankle as she stepped onto the hearth to reach a high-hung pot.

“Morag,” he said, hoping the movement as she turned might provide another flash, “are you aware of Mrs. Post’s origins at al ? Was she recommended by another patron?

Have you ever seen her in Peter’s studio before?”

“First, Mr. Mertons, ‘Mrs. Post’ is not her name.”

“Not her name?”

“No. ’Tis Miss Post. Miss Eugenie Campbel Stratford Post. See the note from Miss Gwyn there.” She picked it up and read. “‘Attached is a sketch done by Francis Conley at Peter Lely’s studio. It is of a dress owned by Miss Eugenie Campbel Stratford Post. I should like it duplicated in a charcoal moiré. Please note the lining.’ I am to have it delivered to her tailor on Half Moon Street in the morn—”

Campbell! He snatched it from her hand, horrified. “Mr.

Mertons!”

“My apologies.” He ran.

At the first turn, he came face-to-face with Stephen and two large apprentices. Stephen carried a salver fil ed with cheese and broken glass.

“Is he upstairs?” Mertons demanded. “Peter, do you mean?”

“Aye, of course. I need to speak to him.”

“Impossible.”

Mertons snorted. “It’s urgent. Is he upstairs?”

When Stephen failed to reply, Mertons turned to find out for himself, only to find his egress halted.

“Take your hand from my sleeve, sir,” Mertons said sharply.

“The master is not to be disturbed.”

The apprentices, approximately the size and tensile strength of marble columns, spread to fil the hal .

“This is a matter of extreme urgency.”

“If it don’t involve blood, it can wait until morning. In fact, even if it do involve blood, it can wait until morning.” And when Mertons attempted to shake the hand loose, Stephen added, “Do not make it involve blood, sir.”

The apprentices stepped forward.

“You’l regret this,” Mertons said.

“Please usher the master’s cousin to his room in the cel ar. See that he rests there until morning.”

* * *

Peter’s hand was warm and dry, and her own felt like a child’s within it. He opened the double doors and led her to a smal balcony. The sun was gone, replaced by a blue-gray black, and a field of stars adorned the sky. The balcony stood high above the street, and they had a clear view across the roofs of the city. The vastness of such a vista, as always, sent a pang of awe through her. She loved the way the southern hil s of Pittsburgh looked from the windows of her loft—there was something about the way the sky enveloped you when you had the long view that real y took your breath away—but this was even more spectacular: squat chimneys, unknown spires, glimpses of cobbled streets abuzz with Londoners and, on a far hil , even a windmil silhouetted black against the sky.

“Oh my.”

He smiled, slipping his coat back over her shoulders. “I know. I love the feeling of gazing over the city. It’s as if one has been transported from one’s problems.”

“You have problems? Wel , the king, I suppose. But I should think there are many rewards to being the royal