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

“There are. Look around. The house, the staff, the line of patrons. I am very grateful.” But his hand went to his ring, and there was something in his voice that didn’t quite ring true.

She was torn. She was tempted to pursue a line of questioning related to this ambivalence, but she knew she had a job here.

“I, uh, know there’s a lot of rivalry in the art world. You must have dozens of unpleasant stories of other painters trying to insinuate themselves with the king to take your place. I mean, how did you come into the position yourself

?”

He laughed. “I hope, milady, I am not reading an implication of misconduct into your question.”

She flushed. “No, of course I did not mean you. Stil , the story of how you got your start would be most interesting.”

“Wel , of course, the position had been Van Dyck’s for many years. I was a great admirer of Van Dyck. He has certainly had a profound influence on my work. And you are right about rivalry. I do not think he cared o’ermuch for me, and he would certainly not have considered me an equal, with me being half his age and he being a man of preternatural y large pride.”

“So rare to find that in an artist.” This was exactly what she needed.

He smiled.

“And … ?” she prompted.

“And I suppose I find myself in his shoes now. His age.

Past the peak of my career. And yet I find myself far less eager than Van Dyck to cling to what I have.”

There it was again. That note of sorrow. She had the next Van Dyck question on the tip of her tongue, and a dozen more after that, but somehow the woman in her was more curious than the writer.

“You have problems? I mean, apart from the king?”

An uncomfortable quiet came over him. She waited, wondering if he’d say more. He lifted his chin, as if to reply, but he must have changed his mind, for al he said was

“Come.”

He led her to the edge of the balcony, and she took a place along the wide, low balustrade by his side. He splayed his fingers on the marble, elbows straight, abstracted. She held her tongue, waiting for him.

“There,” he said.

She turned. In the distance, toward the river, tiny streamers of white fire rained down on the river, il uminating for an instant the decks and yardarms of several tal -

masted ships. Muffled cheers from a crowd rose over the night.

“Fireworks!” she cried.

“The usual for Guy Fawkes, I should think.”

The Guy Fawkes celebration in England was akin to Hal oween, she knew, and had something to do with the defeat of a plot to blow up Parliament, though her knowledge of English history was more than a little hazy, and she had not been aware the holiday had been celebrated as early as the seventeenth century.

“It’s stil a bit early. Another quarter of an hour wil see the start of something more organized. I take it you’re meeting someone?”

Meeting someone? Then it dawned on her. He thought she had a date for Guy Fawkes, which is why he had said

“tonight of al nights” when she’d mentioned she couldn’t stay much longer. “No, I … It is something else. But surely you had an engagement?”

He smiled. “No, I am practical y chained to the studio.”

Stil he maintained his rigid grip on the railing. What haunted this man?

“Your ring is quite unusual.”

His hands came up as if he’d been burned. He nearly tucked them under his arms, but at last he brought the ringed one forward with evident wil . “It is my mark.”

“In an emerald?” She could see the P and L etched backward in the surface.

“Not just an emerald. The Kingfisher of Istanbul.”

“Oooooh,” she said, impressed, for the only named jewelry she owned was a Joan Rivers bracelet from QVC.

“Does it come with a curse?”

“It did for me.”

She held her breath.

“I bought it six years ago, after a particularly large commission from the Duke of Silverbridge.